She stood for a moment, gathered her wits, tucked her hair back once again, and stepped out into the street.
Then, slowly, an urge to move, to be somewhere else, began to stir in her. But it was an aimless urge for now. Does she go into the country, to her home, or does she go into the city, to the center of her people, her culture? The routes to each destination were both so familiar, like opposite points of the swinging pendulum of her life—of their lives. She could walk them in her sleep. But as she stood pondering, she felt the greater gravity drawing her towards her home. She knew the walls before her would always be there. She knew they were the center of their lives, especially of her husband’s life. But her center was her home. Yes, it had only been the two of them—then the three of them for, oh, so short a time.
Thoughts swirled as her feet pressed the familiar stone streets, rising, ever rising to the south. As she climbed, the breeze grew. Soft breezes that swayed her garment, her newly re-born, re-brown hair.
* * *
The walk was a joy. At times, she recalled, the way was a burden, the only positive being the destination. Her home. But this time, each step was a light one. The incline held no great effort. The road with its stony way, no bother. Before she knew it, the rise revealed the familiar sight.
The building was not large. Some of her husband’s fellow kohenim had helped him build it, piling stone upon stone, room upon room. But she and Zekharya were content. As the great Shlomoh said in his writings: Better is little with the fear of the Lord than great treasure and trouble therewith.
The dwelling was at the end of a short street. She wondered why it appeared empty but was later to learn that it had remained unoccupied since her death as if it had held a curse—maybe from her long years of barrenness or her husband’s arrest by Herod’s soldiers at the time of the coming of the gift-bearing strangers from the East.
Elisheva’s feet carried her toward the doorway, each step stirring memories. The stone threshold, worn smooth from years of faithful steps. The wooden door—Zekharya had carved it himself, spending weeks getting the grain just right—was an image drawn from the temple itself.
Inside, dust motes danced in shafts of light. The main room opened before her, its familiar walls embracing her return after standing empty for so long. Here was where they’d shared countless meals, breaking bread and giving thanks. The low table still bore knife marks from years of use.
“The bread needs more salt.” Zekharya’s voice echoed in her mind, that first year when she was learning to bake.
“Then perhaps you should pray harder over it.” She’d tossed back, and his laugh had filled the room.
The corner held her favorite spot—a cushioned seat near the window where she would sit and spin wool into thread, watching life flow past their home. Women carrying water jugs, children chasing each other, priests heading to and from their duties. The view gave her a connection to the community while allowing quiet moments of reflection.
Their bedroom remained as she remembered—simple, peaceful. The bed frame Zekharya built still stood against the far wall. She’d woven the bedding herself, thread by careful thread, prayers worked into every inch.
“This will last generations.” She’d declared when finished.
The kitchen held so many memories she could barely breathe. Here, she’d prepared countless Sabbath meals, the scent of fresh bread and stewed lentils filling their home. The worn grinding stone sat silent now, but she remembered the rhythm of stone against stone, crushing grain into flour while sharing gossip with visiting friends.
She traced her fingers along the wall where Zekharya had carved their names, marking the day they’d moved in. Below it, little marks tracked the passing years—though they were cut short in the end.
Each room held echoes of laughter, tears, prayers, and love. Although their home had been modest compared to other kohenim houses, it had been their sanctuary, their place of peace.
* * *
Dawn crept across the hills outside Yerushalayim. She arose . . . sleep was apparently unnecessary to her new body, but as those in her community slept, she contemplated. The night passed in stillness. Her mind drifted through memories like water over stones.
The scent of fresh bread wafted in her window. In her former life, she would have been up before the sun, grinding wheat with the other women. That rhythmic scraping of the grinding stone had marked the start of each day. Now, those sounds reached her from afar, carried on the morning breeze along with voices of other women rousing their families for the day.
“Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu, Melech Ha-olam . . . Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe . . .” The familiar shacharit repeated on her lips. Did the morning blessings still apply to one who no longer slept? Who no longer hungered?
The sun climbed higher, warming the chill from her limbs. Workers streamed toward the city gates, their sandals raising dust on the well-worn paths. A group of women passed nearby carrying water jugs, their laughter and chatter a familiar sound. One of them wore her hair in the same style Elisheva had favored—twisted back with a simple wooden pin.
