Joseph (3)

Please--two questions--

Is this better, and is it too short?

Joseph’s Lament

He’s not my son.

I know that he came from God.

I know that he is the Chosen One.

I know that Mary, great with child,

Is still a virgin.

But he’s not my son.

We walk from town to town on our way to Bethlehem--

Two travelers among many.

Old man with his young bride.

They look at Mary and smile,

And they look at me and grin.

The old man wasted no time!

That’s what they’re all thinking—

And I force myself to return their looks

With a smile and nod myself

All the while thinking

But he’s not my son.

Yes, an angel came to me in a dream.

He told me that it was safe to take Mary to wife.

He reassured me that the Holy Spirit had conceived the child she carries.

And I did believe him.

This life that looms before me

Is not the life I had envisioned.

She sleeps beside me

And as she cuddles against me for warmth,

Her belly bumps against my back.

And he kicks.

Oh God, how can I raise him?

How can I love him?

When he is

not

my

son?

"Whose little boy..."

The middle-aged man strode down the boulevard.  He was in a particularly good mood.  Viv had been pretty chipper today.  Some days were better than others, of course, and on this day she seemed almost normal.  Almost.

As he proceeded on his walk, a child caught his eye.  No older than three, perhaps, he was nevertheless all alone.  He did not seem lost or afraid; in fact, he seemed to be waiting for someone.  He sat by himself on a retaining wall, and as the man approached, he raised his head.  He had the most beautiful blue eyes that the man had ever seen.

"Why, hello, Son!"  the gentleman said.  "Whose little boy are you?"

The boy didn't answer the question.  He said, "Play wit me!" and raised up pudgy hands.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

"Play wit me!"

So right there on the sidewalk, the man took the boy's hand.  They sang songs, the little boy starting. "Twinkle Twinkle", "Muffin Man", and "Deep and Wide".  Then they played clapping games.  "Pat-a-Cake" and "Ram Sam Sam".  Then they just joined hands and walked in a circle together.  A lightness began to fill him that he hadn't felt for years.  The boy said, "Lift me up!!"  He did as he was told.  The boy gave him an enormous hug and a kiss that smelled of milk and cookies.  "Bye bye!" he cried and ran off down the street.  The man watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

Many years passed.  The middle-aged man was no longer middle aged.  Viv was no longer pretty chipper.  Viv was constantly on the verge of disaster.  One day she was drunk, the next she was sunk deep in depression, and another day saw her preparing her will.  She rarely spoke to him.  It was obvious that she blamed him for their misfortune, although he couldn't see how it could possibly have been his fault.

He walked down the lane, barely conscious of his surroundings.  To be honest, he was afraid of what he'd find when he came back home.  He nearly bumped into the boy before he realized there was someone else with him.

"Well, hello, young man!  Whose little boy are you?"  The boy, probably 10 years old, looked at him sternly.  "You asked me that same thing before!"  His blue eyes were piercing.  Somehow the man made the connection--that child he had seen so many years before.  He remembered those eyes.  What he hadn't noticed before was that his eyes were beautifully complimented by hair the color of an autumn forest.

"Are you from around here?"  asked the man.  He wasn't sure, really, what to say.  Viv had never been able to have children--not after that first disaster.  With no little hands to hold, he had filled his days with grown up pleasures.  Speaking with this child now was uncomfortable.

The boy ignored the question.  "You're sad, aren't you?  Why?"

He didn't know why he answered.  "My wife is very sick.  She's very sad, and it makes me sad that I can't help her get better."

"Give her this,"  the little boy said.  He handed the man a small package with a yellow bow.

"What's this?"  asked the man.

"Just give it to her.  She will like it."  The boy walked away without another word.

The man continued home, He couldn't get over it.  How could that boy have remembered him?  How could he have never seen him since that time so many years before?  It was so unreal.  He entered his house, looking for his wife.  It was not hard to find her.  Simply go to the couch, and if nobody was there, head for the bedroom.  He found her in the bed, huddled on her side.  It was obvious that she had been there all day.  "Viv, are you all right?  Vivian?"

His wife, once so beautiful and loving, looked at him and the hopelessness in her eyes broke his heart.  He reached out to stroke her hair, and the present caught her eye. "For me?  Do you really think that anything you could give me would help?"

He had totally forgotten that he was still carrying the boy's gift.  He said, "The strangest thing happened today.  I bumped into a boy while I was walking home.  Viv, he had the most amazing eyes!  They were so blue, so beautiful..."

"Jason had blue eyes, remember?"

