"The midwife cometh..."

"The midwife cometh ..."
whisper the villagers
as one-by-one they place 
their candles by the road...a trail of hope
lighting her way towards the
bed of expectancy...and promise.

"Who is she"
they ask
as she steps through
the bramble and over
a rain-swollen stream...
steadfast in her journey to where she will
coo a message of encouragement and comfort...
in a voice,
"low, sad and sweet..."

"I do not know," one man says
in hushed tones of wonder,
"She comes from where there is no
question of hope
and joy is not a trembler
on the brink of chance."

"She has boys," another volunteers,
"wee ones, too young to know that sometimes
a cry of pain can really be a song of
promise and a mother's bliss....
but I hear
that
her father carries them on his shoulders and makes
them laugh when she must leave them in the night...yet again"
"And yes, her mother sings them lullabies
until they are sighing in their sleep."

"A wonder" they murmur from their front porch swings
as silently she passes,
"She is a wonder and a mystery...
a veiled figure
on an errand of mercy."

"But who gives birth to the midwife's calling?"
asks the spinster
gazing out from behind the gingham curtain,
washing dishes on a moonless night, 
"What unleashes this kind of selfless courage
in one so young?"

"She is loved well by her mother,"
says the woman at the well. 
"And those sweet boys are her inspiration...
this is why she leaves them...night after night...
so that other children will know a mother's love."

"Her father smiles when she laughs, "
says the baker as he removes a loaf from the oven.

"And she has sisters," says the carpenter, nailing a board
above the entry to the chapel.  "

I hear they
bring her tangerines from their adventures to
far-off lands...tangerines and alabaster jars, and
silken robes to caress her skin."

"But, " says the old one, "the tangerines are
not enjoyed by her alone...
they are fed...
section by section...
to the weary ones whose brow she cools...
saved for when the last push seems too
much to bear...too long to endure...
and the silken robes she turns into swaddling clothes,
blankets so soft
the babe forgets she's left the womb.
"And the alabaster jar," says the baker, 
"is filled with oil for each baby's feet."

"Ahh," says the stranger at the gate,
"she is the one who passed me on the
road...her steps were light and filled
with purpose...and yet she wished me well and
asked if I knew my way...the air around
her carried the scent of
lavender and sandalwood.."

"But who encourages her?
Who gives her what
she needs when she returns from a long night
and the dream-cries of her own babes
call  her from the deep, soft space
of a well-earned cup of tea
just before the blue light of dawn?"
asks the stranger.

"Her mother, " says the
carpenter as he
waits for another nail, "her mother
tends her heart,
feeds her dreams,
sings of her hopes,
and
watches the wee boys
so that she
can
bring another lad
to rest
in his own mother's arms. 

"But when does she rest...and where...
when the day finally breaks and another
child suckles for the first time at his sleeping
mother's breast?"

"I told you," said the
old woman, standing straight and strong...
waiting by the well...to give her cup of cold water...
"I told you,
she rests in the sanctuary of her mother's eyes."