They call me mother of all
They say I am the first woman
And so I am…

The first to be treated as though
I am just a part and not the whole.

The first to hear, This is all your fault.
The first to stay faithful to my husband
Though he blamed me for his mistakes
Though we wandered in exile.

The first to rise from childbirth
To help my husband in the fields.

The first to bury a son killed by his brother.

The first to have her heart broken
Not once
But again and again
And still go on
Loving
Even so.

Keturah bore Abraham six sons: Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak, and Shuah. Genesis and First Chronicles also list seven of her grandsons (Sheba, Dedan, Ephah, Epher, Enoch, Abida, and Eldaah). Keturah’s sons were said to have represented the Arab tribes who lived south and east of Palestine (Genesis 25:1-6 & 1 Chronicles 1:32-33)

I don’t mind so much
That you don’t know me.
But I wish you knew
My beautiful sons.

Zimran was strong and proud.
His father’s eyes shone when he looked at Zimran.

Jokshan adored his older brother.
But he got tired of hearing about the great Isaac.

Medan wanted to be just like Zimran and Jokshan.
He walked early and was soon running.

Midian was so handsome.
It didn’t take long for the girls to be interested.

Ishbak was always in trouble.
What an imp he was!

Shuah was my baby.
How he hated to be called my baby.

Fine boys all
Fine fathers all
Forgotten all

(This imaginary account is based on Judges 4 & 5.)

Ah, I have lived too long. Better that I would sleep the long sleep beside my Heber. Because now again comes war and rumors of worse. Now again these descendants of one ancestor, all children of earth’s first man, fight over their father’s earth. And my daughter, my gentle daughter, weeps and prepares her household for war. They gather their flocks, their children, their servants close. The men sharpen their swords.

They encourage each other with stories of past Israelite victories. Joshua at Jericho and Ai, the sun standing still, southern and northern kingdoms conquered. They chant the names of 31 defeated kings. They tell of taking Jerusalem, of putting the city to the sword and setting it on fire. They tell of Shamgar, son of Anath, who struck down six hundred Philistines with an oxgoad and saved Israel. And they tell of me, they call me most blessed among women.

My mother called me headstrong. My father worried that no dowry would be large enough to entice a man to put up with my outspoken opinions, my brash ways. But my Heber wanted me, just as I was. He laughed and told me that he loved my strength, my intelligence, my courage and energy. How I loved him, my strong and gentle Heber. Our youngest daughter takes after him.

We lived for a time among my husband’s kin, descendants of Cain, whom the Israelites call a murderer. Among my husband’s kin Cain is not known as a murderer but as a wanderer, one who could not settle to raise crops or tend flocks. My Heber, he was the gentlest of men, but a true descendant of Cain. We laughed a lot, we worked a lot, we made a lot of children – and we moved a lot. Sometimes for better pasture for our flock, sometimes for cooler air, sometimes for better water sources.

Once, once we moved just to spend some time near a beautiful tree – a terebinth, grown tall and wide over time. There was a good stream nearby, flowing into the Kishon River, there were pastures for grazing, shade from the sun, and lots of room for our tents and our children.

But the land was restless again, with talk of a new war between Jaban, who called himself king of Canaan, and the Israelites, who wanted Canaan all for their own. These Israelites worship a strange god, a jealous god who wants only his own people in Canaan. So the Israelites don’t just conquer others, they slaughter them and drive them out. Still, they are not bad people, they can be generous, sharing what they have with widows, orphans, beggars and strangers. But their god is a jealous god, easily angered.

One strange thing I remember from that strange time: the Israelites had no king. They had a strong general named Barak but their real leader was a woman named Deborah. She settled all their disputes and their god talked to her. My Heber would laugh and tell me that I would make a good Deborah.

I remember Sisera’s nine hundred chariots fitted with iron. Sisera was Jaban’s general, as Barak was Deborah’s. Sisera was a proud, cruel man, used to taking what he wanted, used to fighting, used to winning. Barak and Deborah came with 10,000 men to challenge him. Heber said they were crazy, driven on by their crazy god. They had 10,000 men but Sisera had Jaban’s army and those nine hundred chariots fitted with iron. That is what everyone talked of, those chariots. Who can win, they asked, against nine hundred chariots fitted with iron.

