Five.
Five fingers.
Five tiny baby fingers.
Would they grow long and sensitive, an artist or musician perhaps? Or would they be hard and calloused, marred by stains and splinter wounds- carpenter’s hands?
The sound of shod horse’s hooves clattering on stone broke into Mary’s revery. A bloodcurdling scream, though quickly stifled, split the air. Mary cringed and looked at the door bolt. Young girls, walking alone, had been snatched by passing Roman soldiers, abused frightfully, then left damaged and bleeding. Sometimes left carelessly at the edge of a camp site, sometimes dropped from a galloping stallion on the edge of town as a warning message.
She had seen men hobbling through town, permanently maimed, having been ridden down by a mounted soldier’s cruelty.
The hated Romans, reminding the Jews of their subjected state in all parts of their lives, even to their virginity. The entire nation, at least what remained of it, groaned and prayed for the coming of the Messiah, the one who would break their shackles of bondage. The one who would turn the tables on the Romans, making slaves of them and returning Israel to its rightful place at the head of all nations.
She remembered the words of the angel visitor in the night,
“The “Lord God will give him the throne of David his father, and he will reign…” Luke 1;32-33. NIV
Yes, her child would end the reign of tyranny, setting the hated Romans, the Gentiles, running for their lives.
Yes. Her child. Those five tiny fingers would grow to form a mighty fist, a fist holding a sword and delivering them from Roman oppression! The rabbi taught it. Everyone believed it.
And now she was part ot it! Part of the long awaited promise. Generations of teaching made it right. Didn’t it?