Chapter 1

In a Shepherd’s Home

My eight-year-old cousin Ephraim was panting hard and shaking when he found me in Shepherds Field. His message was one that I was loath to receive. “Miriam is bleeding again!”

I grabbed Ephraim by both shoulders. “What’s happened?”

Before Ephraim could answer, my father, Levi, heard the commotion and sprinted toward us. “Is it Miriam?” The alarm in his voice measured the tension that our band of shepherds had shared over the past several days.

Ephraim’s father, Reuben, joined us. He knelt beside his son and said, “Tell us what you know, Ephraim.” Overwhelmed now by three anxious adults, the boy began to cry. Reuben gathered him into his arms and asked, “Who sent you, Ephraim?”

“Leah,” he answered. Leah, my mother-in-law, had been looking after Miriam since I had left my wife in her care three days before. Miriam had showed some signs of improvement, but I had only reluctantly departed. Ephraim had been conveying messages concerning Miriam’s condition between Shepherds Field and our home in Beit Sahour ever since. The boy looked up at me; his eyes were wide, his breathing rapid and shallow. “You must come, Joshua. Miriam is bleeding!”

I shot a glance at my father. He took my staff from me and said, “Run, Joshua. Run, and we shall pray.”

***

As I approached our home in our little Judean village of Beit Sahour, I heard Miriam cry out. No sound had ever jolted me as this did. I burst through the door and saw my mother-in-law, wide-eyed and frantic, alternating between holding her daughter and ripping strips of cloth, as if her occupation could stop the bleeding. My dear wife lay on a bed of red-stained linen, pale and weak.

“Joshua!” Miriam cried, stretching out her arms. I rushed to her and fell at her bedside. She gripped me as in a vise, her hands as moist and cold as clay. The odor of blood and perspiration hovered about her bed.

“I’m here.” I tried to give her comfort, while owning none myself. I turned to Leah. “What is to be done?”

My mother-in-law hesitated to answer, her face taut with worry. Miriam squeezed my hand hard and groaned. Leah moved quickly to the foot of the bed and lifted the sheet to expose Miriam’s legs. When I heard Leah’s shocked intake of air, I felt a thick lump form in my throat. Miriam cried, “Please help, Mother! It hurts!” She began to pant as she thrashed about on the bed.

“Talk to her, Joshua!” Leah ordered as she massaged Miriam’s bulging stomach with olive oil.

“Everything will be fine,” I said, trying to believe it myself. Miriam clenched her eyes shut, thrust her chin into her chest, and groaned, the bulging veins in her neck and forehead threatening to burst. I was terrified. I shouted to my mother-in-law, “Do something!”

Leah paid me no mind but continued to work feverishly. Then she gasped and cried, “No, no!”

“What?” I said.

“Her water has broken! The baby is coming!”

Miriam began to sob. “Oh, Mother, no!” Still clinging to me, her body racked with invisible pain, summoning all her strength to speak, she looked at me and said, “I am so sorry, Joshua.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I tried to reassure her.

“No, you don’t understand.” She began to cry again.

“What do you mean?”

When Miriam could not answer, Leah said, “Two days ago the baby stopped moving.”

Leah’s words cut through me like a blade. Early in our marriage, Miriam had lost two other children not long after conceiving. We thought she might never conceive again. After three years of hope and faith, our prayers were answered, and Miriam found herself with child. But there would be no joy today; our joy had once again turned to misery. She had been with child for eight months and would apparently lose this child, too.

“Are you sure?” I asked Leah, hoping for another verdict.

Leah nodded and turned away. Miriam pulled me toward her. “Joshua, I have felt nothing.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Can you forgive me?”

I put a finger on her lips and hushed her. Tears spilled from my eyes as I gazed at my precious wife of seven years. We had grown up together in marriage; our mothers had been fast friends since before we were born, and our betrothal had cemented the ties between our families.

Since I had last seen her, only days before, my beautiful wife appeared to have aged markedly. Her smooth, olive complexion was tight and sallow. Her soft chestnut hair lay limp and matted. Always delicate and petite, she now seemed dangerously thin—except for her distended stomach, the dominant feature of her small body.

Leah coaxed Miriam’s legs to a relaxed, flat position and began washing them with warm water. I asked her, “When will she give birth?”

Leah shook her head. She answered with a list of disjointed facts. “She is so weak. Her labor has only begun—that could mean hours. But her water has broken—that could hurry things. She’s bleeding—that’s not good. The child isn’t due for another month. It must be small . . . but then it is likely—”

“Dead?” I finished her sentence.

Leah closed her eyes and nodded. She confessed, “I do not know when Miriam will give birth, but if she hasn’t done so by tonight—” Once again, she could not complete her sentence.

Miriam gripped my hand and cried out again, “Oh, help me!” She writhed in pain and rolled to her side, drawing her knees up, holding her protruding belly. Once again I made a vain attempt at comfort, when three women burst through the door and rushed toward Miriam. One of them was carrying a birthing chair with a hole in the seat.

