Seven.
Seven was a special number to the Jews.
Seven, the perfect number.
Jericho’s walls came down after Israel marched around the city seven times on the seventh day. Naaman, the Aramite general, was healed of his leprosy after dipping seven times in the Jordan.
Mary had heard an aging rabbi, shunned as an eccentric, talking to her father late into the night. By the light of a wavering candle flame he had drawn out patterns of sevens with a piece of charcoal on a slab of wood.
Six sevens of generations had passed since Abraham. The seventh seven was about to begin. The long awaited Messiah was due to come.
Every week there was a seven. The Sabbath, a day of worship and rest. Would her baby be born starting a seven of rest like the Sabbath, or healing like Naaman, or destruction and conquest like Jericho?
As she lurched clumsily to her feet, she remembered another seven. Seven months the promised baby had been growing in her. She placed her hands on her swollen belly. She watched it change shape as the baby stretched its limbs.
She felt the thud of a kick as he moved. Was he impatient to come out? Did he anticipate his birth as much as she did?
Did he know? Could he know what he would become, who he was? Did he already know more about his future than she did?
Sevens. Sevens of sevens. The late night words of the old rabbi swirled in confusion in her mind. A seven of peace? A seven of violence and victory? How was she to know?
One thing she was sure of. Her baby would need his strength as no baby ever had before, no matter what his seven might bring.
So this seven was hers, one she knew about. This seventh month was hers to make sure her baby was well nourished and protected. So, while she was on her feet, she swayed and rocked her way to the cooking room, looking for something to stop the aching rumble in her stomach.