Jason.  The son they'd named for him.  How could he not remember?  He had seemed normal and healthy when he was born, and he had a fuzz of red hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.  Nobody could explain how it happened.  He was healthy and normal at birth, and then six hours later he was gone.  It defied explanation.

He was devastated, of course, but life continued for him.  He had his job, his life that took him to the office and adult companionship every day.  Viv never recovered.  She never went back to work.  She spent the first weeks after Jason's death in a confusion of denial, anger, vindictiveness, and pain.  It spiraled out of control, and it all ended with her being committed to an asylum for several months.  Finally, she managed to convince her psychiatrist that she would be able to deal with everyday life, and he was thankful to take her home.  At first, she seemed better.  The hospital had given them a tiny lock of their son's red hair and a picture, and Jason had gone to the jeweler's, bought a locket, and gave it to Vivian.  It had seemed to help, for a while.  But after several years, the chain broke and the locket disappeared.  Without it, she seemed to have lost what little connection she'd had with life.  She began to spiral downward again.  But they both knew that she wouldn't go back to the mental ward.  He would take care of her as long as he could.  After that...

"Yes, he did, Vivian.  The bluest eyes I'd ever seen.  So beautiful..."

Vivian reached out, and for a moment he thought she would take his hand.  But no, she took the present.  "You say a boy gave this to me?  Do we know him?"

"No, he just said to give this to you, that you would like it."

"How strange.  What did he look like?"

He described the boy to her, but no light went off in her eyes.  He was a stranger to her as well.  She took the box and opened it.  A locket fell out.  And a note.  And a photo.  She picked up the photo--a beautiful boy with autumn-red hair and piercing blue eyes smiled at her, daring her to come out and play.  She picked up the note,

"Mommy, please don't be sad.  I am so alive here!  There are lots of other boys and girls to play with, and Grandpa and Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa love me and tell me funny stories about you.  Please stop blaming yourself, and please don't blame Daddy.  I love you, and I want you to find a little boy and give him the love you wanted to give me.  You should know how special you are--not every little boy gets to come from Heaven and give his mommy a present, but Jesus knows you need this back.  You lost it at the mall.  I love you bunches and bunches, Mommy, and I promise that I will be the first thing you see when you get to Heaven.  But please, find my brother before you see me.  He is waiting for you, too!  Love, Jason"

Tears streaming, Viv opened the locket.  The lock of hair and the photo were perfect--just as she'd left them.  The chain had been repaired, too, and was like new.  She put the locket around her neck and reached out for him.  He lay on the bed with her and they simply held each other.

Later that year, Viv and Jason were on a walk, down that same boulevard.  "Right here, Sweetheart,"  he said.  This is where I saw him.  Wait, what's this?"

There was a pamphlet on the ground.  They picked it up.  It was a pamphlet stating the need for foster families, that there were many children right here in their own communities that needed parents to love them.  Jason looked at Viv, and they ran home.  A new chapter in their lives was about to begin.  They knew that it would end with a new son to love--perhaps not a baby, but definitely a brother for Jason.

Joseph--take two!!

I'm writing this in the hopes that you can give input.  I have revised my monolog "Joseph".  I'd like you to read it, and I'm hoping that this time I get responses from actors and from people that are grammarians.  I have two specific questions:  are there any mistakes grammatically?  As an actor, do you think it reads well?  Also, many of my monologs are written as poetry--line by line.  Do you think that this monolog should follow that rule?  I'm torn about it.

Thanks for any input you can give.

Joseph 

          I love her so much.  What is that to them, now?  Look at her, so absorbed in that baby.  How is it that this has happened to me? 

        

I always thought that I would live life alone, and I was content with that.  I liked being alone.  My thoughts were my own; my life was mine to rule.  I answered to no one.  Yes, it did get a little lonely from time to time, but even that was nice, in a way.  I could revel in the solitude, the silence, and the sense of pervasive stillness that filled my life.  And if I did ever feel the need for companionship, there were always my brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins...every one of them with a family of their own--loud, raucous, stridently breaking up the early morning stillness with their bickering, their banter, their hilarity.  I would find myself heading for home after a very short time, content once more with my solitary state.

        

And then I saw her.  She had always been in the periphery of my vision, so to speak, a quiet little thing--quiet, but not shy.  She seemed to be all eyes, to the point that the other children left her to her own devices.  There was something almost unnatural about her, about the way that she just--looked, as if she were keeping the events around her in some sort of ledger inside herself.  As she grew to be of marriageable age, this trait proved to make her somewhat less than desirable to the young suitors of Nazareth.  To the average man, this was not a woman to be favored.  Too much looking and too little talking were disconcerting to them.   But to me...I loved her the more for her silence.  She did not prattle on about inconsequential affairs, but when she did speak, her words spoke volumes.  I worked up my courage and asked for her hand.