She rose, brushing dust from her garment. The city beckoned, its limestone walls glowing golden in the morning light. Somewhere within those walls, life continued as it always had. Somewhere within, Zekharya would have been preparing for his duties, perhaps already making his way toward the Temple.
Her sandaled feet found the path back toward the gates. Each step stirred memories of countless mornings walking this same route to market. But now the stones felt different beneath her feet—sharper, more defined, as if she could sense every grain and crystal within them.
She joined the increasing flow of those heading toward the gate, some carrying single sheaves of barley. From the peace of the countryside into the ancient city—the holy city.
But today she could sense it was a city of noise, violence, and fear.
Inside the towering gate, the sudden crowd pressing around her should have been frightening. She was aware that, in those times, women were little respected, especially in the press of a crowded street. She could have been easily knocked aside, even crushed between wagon wheel and wall, and no one would react. She would simply be stepped on or over.
Yet, somehow, her heart was unafraid. She seemed to nearly float, unperturbed, through the throng. No one spoke to her and she spoke to no one. The faces, though she knew they were of her own people, were strangely unfamiliar. Soldiers passed in groups, spears held high, making their own way as the chaotic rabble parted obediently to let them pass. Yet, even the soldiers held no fear for her. She continued up the narrow, winding street. The street she knew so well. The street of pilgrims. The street of saints.
* * *
“What will the Temple guard do now?” she heard a passerby ask of his friend.
“Forget them, I’m worried about the Romans!” replied the other in a voice of true fright. The crowd seemed to be buzzing in unison, like a disturbed hive. Yet, on she moved, a sail blown by the wind. Ever inward, ever upward.
She finally reached the steps, those great steps built by their great king. It seemed everywhere he went, everyplace he touched, he left steps, steps, and more steps. Whether Caesarea Maritima or Yerushalayim. Massive runs of steps. He did love his steps. They rose from the street, from the noise of the Royal Stoa—another of the Idumean’s dream projects. To her left, ascended three flights, parallel to the street below. Then she turned to the right, over that beautifully arched bridge, spanning the crowded street below and entering the outer courtyard of the temple, later called the Ezrat ha-Goyim—the court of the Gentiles. The vast area which had only recently been laid out by Herod, Caesar’s favorite. The man her people loved to hate. The expanse already seemed to dominate the center of the city. What would the great Shlomoh have thought? Isn’t that what her husband had always wondered?
* * *
As she entered the vast mall, even more glorious under a cloudless, Judean sky, the usual crowds greeted her sight.
As that strange urge continued to propel her, she crossed the path of one particular group of worshipers who were having difficulty with a lamb they were leading, straining against its rope. Perhaps this animal—commonly considered stupid—knew its future. Of course, the smell of blood, fire, and sizzling fat in the air would make even the dumbest of beasts wise to its fate.
“It was so much easier when we could just get our money changed here and buy our sacrifices here, too. Before that troublesome rabbi from Nazareth came in and messed everything up.”
“Now that the Romans took care of him with their usual efficiency, maybe things will get back to normal,” another said with a sardonic laugh.
“Maybe not so fast,” a third retorted. “Haven’t you heard? Some are saying he rose from the dead.”
“Is that why the temple guards and the Romans are running around like so many chickens?”
“I hear they’re both stumbling over each other, doing door-to-door searches, looking for the body of this yet one more ill-fated Mashiach. I think Yerushalayim’s gone crazy!”
“I overheard a temple guard proclaiming loudly to people in the street back there that the talmidim came during the night and stole the body from the tomb.”
“Was that Yaqim?”
“Yes, everyone knows him! Why?”
“I also saw him in the market earlier buying himself a fine new robe from Ethiopia!”
“So?”
“On a temple guard’s wages?”
“Alright, you two,” the patriarch of the family remonstrated. “We came here to do our sacrifice. Let’s get it over with and get back out of town.”
Elisheva stood and stared aghast, pondering this strange interchange. Fortunately, they didn’t seem even to notice her presence and soon melted into the crowd.
* * *
Though the temple guard and the Roman centurions in the streets were everyday sights, they did seem more active than usual, hastily passing orders one to another, forming and re-forming their groups and ranks, making sweeping gestures toward different quadrants of the city. They seemed to be preparing for a battle.
But presumably there would have been some look of order to that. Here, there was no evident foe, no distribution of weaponry. This was simply mayhem. This was chaos. Like ants from a trampled anthill, they seemed hurried to rebuild their unseen, internal structure.