2 December 2024
Good morning,
Welcome to the second day of this year’s advent calendar, with the next part of Feathers, and another image from the Italian region of Liguria. Thank you for comments already on yesterday’s first window.
Feathers
Part 2
The story so far: A voice on Instagram speaks directly to Maryam, a first-year student, on the top floor of the library.
Maryam was feeling decidedly creeped out. Who was this guy? She hadn’t quite placed his accent though it wasn’t very far from her own. Her mind quickly ran through who could have played this trick on her. Her friendship group? But they, like her, were among the quieter girls in hall, still finding their way into life away from home, the sort of friends who looked forward to a pyjama party watching The Princess Diaries. Her boyfriend? (It was still a thrill to think of Joe in these terms – or any boy.) Surely not – how could a guy who held her hand and walked her home play such a nasty joke? She was flummoxed, and a little scared. But before she could scroll away, the figure spoke again, his voice somehow further away.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of Maryam. God likes you, you’re accepted, and you’ve been chosen.”
Maryam noticed in passing how the stranger kept invoking God, which made it no less disturbing. It was some kind of religious nutcase who was bombarding her. Her parents were religious of course – everybody was at home, more or less – but it wasn’t an everyday part of her life.
The guy in the white T-shirt continued, “You’re going to have a baby. A baby boy, called Josh.”
Maryam wasn’t sure later what this weirdo said next – something about being a king. Her mind was still punch-drunk from his announcement. She had only just turned 19, was still in her first year at Uni, had a vague but hopeful vision of a life making a difference in conflict zones, and had already been at a couple of Model UN socials. Dropping out to have a baby was not what happened to people like her in St Andrews. It also disregarded something rather important in the scheme of things. Even though she knew the guy in the video couldn’t hear her, she spoke softly but as firmly as she could towards her phone, “Aren’t you forgetting something? Joe and I have only been fooling around. We haven’t” – dropping her voice even lower – “we haven’t actually done it yet.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that Maryam.” Could he hear her after all? “The Holy Spirit will make it happen. Josh won’t just be your child. He’ll be God’s Son.”
Then he said that Lizzie, her academic sister, was already pregnant and due at the end of June.
Maryam looked up. Maybe she’d fallen asleep and had a bizarre dream. But everything looked normal. Students were hunched over their laptops, reading, typing, staring. Others were scrolling their phones. A couple of people, defying the large signs saying SILENCE, were having what looked like an emotional conversation between two shelves of Political Theory. Maryam glanced at phones and laptops near enough to see: the guy was only on her screen.
She closed her eyes. Maybe that would make it go away – “lucked out… chosen… baby… God’s Son…” But the more she tried to banish this unbidden message, the more the words seemed to make their home within her. It should be making her anxious, but it wasn’t anxiety she felt. She looked again at the students around her, and felt they were the worried ones, foreheads pinched, shoulders tight, fingers whacking the keys. Maryam felt something closer to calm. She sat back in her chair, stretching her legs out. The Universe had a purpose for her. Someone knew her and had chosen her. The figure on her screen, looking at her, waiting for her, no longer frightened her. He was kind. Maryam had no idea what would happen to her studies, her life at Uni, her career in international diplomacy, but in this moment she knew what she wanted to say. She spoke, softly but as firmly as she could, “I accept. I’ll do it.” And the guy disappeared, but not before the merest sense of a feather falling.
Jan Provost (1465-1529), The Annunciation, Palazzo Bianco, Genoa
Yours,
Donald.
Revd Dr Donald MacEwan
Chaplain