Our courtship was not your normal one.  Yes, we did talk of our life together, as much as was necessary to understand her wants and needs for the future.  But that was not our main focus.  No, we discussed the Tanakh—the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings.  We loved to speak of He who is to come, Messiah--of the prophecies in all their confusion.  It was our favorite game.  How would he appear?  Would he be triumphant king or suffering servant?  Or could these conflicting descriptions somehow all apply to the same person?  How could that be?

Today, we have our answer, for this servant king is suckling on Mary’s breast.  Fully human, he cries when he is hungry, wet or cold.  His cries reach into my innermost being.  I never realized how much I could love someone who is not my own. But he is not just fully human.  The angels, the shepherds—the sky with its enormous star all have revealed him to be Messiah.  Messiah—my son.  It is true, and yet it doesn’t fit well on a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths.  How strange—living, he lies wrapped as one who is dead.  Yes, I know it’s necessary to keep him straight and strong, but it still troubles my heart.  I don’t want to think of my son, my beloved, and death.  My son…

My child, what will our future be?  Should I announce you as my son?  But you are not my son.  Should I put myself in danger of being called a naïve fool or worse by proclaiming the truth—you are Messiah, sent by God? What will Mary do?  I only have to look at your mother to know that she is not concerned about any of this.  Not in the slightest.  What secrets is she keeping? I feel that they are the first of many, and I know that she will keep them until the end of time.

Help requested re Joseph

I'm asking for your help.  As I said earlier, I'm gathering together material for my first book of portraits--based on the life of Christ.  I came across this example--Joseph.  Could someone please read it for me and tell me how I should finish it?  Should I cut it in half and expand the end of one and the beginning of the other?  I want to include the idea of putting her away, but I'm not sure it belongs here.  Please comment here or on FB and let me know what you think.

Joseph: 

I love her so much.  What is that to them, now?  Look at her, so absorbed in that baby.  How is it that this has happened to me? 

            From the moment I first saw Mary, I knew that she was the only one for me.   I had always thought that I would live life alone, and I was content with that.  I liked being alone.  My thoughts were my own; my life was mine to rule.  I answered to no one.  Yes, it did get a little lonely from time to time, but even that was nice, in a way.  I could revel in the solitude, the silence, and the sense of pervasive stillness that filled my life.  And if I did ever feel the need for companionship, there were always my brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins...every one of them with a family of their own--loud, raucous, stridently breaking up the early morning stillness with their bickering, their banter, their hilarity.  I would find myself heading for home after a very short time, content once more with my solitary state.

            And then I saw her.  She had always been in the periphery of my vision, so to speak, a quiet little thing--quiet, but not shy.  She seemed to be all eyes, to the point that the other children left her to her own devices.  There was something almost unnatural about her, about the way that she just looked, as if she were keeping the events around her in some sort of ledger inside herself.  As she grew to be of marriageable age, this trait proved to make her somewhat less than desirable to the young suitors of Nazareth.  To the average man, this was not a woman to be favored.  Too much looking and too little talking were disconcerting to them.   But to me...I loved her the more for her silence.  She did not prattle on about inconsequential affairs, but when she did speak, her words spoke volumes.

We loved to speak of He who is to come, Messiah--of the prophecies in all their confusion.  It was our favorite game.  How would he appear?  Would he be triumphant king or suffering servant?  Or could these conflicting descriptions somehow all apply to the same person?  How could that be?

And now—this servant king is suckling on Mary’s breast.  Fully human, he cries when he is hungry, wet or cold.  His cries reach into my innermost being.  I never realized how much I could love someone who is not my own.

What will be our future?  Should I announce him as my son?  But he is not my son.  Should I put myself in danger of being called a naïve fool or worse by telling the truth—he is God?  I only have to look at Mary to know that she is not concerned about this.  Not in the slightest.  What secrets is she keeping?  I know that she will keep them until the end of time.

Fun, fun

I'm learning how to be an author.  I'm learning that I can do it myself, and I'm learning that it's not as hard (impossible) as I once thought I was.

I am so excited to be Leslie Thomas.  Every time I say it, I see my daughter and my son, and I imagine them proud of their mama.

When I get further on with my project, I'll let you know how it's going--maybe give you a sample.

