M y name is Simeon.” It was a simple, quiet declaration. “I live here . . . well, I almost live here -- in the temple. The Rabbis and priests treat me as if I were a candlestick.” He looked at the child he held as his finger touched his face. “I have spent years praying for this, waiting for this, hoping for this.” He smiled at the young parents. Then again he lifted his face to heaven and said, “And now my eyes have seen your Salvation!” The sparkle in his eyes danced the dance of a field of yellow poppies swaying in the wind. It seemed as if welling emotion would burst from his veins. “Oh,” with embarrassment, “I must be making a fool of myself. Please, you must humor an old man,” as he gently shifted the child back into Mary’s arms.

As Mary held the baby close to her breast, Simeon placed his right hand on the child’s brow. He looked first at Joseph and then gazed directly in to the eyes of the young mother. “Your son is appointed for the fall and rise of many in Israel,” he stated. His features sobered. His wrinkles worked in concert with his mouth as he spoke, “This child will be a sign against which men will speak.” Mary’s eyes stared. His veined hand lifted from the face of the babe to caress the face of the mother, “My sweet daughter,” he said, “A sword . . . shall pierce your own heart also.” Mary’s breath drew in and caught. “That the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed . . .” she heard nothing else. Her eyes, her thoughts had blinded at his words. As suddenly as the old man appeared, he was gone.

“Where . . ?” she whispered. Joseph put his arm around his wife and guided her away.

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