56th Thread: The Preacher

Click here to see the woman artist’s work which inspired this drawing

There were three of us. The youngest had never had children. Her breasts and hips burst out of her clothes. We wrapped her in layers of kerchiefs to conceal her shapes, we crimped her hair like a beggar’s, we sullied her face with the dye from walnut husk. We could not preach usefully if one of us attracted the desires of men. One day we met a young preacher. His words, spoken in a deep, harmonious voice, raised piety in our hearts. His face, with his blue eyes and chestnut hair, was as serene as the lord. We traveled together. He met great success with my disciples.
One night I wanted to pray in the light of the moon. I made my way to a meadow where the grass had been leveled by the sheep. I looked for sanctity in the sky, in the clearness of the air. Unexpected sounds hit my ears. I saw a strange shape pulling and pushing. I went closer. They had spread a shawl over the humid ground. Their bodies were united by the middle. They were engaged in the trade of the flesh. It is necessary that you should know these things unless you are destined for the convent. I was not old yet. I had left your mother, your aunts, your uncles when they still children. They cried, especially the little ones, they clung to my belt. I had the strength from my faith to resist their tears, because my calling to bear the good news was more powerful than the pain in my abdomen. Two women, relatives of my husband, and an old man chose to accompany me. But he was nothing but trouble, too old to sustain the hardships of the pilgrim’s life, and he died after two months after we left.
When I did not know where I was going, the lord showed me the way. I wanted to bring to men the message of peace, kindness, humility. I prayed with those who wanted to pray with me. I also hoped to win redemption for the sins of my ancestors in their shameful trade, which had upset me in my childhood.
My name started to be known, the humble name of a sinner. I went north, where there are large cities. I saw the ruins of such large metropolises that it is not possible that they ever existed without a divine calamity throwing them down for their pride. People came to listen to me. I thanked the lord for giving me the gift of words. Even the young preacher could serve the cause of true faith. And now here I was in the middle of the night, looking to unite my soul with the lord’s when I had to witness the mating of a young couple. Their cries sounded more like pain then pleasure. They rolled as if they were a single ball of wool. When she was underneath, I could see her open eyes looking for heaven. When he was underneath, he looked for her eyes.
I did not know what to think, my dear granddaughter, I was distraught. If it became known, we risked being taken for depraved or worse, heretics. When they had taken their pleasure. They saw me. I walked down to them, and asked they go their way.
‘Mother, do not deny us!’ She cried, circling my knees with her arms.
He looked at me without a sound crossing his lips.
‘And what do you do with your word?’ I asked him.
‘I believe in love, the love of the lord, the love of the father for the child, the love of man and woman for each other.’ He said, with unpleasant energy.
‘The church does not teach carnal love.’
‘What sin are we guilty of?’ Asked my spiritual daughter.
‘Let me withdraw, I will pray, and let you know the will of the lord.’
Nearby was a chapel, but I did not want to look for God there. I was also afraid to find the priest who would want to guide me. I went to the edge of a river protected by a vault of trees. The sun had just risen, its light shining benignly through the leaves. I knelt on the rough stones that lined the stream. Raising my arms, I asked the Lord for his guidance with desperate fervency. My head began to tremble, as did my limbs, my navel, my hips, for I was losing control of my body. I no longer heard the birds chirping to the sky, I no longer felt the breath of the wind on my face. Then, in one throbbing surge, the limits of my earthly sheath melted until I became one with the spiritual world of God. A perfect wellbeing streamed into me, as the worries and words were replaced by divine hymns. Seraphic forms danced to the music on the surface of my closed eyelids. Heavenly colors, cruelly wanting in our valley of tears, unfurled in rhythm with my pulse. They formed tongues, foliages of gold, and celestial spirals which altogether defined the body of God. I saw his eyes, they saw me. When he opened his mouth, his tongue slipped out between his delicate lips to exhale his infinite love. His hands, his arms, his bulk took me in an embrace that suppressed the pain our physical body necessarily experiences. Without hearing, without thinking, yet with absolute certainty, I understood that, to merit ecstatic eternity in heaven, we could not seek the pleasures of the flesh. While this revelation overtook my whole being, long, repeated waves of rapture contracted my spiritual womb, turning its fecundity into bliss, and its bliss into fecundity.
At last, the presence of our Lord dissolved back into the perpetuity of the heavenly vault, and my visitation left me. I was lying on the moss of the vale, exhausted. How dire to tumble back to our brutal world. I opened my eyes slowly. My disciples, including the lustful couple, surrounded me, deep in prayers. Their youth and zeal soothed somewhat the sorrow of parting with God’s intimacy. Worried by my absence, they had guided themselves with the halo of my ecstasy. I told them:
‘There is no permissible pleasure but in the adoration of the Lord.’
The young couple had hoped I would condone the physical love between them. She threw herself on the ground, grabbed my knees and wept. But he just looked at me, an aloofness hardening his eyes, his jaws. Looking straight at me, the young preacher lifted up the young, plump woman by the arm, and walked away. Several of my disciples, the dearest to my heart, followed him after a hesitation so short it brought me to tears.

This is the 56th woman of 100 mothers talking to their daughters, over 2500 years. The 55th woman was upset at her father’s trade. The 54th woman tells a fairy tale about aging. The 53rd woman, having climbed up socially, rejects her own mother. The 52nd woman‘s sister, a smart and lucky business woman, betters the fate of the daughter.  The 51st woman leads the hard life of a hunchback.  The 50th woman’s  mind is as feeble as her back. The 49th mother explains why women should not fish. The 48th woman finds refuge in a fishing village. The 47th mother lulls her baby with an optimistic song. The 46th mother rebells against the wealthy.

It all starts here: first thread, and the last stories will take place in … present day America.