"I bore the weight for him. My son, whom the things of this world could not touch.
I am born of priests. I married a man born of priests. I bore the weight of a long family line, but when the time came to name my miracle child, I called him John. A new name in an old family, for he would be a new kind of priest, and he would not be weighed down with the traditions and ways of the past. I bore it for him.
My husband and I lived righteously. My husband served God in the Temple with great diligence and very little faith in miracles. He believed in God, but he did not believe that God would send an angel to tell him of a miracle. He was struck dumb, and when my womb quickened, I believed for him. My husband could not carry his faith through the years of our shame in the sight of all the people - the necessary suffering to mark our miracle child. I bore it for him.
My cousin Mary was so young when she came and my miracle baby leapt in my womb - leapt at the greater miracle in hers. Leapt at the unbelievable miracle. She was so young in every way - she who could not yet imagine the shame it would bring her to bear the Son of God. She was so new to shame, to gossip. New to all the unpleasant things that those who think they are righteous do to others. She sang only praise of God, and in the pure joy of her prayer, I doubt she heard the irony of her words, "From now on all generations shall call me blessed." All generations but her own. She could not comprehend the weight of shame that would come to her. I bore it for her for a time.
When my son was eight, he asked to try a piece of beef. He wanted for a moment to be like everyone else, not to be set aside for God, just for a time. He said it wasn't pork, he wasn't asking for anything unclean. He was so young, too young to understand why God asked such things of him. I was not, so I bore it for him.
When my son was fifteen, I saw him turn down the offer of wine, and I wished he would just once take it - take it and come stumbling home drunk. If nothing else so he would sleep deeply enough that I could rip that damn hair shirt off of him for one night. I watched him turn from temptation and beat at his body because it had no power over him. I tried to remind myself that it was a good thing. That he was blessed to be free of temptations he could not indulge. He would not have to feel that weight. I bore it for him.
When my son went to the desert and started to baptize, I was so proud. His name was everywhere and I knew he did great works. That was all that he knew. That he returned many souls to God and that he baptized the Son of God Himself. He did not every worry about the forces of Rome and the elders of Jerusalem who circled like buzzards, wanting to stop this mad prophet spoiling their comfortable world. He never thought of them. I bore it for him.
When my son was in prison because of a small-minded housewife of a powerful man - when his life and ministry were cut short by a strip tease, he sent his men to speak to Jesus. He mourned only the lost of his ministry. I sat thinking that he would never have come to her notice if he had stayed home, and perhaps a pretty woman would give me grandchildren. John never thought of the lives not lived in prison. I bore them for him.
I raised him to be a prophet. One whom the things of this world would have no power over. But they do over me, because I was not. I was raised to bear the weight. I put my body between him and all of that pain, so that he could be free to serve God. Anything that would have kept him from the divine message he bears, that lights him up like a Christmas tree - I bore it for him."
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