- Feb 7, 2002
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A Toast
The rumble of conversation in the room grew louder and louder, as more people joined the crowd. This was going to be the wedding of the year. In a land where most marriages are arranged between families, this was a true love match. The groom was of course handsome, the bride was unquestionably the sweetest girl of the neighborhood. The old matrons twittered with glee, the grizzled patriarchs winked amongst themselves. The unmarried ones flirted and the wedded ones smiled at the thought of romance. And the fateful meeting between the couple of honor was a story repeated from one cluster of people to the next.
"She went to the well," would say one person.
"And he was on an errand," another would volunteer.
"Then, like a sword striking a stone, the sparks flew!" someone would finish.
The winking, the smiles and the sighs would begin anew.
Any excuse for friends and relatives to gather, to forget about the daily
drudgery while dressing in fine clothes and sampling savory food and rich
drink is of course a grand occasion. Add a love story, and the event is
suffused with joy and splendor. Everyone bubbled with laughter and the
happiness was intoxicating.
Along the sidelines, the families continued the preparations for the ceremony. Murmurs too quiet except for the closest around the huge clay pots proclaimed a note of adversity that would invariably ruin the party.
"We never received the wine we ordered."
"Oh, NO. I paid for it, too. And I wanted the best, for our children, to
toast their happiness!"
"I'll slip out and see if any of the inns have wine to spare. Stall
everything as long as you can."
Just outside the home, a diminutive form draped in the robes of a widow passed beneath an opened window. She remained in the shadows for the duration of the conference, and they never heard her gasp. If they had, it would have been assumed she was shocked by the news of the circumstances. They would not have understood it was the involuntary noise made by a person who has been assaulted with awareness. The small woman entered the main room and walked in a direct line through the crowd. An observer would have been startled to see the throng of people part to make way for her, as if a guide was elbowing the men and women from her path. She reached her goal, a stately young man engaging in conversation with childhood friends. She tugged briefly on his sleeve and he parted company, to join the woman as she slipped back out the door.
"Yessie. The hosts, they need you."
"Where are they, Eema? Of course I will help. But I thought they had
relatives here from out of town who were assisting with all the preparations."
"No, Son, that's not what I mean. Yessie, they have no more wine. And YOU, Son, are to help them."
The man slowly shook his head. "It's not time yet, Eema. My Father will tell me when it is."
"Yessie. Hear me, Son. YOU will help them." She was emphatic with her
words.
"Eema, I'd love to. But it isn't for me, or even you, to..." He stopped
talking because his mother was no longer looking him in the eye. She was
staring down at the sleeves of his robe. It was just past dusk, and the sky was darkening rapidly. Save for lamplight stretching from the doorway and the twinkling of the first stars, shadows were overtaking the scene. In the growing darkness, the unnatural state of his sleeves was startling, to say the least: the lower part of the cloth covering his arms was glowing. He appeared to have live embers in his hands. Another gasp, identical to the one the woman had experienced beneath the window, burst from her body.
"Yessie!"
The man extended his hands before him, and they radiated light. He could feel the individual blood cells coursing through his veins, as each tendon stood out from the flesh. A chilling warmth suffused through his entire body, as the glow dissipated. He dropped his hands to his sides, and his posture straightened. He seemed to grow in stature.
"You are right, Eema. It's time."
The two of them re-entered the house, and the woman commandeered several
serving people. With a voice of authority, she directed them to her son. "Do whatever he tells you to."
The bridegroom's father returned shortly thereafter, heartbroken that he would have to inform his guests that there would be no more wine. He found the people in a greater festive mood than when he departed on his fruitless errand, and his heart broke even more at the thought of disappointing his son and new daughter. But wait! The servers were rushing winejugs around the room, refilling cups right and left. What goes here?
The bride's favorite uncle had been enjoying the grape, and he ran up to the host and slapped him on the back jovially. "You sly dog! Saving the best wine for last! This is one party that will be remembered for a LONG time to come! Here, let's get you a cup, and we will all toast to the happy couple!"
