Revelations(20)

But that isn’t the way it is, and I accept it. Being the mother of Jesus Christ isn’t easy. Yet I wouldn’t change my life—or my lives—for any other. That, too, I do know.

I glance at the face of the handsome man standing before me so brazenly, watching him watching me. Yes, the devil has his charms, of course he does. He was once an angel, after all. One of His chosen. He is knowledgeable in the arts of seduction and deceit, and can make you feel you’re the most desirable person in the world. If you allow him to, that is. There are many who have fallen prey to his siren call, unable to resist his blandishments, his pretty words. But neither is he completely evil, either. No one truly is. No one is beyond redemption. No one. But neither would I blindly trust him. Call it a mother’s instinct, if you will. Or maybe it’s because I’ve seen him in action before. And for some reason I think he’s trying a completely different tack this time. I won’t allow my son to be hurt. Not in that way. It’s time for a divertissement, I think.



His eyes follow the two boys—no, young men, excuse me—as they leave the building together. I have to wonder what he’s thinking, but that can wait for another time.

“You’re looking well,” I offer. “My compliments to your tailor.” Vanity may as well be this man’s middle name. It surely is his alter ego. He smirks at my words, obviously pleased.

“I was His most beautiful angel, after all.” He pirouettes prettily for my inspection. He’s such a child at times. I humor him with my praise.

The music changes from a rhythmic melody to a more driving one, something a bit more upbeat. I glance toward the stage. The Apostles—the tongue-in-cheek name the boys have taken for themselves—are having fun with it. Thaddeus has stepped forward with his violin, and is playing something I think the crowd recognizes, as they’re according him a round of delighted applause. And as I realize just what it is he’s playing, I can’t resist smiling at Lucifer.

The Devil Went Down To Georgia—fitting, somehow.

I spy a familiar face amid a sea of strangers. Of course I’m not surprised; she’d said she would be here. Mary is important to us, of course. She espouses our cause in many ways; ways not immediately discernible to the naked eye. Mary is a very sweet girl, like a daughter to me. A sister to Jesus. I hate the infighting between her and Judas, but this family feud of theirs has been going on for centuries, and it doesn’t appear to be stopping any time soon. It’s a shame they cannot get along; they’re more similar than either is willing to admit. And they share a common love for my son.

I catch her eye. I see she’s brought her secretary—a nice girl, Ruth. I wave to Mary, and she waves back enthusiastically, beckoning me to her. Before I go, though, I smile back at Lucifer. “My son will not succumb,” I say proudly.

He appears unconcerned at my apparent confidence in Jesus’ ability to withstand his temptations. “Even I can learn new tricks,” he replies enigmatically.

“And even your son has a weak spot.”

I bid him shalom and simply walk away, the sound of his low-pitched laughter reaching my ears, as it’s meant to, even as I wonder what he’s planning to do.

Whatever it is, I hope that my son can stay strong.





Chapter Ten: Jesus


The evening has become surprisingly still, especially in the wake of the music-filled tent we’ve just left. A rather disturbing stillness. Although I’m not quite sure what I’d expected either, to be honest. Just not this emptiness. Almost a void, but a fitting one, nonetheless. Somewhat symbolic of the silence that has lain between us lately, which is equally disturbing, if not more so. A silence so thick I find it hard to breathe.

“Judas,” I begin, “Jude…” And stop. Nothing sounds right. Nothing feels right.

I sigh, force myself to move away from him, my gaze caught by the night sky; the stars glitter like tiny beads above us, pressed tightly into the velvet backdrop of the heavens. Why is everything between us so difficult? I don’t remember it ever being like this before. Never.

There are so many things I’d like to say, things I need to say, before I can’t say them. Before my time is through again…before my part of the story is done. Our part, I remind myself. We’re both about to exit. And we never seem to do it in a less than painful way. That thought causes me to wince. Not on my behalf, but his.

Try though I might, my brain doesn’t seem capable of forming coherent sentences at the moment. Which isn’t good. Soon I’ll be going out on stage, and I’ll need every word I can muster then. And right this moment, I can barely remember my name.