Ha! Nine hundred chariots fitted with iron became nine hundred deathtraps when the Kishon overflowed its banks and flooded the battleground. Forty years later, the Israelites still sing of that day: the day that Barak and Deborah’s army killed every one of Sisera’s men. (I’m not sure that part is true, but it makes a good song.)

But we knew nothing of that at the time, although the battle was not far off. We were watchful. We kept the children and livestock close to the camp. We readied everything in case we had to flee quickly. But all we saw was one man, one filthy man, running, stumbling into our camp. He named himself Sisera, proud general still, and demanded that we care for him and hide him until his men rallied and came for him.

You don’t refuse a general who has nine hundred chariots fitted with iron. Our servants bathed him and cleaned his clothes. We prepared a meal for him and Heber and our sons. My daughters and I served the men, of course.

I watched Sisera watching our Hurriya. She was only 8 years old but his eyes were hungry as he watched her. He asked her name, he told her how pretty she was, he told her what a fine life she could have in Jaban’s court. Then he asked Heber about her dowry. I could see my Heber, I knew my Heber, he was ready to explode.

We were not poor but we were not rich either. We came from fine, respectable people, but we were not a noble family. If Hurriya went to Jaban’s court, it would be as a concubine, not as a wife. She would soon become little better than a slave. Maybe offered to favored soldiers. This is not what we wanted for any of our daughters, but especially not for Hurriya, our youngest.

But what of Sisera’s men? What of those nine hundred chariots fitted with iron? I imagined those chariots storming up just as my husband and sons challenged Sisera. My men would all be slaughtered and then my daughters and I would be worse than concubines.

I caught Heber’s eye and slowly, with just the smallest movement, shook my head. And I smiled. And Heber knew. He knew he could leave it to me.

The rest you know, the rest they still sing of. The invitation for Sisera to hide in my tent while I stood guard. The spiced – and drugged – drink. The hammer. The tent peg I pounded into his temple as he slept his drugged sleep in my bed.

I was ready, the next morning, ready to take the blame. To be the only one to take the blame. Better leave my family without a mother than without a father.

But those fabled iron-clad chariots never came. Mud, it turns out, defeats iron-clad chariots rather easily. Sisera’s men never came. Barak came. And Deborah. When they saw what I had done, they honored me. And Barak said with wonder, “It is as you foretold, Deborah. Sisera met his fate at the hands of a woman.”

We have lived among them for forty years now. My daughters married their sons. My grandchildren worship their jealous god. I myself am still honored, though I was just a mother, protecting her child.

And now I will face this new war with that child and her family. When they ask I will tell my story, or at least I will tell the only part that they want to hear: the drugged spice drink, the hammer, the tent peg, the blood. I will listen to their songs. I will listen to the song that tells of my part; the song that ends, “So may all your enemies perish, YAHWEH! But may all who love you be like the sun when it rises in its strength.” I am Jael, and I remember.

I was married, you know. I was just 14. I barely remember that young girl. I remember they said she was pretty. I remember they told my mother, Adah, and my father, Phanuel, that they had raised a good woman, that I would be a good wife. I remember they said “Mazal tov” when I married. But they also said I would bear many children, they said my womb would be fruitful. So what did they know?

That was 70 years ago. Imagine, 70 years! Oy vavoy! Solomon could have built himself ten temples in that time. And still I live.

I am old now but, Jeremiah, my husband, he was still young when he died. Seven years we had been married, seven years and only then was I with child. But our child died too, without ever being born, when Jeremiah died. So I was cursed.

What could I do? So deep was I unclean, so ugly did I feel, that I went to the temple. I went to be clean again, I went to feel pretty again, I went to hope again. And I am still here. Where is there hope for me in Israel? Seventy years I have lived here in the temple, remembering what it felt like to be loved, hoping for something like love again.