I hope that you all find something in your lives that can make you as HAPPY as this is making me!!

circles

When I was a child
I used to look at my mother.
I marveled at her hands,
So delicate, so beautiful.

I wondered if I would ever look like her.

As I grew, I knew this was not to be.
My hands, not enormous,
Are my father's hands,
Not my mother's

But my face.

I am the image of my mother.
I have her eyes, her expressions,
Her hair, her nose--
So when I look in a mirror

I see my mother gazing back at me.

I married, had children, and marveled.
So beautiful, so distinct,
And yet so similar
One to another.

And now they're grown.

Three look like me.
One looks like his father.
Although they all have features of both
and they are distinct to themselves.

And they have children, too.

Do those children look at their parents,
Do they notice hands, hair, eyes,
And do they say to themselves,
I wonder if I will ever look like that?

Go and make disciples of all people

Looking down the boulevard, she waited for the visitors that never came.  She had waited all these years, sitting on her porch, looking down the street, hoping against hope that the person sauntering, the old man tottering, the child scampering--that even one of them would be for her.  She was alone--had been since her mother died.  She hadn't particularly enjoyed caring for the woman.  She was cranky and demanding, but she was a voice that spoke to her, a person to play cards with at night.  Since her death,  she had gone quickly from grief to quiet solitude.  At first, the quiet didn't bother her.  After her mother's grating and demeaning demands, quiet was for a time a welcome friend.  But the quiet became all-consuming, and she began to feel as overwhelmed by it as she had by her overbearing mother.  She took to sitting on her porch, a small woman hunched in a lawn chair.  To the people passing by, she was a shadow.  Many didn't even realize she was there--she was that insignificant.

One day, sitting in her chair, she saw two men in white shirts, black pants, and ties.  They had ridden their bikes to the corner nearest her and locked them against a light post.  She watched as they went from one house to another, knocking, waiting, and then moving on.  The woman knew that it was Saturday, and many people were either working or away.  Not all, though.  Some were inside, but they didn't want to open their door to these clean-cut young Mormon missionaries.  Not her.  They would be welcomed--someone to speak with.

As the boys made their way up her walk to her door, she noticed how very young they were.  She could hardly remember being that young.  Their eyes sparkled, even though they seemed at the same time very weary.  By the time they had gotten to her house, their jaunty step had turned--just slightly--to a more world-weary trudge.  The optimism that had exuded from them had faded somewhat.  As they came to her porch, she had the thought, and it went from unvoiced to voice in a second:  "Are you boys thirsty?  Can I bring you some lemonade?"  They seemed very grateful, and she went into the empty house and quickly found glasses and a tray.  She made them each a glass of lemonade, and then she made them each a sandwich, too.

When she came back with the sandwiches and lemonade on the tray, the boys seemed grateful--and relieved.  She suddenly realized--they probably thought she had used the offer as an excuse to get away from them.  Awkward with the attempt to make conversation after all these years, she said, "Oh, I wasn't trying to get away, boys.  I just thought you probably were hungry, too."  The missionaries smiled at her.  "It's all right, ma'am.  We were going to wait as long as necessary."  The stilted English and beautiful accent were charming.  "Where are you from, my dear?"  "Germany, Ma'am."

The woman told them to feel free to sit on the porch swing and eat.  She would wait, and she promised she would listen.  They had no idea how eager she was to listen--to anything.  It had been so long since anyone had come to her house, these boys seemed like angels to her.  The other missionary smiled his thanks.  He seemed shy, but when he spoke, he seemed to know exactly who she was.

Ma'am, we're here to tell you about our faith.  Do you mind if we speak to you about a man, Jesus Christ, who sees you and loves you and wants you to have an eternal home with him?  If you believe, I can promise you that you will be part of a new family, and you will never be lonely again.

Tears began to flow.  She barely listened to the words as they spoke about this Jesus and his travels in America.  She'd gone to church with her mother, (a woman who delighted in slamming her door in the faces of Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses), but this, to her, wasn't about religion.  This was about never being lonely again.

As the boys finished their talk, she was more than ready.  She prayed a prayer, got a hug, and was given an address for a church nearby.  They promised that a church member would call upon her soon.  As they went away from her house, smiling and optimistic once again, she sat back in her lawn chair, amazed.  They had promised:  she would never be lonely again.

From within their houses, several of her mother's friends--members of her church--had been watching the interaction.  They sniffed to themselves.  'Well!  Who would have thought!'  But nobody went to her to speak about it.  They left her to her new fate and retreated into their womb of hypocrisy.