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Ann Crawford
a book bubble about
Mary's Message: The Story of Mary Magdalene and Yeshua ben Yosef
Literature & Fiction
Author Insight
A Celebration of So Much Today
Today is my mom's birthday...she died in 1979 when I was quite young. She studied at a Catholic college and became a librarian. She also wanted to write, but was too sick to do much of that. A therapist once mentioned to me that children often carry on the unmet desires of their parents. That could be true, but as I've mentioned in recent bubbles, this writing desire of mine started before I could even form letters with my pencil. I do feel my mother with me a lot, especially with every leap forward in my writing career. She also took me to mass. Sometimes we'd sit in the back of the church and she'd explain the different segments and what they meant. She also told me about Mary Magdalene, and even as a young child I had a strong connection to her and felt that what we were being told wasn't the full story. This book could be another part of the story.
Book Excerpt
Mary's Message: The Story of Mary Magdalene and Yeshua ben Yosef
Only the knowledge that there was another life inside of me kept me on this side of the veil, somewhat. Other-wise there was only the pain, only the searing pain…and without the sense of the life stirring within, for a moment I might have disappeared into the flames of the anguish, never to return.
I reached the shelter and shadows of the tall rocks. My knees gave out under me and I sank into the sand, grateful for the cool against my burning flesh. I shiv-ered despite the heat of the morning sun, trying to catch my breath. My fingers reached out to the rock next to me. At first I could barely sense its rough hard-ness, but then my hand pressed against it, as if I could somehow transmit my pain into the stone, and as if somehow the cold hardness could bear some of the grief for me. It worked for a moment, but then the grief seared my heart again. I was beyond tears. Tears were for before, when it was bad enough. I had no idea it could become worse.
The pain was everywhere: in my breath, in my blood, in my tears. There was only the pain, except for the rock, which reminded me that there was something in the world other than the pain that engulfed me…and except also for the miracle of life stirring within my womb—a distant reminder from the center of my being that life loves to re-create itself, despite many seeming obstacles thrown in its path.
It was one thing if there had been a tremendous injustice that could take my beloved from me, and I would never see him again in this lifetime. It was one thing if my beautiful partner, my twin spirit, my counterpart, was taken from me and just killed. I had had more than enough people die in my life to know that often they do not really go anywhere—that the relationship can continue when one is in the flesh and the other is not. Yes, that was all one thing, and it might have been much, much easier.
But life is not always meant to be the easier path.
So I let the anguish devour me in the shadows of the rocks, for just a while longer.
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