H
e spoke again in words more subdued. “The wife of Zechariah the priest has conceived a son. She is already in her sixth month.” Elizabeth? He took a few steps and sat upon a rock, his vitality evaporated. Although he appeared young in years, now he seemed spent, old. Resting his hands on his knees he continued, “She is an old woman. For how many years has she been taunted as barren by ignorant, unfeeling people! Now she is with child. You must believe, Mary, nothing is impossible with God.”
She could think of nothing to say. Nothing else to ask. She actually felt compassion for this angelic creature who had brought her such . . . such words. Moments of silence passed between them. He sitting on the rock, she upon the grass. In her face you could see the birth of resignation, of acceptance. She put her hand out to him, touching him, “Let it be done to me as you have said. I wait on the Lord . . . as a bride . . . waits for her husband.” She withdrew her hand. His head bowed, hands squeezing his knees, relaxing and then squeezing again. “What is your name?” She asked softly. He lifted his eyes and looked at her, seeing compassion. She smiled, her face beatific. She is exquisite!
He sat erect and as if answering the question of royalty instead of that of a peasant girl he said, “My name is Gabriel.”