My best times are with the babies. So many parents come to the temple, as required by the Law, with their firstborn sons and their turtledoves. Some come shyly, some come boldly, some come richly dressed, some come in rough cloth, some come slowly, some hurry. Always, I try to greet them, to smile at their child. To speak kind words. Sometimes, they do not want to speak to me, to let me see the babe, to hear my words of gentle praise. Sometimes they are in a hurry. Sometimes they are too shy, country people scared of the city, the Temple. Sometimes they just do not care.

Ah, but sometimes, praise be, sometimes, they let me hold the little one. They ask my blessing. They smile and thank me quietly. I carry those times in my heart. I give thanks for those times, thanks for their chesed, their loving kindness.

And I wait. Every little time of chesed gives me the small courage I need to continue with my long, slow life, although there are many times when I would rather not.

Simeon, he waits also. Waits and hopes. But he waits for the king of Israel. He hopes for the warrior king who will throw the Romans out. He is so certain that the king will come in his lifetime. Usually, he ignores the poor parents, the ones from the country. He watches carefully whenever a rich family, an important family, a particularly religious family, comes with a babe. He blesses the babe, he prays, he hopes. And always he is disappointed. But still, he says the king will come before our Sovereign Lord calls him home.

Me, I don’t need that kind of hope. Why would I want Israel to rise up against the Romans? Oy, what blood would flow, how many would die. Those babes from years ago, young men now, how many of them would die on a Roman spear or, worse, a Roman cross? No, I do not hope for a king, just for some chesed, for myself and for the young families.

And then, today, a strange thing happened. A family came with their firstborn son. A poor family, with their turtledoves. His mother and father seemed like good people. They reminded me of people I knew long ago, they reminded me of myself and my Jeremiah. So young, so full of love and hope.

Their eyes when they looked at their babe! They do not need their little one to be any more than their son. They do not need him to be a great warrior or Israel’s savior or our king. I could see it in their eyes, in the way the mother held him, in the way the father kept his arm around them both. It is enough for them that he is healthy, that he grow strong, that he be a good man, that he love our one true Lord.

I knew Simeon would ignore them. They were so obviously poor, so obviously country, so obviously unimportant. But what do I know? The Lord can still surprise me, I guess. Because Simeon, he did not ignore them. As I was starting towards them, Simeon strode up to them, so confident, so righteous. He took the babe right out of the mother’s arms and he started giving thanks, lifting that babe up and giving praise with strange words, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.”

The poor father and mother. They didn’t know what to do. You could see they wanted to take their babe back, but they didn’t want to offend a holy man. Simeon, he carried on for awhile, in his way, talking about the glory of Israel and a warrior king like David. Talking about an uprising, battles and victories and fallen warriors. The young parents were starting to be terrified, I could see it. Finally, finally, he gave the babe back to his mother, saying to her, “And a sword will pierce your own soul too.”

And then he walked away. He said those terrible words to that young mother and he just walked away, back into the inner temple, back to his prayers.

I went up to them then. I went slowly, gently. I didn’t grab the babe out of his terrified mother’s arms. I smiled at them. I told them their son was beautiful. I asked his name. Yeshua, a good name. I asked where they were from. They told me they lived in Nazareth but their son had been born in Bethlehem and his father was indeed in the line of David. Ah, I said, so he is your wonderful son and he is our Lord’s treasure. I know you will love him well and he will grow in wisdom and strength. I can tell you are good people and he too will be a good person. And who knows, maybe old Simeon is right, maybe he will be good for many in Israel and maybe you will know sadness, but right now, enjoy each other and this beautiful babe that our gracious Lord has given you. That is enough for now.

The young father thanked me and the young mother, she gently put the babe in my arms and asked my blessing for him. Ah, the sweet warm weight, the wonder and miracle of a baby in my arms. Just a poor babe. No king. No warrior. But still, today, my heart is filled with the Lord’s chesed and I am thankful for young families. Even though I know, too well, that sometimes the future brings hardship and sorrow, still there is joy in the beginning; there is always joy and hope and the Lord’s loving kindness with a loved child.

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Artist: Lester Yocum

The Prophetess Anna Greets the Christ Child