How could a woman so blessed be so rejected? I’m engaged to a man whose life is dedicated to our faith and his work. He’s tall and quiet—a veritable beam of strength. Then I have a visit from Yahweh’s messenger who’s inhumanly tall and a literal beam of light.
I am the maidservant of the Lord. I’ve waited with my people, through these dark years of wondering and sorrowing. Generation after generation, the light growing and receding, I’m now doing my part to keep that tentative flame alive. The flame of hope that God, looking from the celestial to the terrestrial, will send a Redeemer, a Messiah, who will bridge this raw divide.
Now the light has appeared, and vanished again, leaving me all the more conscious of the darkness. Oh, the cruel irony of it all. I’m so young. Do I want this unspeakably valuable gift? No, I do not. I’m blessed—generation upon generation will call me blessed—but I can’t bear this blessing.

But Yahweh must be listening to the beat of my heart. I am His maidservant. He is my Lord.
This gift, this child—I stagger under the weight of it. Is this the daybreak, finally?
“You shall call his name Jesus, for he will save the people from their sins.”
Fists hammer on the edge of my consciousness, threatening to pull me under. The rejection, this destiny, the people, the child—it is more than I can bear. Why is it the hour before dawn is always the darkest?
I’ve always liked the name Jesus.
I am the maidservant of the Lord. I will wait for the advent of the Light.

My soul magnifies the Lord.