In Beit Sahour, these women came at moments of crisis or birthing. No time for formalities. No time for pleasant greetings. They hurried across the room. A sudden rush of air followed them, making the house suddenly cool. Apparently dangerously cool. Leah ordered me to close the door. When I had obeyed and turned back, I saw that the women had joined Leah in buzzing about Miriam with urgent purpose.

Esther, an ancient, leathery woman, sat next to Leah and helped her tear strips of cloth. “I had hoped that the bleeding had stopped,” she announced to all within earshot, apparently without considering that her statement might worry rather than console the patient. Miriam shot me a look of distress. As I moved toward her, Esther directed a question to Leah: “When did it start again?” At Esther’s query, the other women looked up in anticipation of Leah’s response.

“Just before dawn,” Leah answered. Then pausing as if to weigh her response, she added, “Maybe a little earlier.” She turned her head away and began to weep. Esther set aside the cloth and held Leah close. Watching the scene, I felt my anxiety increase. Tears were coming more easily now. They spilled down off my cheeks and onto the earthen floor. The other women were equally shaken. If someone needed to remain strong for Miriam today, all of us were failing at it.

“You didn’t sleep at all last night, did you?” Esther asked Leah. Her appearance betrayed the answer. Her eyes lay sunken in dark circles of weary flesh. Her hands trembled. The wrinkles in her face had deepened overnight, carved into her forehead as with a knife.

Miriam groaned, arched her back, and began to breathe shallowly. The women reacted with experienced encouragement and instruction. I rushed to my wife and took her hand again. At this point, I cared not for custom. Birth was women’s work, and according to the Pharisees, my mere presence in the same room could render me ritually unclean. But my wife’s life hung in the balance. Nothing short of an act of God could cause me to desert her now.

When the episode had passed, Esther shot Leah an urgent, questioning look, and Leah responded, “Miriam’s labor started last night . . . and her water broke just before you arrived.”

One of the women released an audible gasp. Esther shook her head. “Too soon. Too soon.”

Esther’s words struck me hard. She pointed a bony finger at me and ordered, “Not enough light, Joshua. Get more lamps.” Only one lamp was burning in the house. It was positioned adjacent to Miriam’s bed on an overturned bushel measure. It gave off scant light, barely enough to distinguish the interior of our home, a single square room the length of two men.

Leah helped me. “There are two small lamps on the shelf above the tools and grain.” I located them quickly, filled them with oil, and set them above Miriam’s bed. Immediately, the glow of the flames cast a sympathetic warmth over the cold interior of the house. The women hustled about without much talk, laying out instruments, lamb’s wool, sesame and wild beechnut oil, pulverized saffron, bowls of warm water. One woman prepared a compress with a warm rock and gave it to Miriam to press against her stomach.

When my wife cried out again, I rushed to her, pushing aside the woman closest to her. I dropped to my knees and took her hand in both of mine, trying in vain to convey my strength to her. Miriam clenched my hands and groaned. The contraction was of such severity that it caused great beads of perspiration to form and stream down her face.

Miriam turned to me with the eyes of a frightened fawn. I had never seen this expression. It was more than fear; it was profound, desperate terror. As a shepherd, I was regularly called upon to fight off predators and guard the sheep with my life. At such times when a misstep could have landed me in the grave, I too had experienced fear; but I had never known terror until this moment. My courage plummeted; I was not as brave as I had imagined.

I looked desperately up at the women—first at Leah, then at Esther, and then at each of the others. I searched their faces for hope but found none. Leah took me by the arm and pulled me to the far side of the room. “You’re in the way, Joshua,” she said firmly.

Her harsh pronouncement was one that I was not willing to accept. “I can help,” I protested. Leah shook her head slowly, and I realized that she was right. I glanced at my young wife, groaning in pain, blood continuing to soak the bedsheets. Esther and the other women were bustling about with skills I knew I did not have. I said, “I just can’t leave her. I love Miriam. She’s all I have.” The words caught in my throat.

Leah embraced me. “I know how you feel, Joshua, but you really must leave. Let us work with her.”

I drew in air, trying to compose myself, and then slowly let it out. My voice quavered as I asked, “Can you promise me that all will be well?”

Leah responded with tears. Realizing that she could make no promise, I began to crumple to the floor. She caught me and said, “For Miriam’s sake, we must be strong. Each of us must do our part.”

Resigned, I said, “Tell me what to do and I will do it, but don’t ask me to wait outside and do nothing.”

Leah gazed at me with great affection. She had known me from the moment of my birth. I was the only son of her dear friend, my mother. In a scene not unlike this one, Leah had attended her when I was born. In the process, my mother had hemorrhaged and sacrificed her life to give me mine. My father, Levi, had never remarried. Now Leah placed her hands on both sides of my face and forced me to look at her squarely. “We will do everything we can for Miriam. But what she needs today is beyond the skill of midwives. Miriam needs a miracle.” She paused to allow her words to sink into my soul. “Do you understand, Joshua?” she asked, enunciating each word.

