The Visitation

A meditation

You have come the whole way with her, over the hills — look back, and the road winds down behind you, long and dusty, and she walked it fast. She has carried a secret across all that country and told no one, because who would have believed her.

And here, coming down the path from the house, is the one person who will.

Elizabeth is old. Look at her face — the lines, the tired eyes, the white cloth wound close about her head. She has waited six months for a child that no one thought could come, and now she is hurrying toward the gate, because she knows. Before a word is said, she knows.

Watch what they do. Each of them reaches out and lays a hand on the other. Two women, two hidden children, and a silence between them that is already full to the brim. You are standing a little apart — you can be the one who carried the bag — and you see it: the relief of being understood without having to explain. The loosening in Mary's shoulders. The old woman's hand, steady on the young one's belly, saying *I know, I know.*

Then Elizabeth's voice breaks the quiet — *blessed are you among women* — and it is the first time anyone has said it. The words you will say a thousand times in your life were spoken first here, on a hill road, by an old woman with her hand on her cousin.

Stay in that meeting. Think of the one you should go to, over whatever hills there are. And think of who came down the path to meet you, once, when you had a secret too heavy to carry alone.