Holy 2017

Her son was dead and she wished it weren't the Sabbath. Work would take her mind off it.

Sitting there, "resting," all she could think about was the image of her son, beaten, bloody, dying on that cross. She shakes her head in bitter comfort that he died quicker than most.

She wasn't even sure where she was. His friends were milling around. The women were making plans to care for the body the next day; she couldn't decide if she would join them. The men were doing what men do, fretting, vowing to protect her, as if any of them had power to do anything. The one keeps picking up and setting down a sword. She can't help but think that old fisherman looks like a little boy, playing at war. Reckless, unskilled---he'd be lucky to be run through with a Roman sword rather than captured and hanged like her son.

"Put that thing away, Peter!" Her voice had an edge sharper than his sword. She didn't mean to be that angry, but he obeyed. Being the mother of his dead teacher gave her some authority, it seemed. Good. Someone had to keep their head around here. "I never heard him teach you to be a swordsman," she said more softly.

Did it matter, though? What he taught? She hoped so. She hoped everything she and Joseph went through wasn't for nothing. After all she and her husband had seen and heard, surely this wouldn't be the end of her son.

The sun was setting. The men were getting more anxious as the darkness fell, but the women were making their pallets for sleep. They wouldn't break Sabbath by preparing the ointments and perfumes so they would get up early.

She herself also went to her pallet. Let the men fret. She would sleep. Tomorrow she would find work for her hands. That would get her through the grief, as it had through every grief she'd known. Her hands itched to knead some dough. She fell asleep having decided on making bread in the morning, something with leaven.