The weight of her question crushed me. I tried to answer yes but choked on my response. Leah gripped me securely and stared up into my eyes. My mother-in-law was a small woman, reaching me no higher than mid-chest. Nevertheless, she held me firmly.

I shifted my gaze to Miriam. Another contraction seized her, and with it came more blood. The activity of the women intensified. Leah turned me around to protect me from the scene. This is all wrong, I thought. Had not Miriam and I entered marriage with the hope of every couple of our tribe: to live into our old age in love, bearing and rearing sons and daughters unto God? If this child had lived, we would have named it Rachel or Joshua. Was it possible that I might lose everything today—both my wife and our child? O God, take me, too! I gazed at my beloved, failing wife and repeated Leah’s words in a whisper, “Miriam needs a miracle.”

Leah nodded and relaxed her grip. I crossed the room and once more knelt beside my wife. Despite the desperate activity and gravity of the situation, I had not fully allowed myself to think that I might lose her today. Miriam turned her face toward me. Perhaps she perceived the worry in my eyes because at that moment she began to caress my face as with the touch of an angel. Nevertheless, her hands were trembling. She forced a smile. I tried to return it. I kissed her softly on the forehead and placed my face against her cheek. Leah and the women retreated a pace, as if they were witnessing something sacred.

Miriam suddenly reeled from another contraction, and the women raced to her. Esther attempted to move me, but I resisted. I looked up at her pleadingly. She nodded and backed away. I held Miriam’s hand as if I were clinging to a drowning person. She squeezed her eyes shut and began to breathe rapidly, more perspiration gathering on her brow and face. The woman at the foot of the bed indicated a fresh flow of blood, and Esther shook her head sadly. Leah sat alongside her daughter’s bed and stroked Miriam’s hair. The third woman nervously sang a hymn while mixing a remedy in an earthen bowl.

Their efforts seemed so inadequate. Miriam appeared ghostly pale, weak, and shaking; looking at her, I knew that when I left I might never see her alive again. When the contraction diminished, her breathing slowed, but she had been exhausted by it. She looked at me and began to apologize again. “The baby—”

I hushed her. “Nothing matters except you.” Our eyes met in the way that only two people who have become one can understand.

She whispered, “I know how much our child meant to you, Joshua.”

Leah brushed back her daughter’s hair and said, “Don’t try to talk. Save your strength.”

Miriam shook her head. “No, I have to say this to Joshua.” She refocused on me, touched my face with a hand, and drew me close. “I know your faith,” she said. “I know that you love God, and I know that He loves you. Go to Him now. Ask Him to help us.”

I wanted to respond bravely, but I could not. I assessed her faith in my ability to prevail upon God, but I knew my weaknesses. I felt inadequate and powerless. “I am only a simple shepherd,” I protested. “I am not a person of consequence. I have no great capacity to approach God.”

“I believe in you,” Miriam assured me. “I believe that you can ask God and He will hear you.” She winced, took a deep breath, and gripped my hand until the pain had passed. She added weakly, “Remember what your father says: ‘God will bless us today.’”

I knew the saying; I had grown up with it. My father was not a rabbi, but he knew the law of Moses well. He loved to impart his wisdom in proverbial form, and his favorite expression was also Miriam’s:

God created today for us,

To live and to love—

In the safety of His fold,

God will bless us today.

That verse had rung true with my wife. She repeated it often and had formed a philosophy around it. Often, when she found me worrying, she would ask me, “Have we been blessed today?” Assessing our circumstances, it usually wasn’t hard to find that God had indeed blessed us. Miriam was always quick to point out how God had blessed us today.

She was correct, of course; we always had enough food, enough shelter, enough clothing, enough love—enough of everything, despite our humble circumstances. We were blessed by God, day by day. Now, squeezing my hand, Miriam said, “I believe in you, Joshua. I believe that you can ask God and He will hear you. God will bless us today.” She urged me to repeat with her the words of the proverb: “God will bless us today.”

When we had recited the verse, Leah nudged me to move. I kissed my sweet Miriam on the forehead, stood, and threw my cloak over my tunic. Springtime in Judea’s hill country could be cold and wet. After I had adjusted my turban, I moved toward the door, but I could not make myself open it.

How could I leave her? Only her sending me on an errand to plead with God could have torn me from her. I knew what I had to do; and more, I knew that it was all I could do. It was what Abraham had done when he had been faced with an insurmountable obstacle. It was what all the holy prophets had done in the midst of their impossible situations. I would make my way to a high place, up to the holy temple in Jerusalem, the house of God. There I would approach the God of my fathers and offer up the prayer of my life.

And expect a miracle.