The story of the daughter of Jephthah continues…
Tuesday
Occasionally I was jealous of Miriam, it’s true. My parents’ eyes became a bit brighter when she was around, and they always went on and on about her music, about her dancing, about her sense of humor, about her beauty, about how if they had such a daughter as Jephthah had, they surely would not leave her so frequently. For a long time I wished I were more like her. Most especially I wished I had her voice. Mine seemed froglike in comparison, and one time I commented on this to her.
“How can that be?” she asked. “My songs don’t come from inside me. They blow through me. Before me is the song; after me is the song. I catch it for a little while, dance with it, set it free. Singing isn’t about how you sound, sister. How can you sound bad when the Spirit sings through you?”
The only time that Miriam stopped in the middle of a song was when Jephthah would come home. She knew before anyone else; it was like she had a special sense about it. She would stop, cock her head, and take off with hardly a good-bye. Even before he reached the gates of the town, she would be in her house, dressing herself and preparing to dance out to greet him. I resented Jephthah deeply for this—that he could go away so often for so long, and yet Miriam would drop everything when he came home. I didn’t see her much when Jephthah was home, and I didn’t understand how she could be so much a part of my family and then leave it all to devote herself to Jephthah when he came home. I learned quickly not to ask, for it angered Miriam to be questioned about this, as if it were wrong to cherish the scattered moments with the only parent she had known.
Questions for reflection
What prompts jealousy in you? What do you do with your jealousy? What might it teach you about your own gifts and longings?
From Sacred Journeys © Jan Richardson. For an intro to what we’re doing here at the Sanctuary blog during the season of Lent, visit A Season of Spiraling.