(John 2: 1-11)
(copyright 1997, 2002 Victoria Odle Weaver
Please ask permission before copying)
The rumble of conversation in the room grew louder and louder, as more people joined the crowd. This was going to be the wedding of the year. In a land where most marriages are arranged between families, this was a true love match. The groom was of course handsome, the bride was unquestionably the sweetest girl of the neighborhood. The old matrons twittered with glee, the grizzled patriarchs winked amongst themselves. The unmarried ones flirted and the wedded ones smiled at the thought of romance. And the fateful meeting between the couple of honor was a story repeated from one cluster of people to the next.
"She went to the well," would say one person.
"And he was on an errand," another would volunteer.
"Then, like a sword striking a stone, the sparks flew!" someone would finish.
The winking, the smiles and the sighs would begin anew.
Any excuse for friends and relatives to gather, to forget about the daily
drudgery while dressing in fine clothes and sampling savory food and rich
drink is of course a grand occasion. Add a love story, and the event is
suffused with joy and splendor. Everyone bubbled with laughter and the
happiness was intoxicating.
Along the sidelines, the families continued the preparations for the ceremony. Murmurs too quiet except for the closest around the huge clay pots proclaimed a note of adversity that would invariably ruin the party.
"We never received the wine we ordered."
"Oh, NO. I paid for it, too. And I wanted the best, for our children, to
toast their happiness!"
"I'll slip out and see if any of the inns have wine to spare. Stall
everything as long as you can."
Just outside the home, a diminutive form draped in the robes of a widow passed beneath an opened window. She remained in the shadows for the duration of the conference, and they never heard her gasp. If they had, it would have been assumed she was shocked by the news of the circumstances. They would not have understood it was the involuntary noise made by a person who has been assaulted with awareness. The small woman entered the main room and walked in a direct line through the crowd. An observer would have been startled to see the throng of people part to make way for her, as if a guide was elbowing the men and women from her path. She reached her goal, a stately young man engaging in conversation with childhood friends. She tugged briefly on his sleeve and he parted company, to join the woman as she slipped back out the door.
"Yessie. The hosts, they need you."
"Where are they, Eema? Of course I will help. But I thought they had
relatives here from out of town who were assisting with all the preparations."
"No, Son, that's not what I mean. Yessie, they have no more wine. And YOU, Son, are to help them."
The man slowly shook his head. "It's not time yet, Eema. My Father will tell me when it is."
"Yessie. Hear me, Son. YOU will help them." She was emphatic with her
words.
"Eema, I'd love to. But it isn't for me, or even you, to..." He stopped
talking because his mother was no longer looking him in the eye. She was
staring down at the sleeves of his robe. It was just past dusk, and the sky was darkening rapidly. Save for lamplight stretching from the doorway and the twinkling of the first stars, shadows were overtaking the scene. In the growing darkness, the unnatural state of his sleeves was startling, to say the least: the lower part of the cloth covering his arms was glowing. He appeared to have live embers in his hands. Another gasp, identical to the one the woman had experienced beneath the window, burst from her body.
"Yessie!"
The man extended his hands before him, and they radiated light. He could feel the individual blood cells coursing through his veins, as each tendon stood out from the flesh. A chilling warmth suffused through his entire body, as the glow dissipated. He dropped his hands to his sides, and his posture straightened. He seemed to grow in stature.
"You are right, Eema. It's time."
The two of them re-entered the house, and the woman commandeered several
serving people. With a voice of authority, she directed them to her son. "Do whatever he tells you to."
The bridegroom's father returned shortly thereafter, heartbroken that he would have to inform his guests that there would be no more wine. He found the people in a greater festive mood than when he departed on his fruitless errand, and his heart broke even more at the thought of disappointing his son and new daughter. But wait! The servers were rushing winejugs around the room, refilling cups right and left. What goes here?
The bride's favorite uncle had been enjoying the grape, and he ran up to the host and slapped him on the back jovially. "You sly dog! Saving the best wine for last! This is one party that will be remembered for a LONG time to come! Here, let's get you a cup, and we will all toast to the happy couple!"
(John 2: 1-11)
(copyright 1997, 2002 Victoria Odle Weaver
Please ask permission before copying)
