The Women of Holy Week: Anna's Story

Anna, a woman who lived in Jerusalem, was named after her great-aunt who was a prophet. Anna lived in the temple and believed that God was always with her. Anna told Anna stories of their faith. One day, Anna claimed to have met the Messiah, but soon after she died. Anna, feeling defeated by life, went to the temple with her last two coins to make a gift to God. She witnessed a man boasting about his large donation, and even though she wanted to defend herself, she realized words couldn't express everything she wanted to say. So, she dropped her two coins into the treasury, believing that God saw and loved her. A man nearby acknowledged her with admiration. Later, a neighbor invited Anna to eat with her, explaining that loving God and loving your neighbor is the whole law. Anna felt a glimmer of hope that God had heard her cries. Women of Holy Week. The Third Woman. Anna's Story. My name is Anna. I've lived in Jerusalem all my life. The temple, God's temple, has been the centre of my life for as long as I can remember. Wherever I go, the temple is in the corner of my eye, helping me to navigate through Jerusalem's winding streets, reminding me that no matter what happens, God, my God, is right there with me. I was named after my great-aunt, Anna. She was a prophet, and after her husband died, she lived in the temple day and night, fasting and praying and reading scripture. She lived in a corner of the Court of the Women, as close as she was allowed to be to her God. She couldn't go further, and even in her old age she harrumphed her indignation at it, the thought that she, a small, bent old woman, could in any way threaten her God, creator and judge of the whole world, whose steadfast love endures forever, but who might flee in fright if a woman got too close. I used to go and visit her, and she would tell me the old, old stories of our faith, of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, of Sarah and Hagar, Rebecca and Rachel, of Moses and Joshua, of Zipporah and Rahab. At the end, she would grasp my hands tightly and whisper, it's your story too, never let them paint you out, and I would smile and nod, wondering what she meant. One day, just after I was married, I arrived in the temple to visit her as usual. As I entered the Court of the Women, one of the Levites drew me to one side. She's lost it, he said. I think it's time you took her home. I looked over to the corner where she studied and prayed and slept, to see her, full of life, talking to a crowd of people. I looked at the Levite questioningly. She thinks she's met the Messiah, bless her. She talks about him to anyone who'll listen, and best of all, she says he was a baby. He left, and returned to his post at the gate, shooing away some unsuspecting visiting Gentiles, who had paused for long enough at the entrance, to suggest that they thought they might come in. I walked over to my Great Aunt, slightly bemused. The previous week, when I visited her, she had shown no signs of the fading of her spirit that you sometimes see in elders. Quite the opposite. She was as sprightly and insightful as ever. She saw me walking towards her and hurried over as quickly as her bent frame would allow. Those endless nights sleeping in the temple had done her body no good at all. Little Anna. To her, I would always be Little Anna, even though I towered above her now. Little Anna, she said, I saw him. Who? I asked, concerned, remembering the Levite's words. The Saviour. I held him in my arms. I sang him a lullaby, a love song for my Lord. A few days later she died, and now, every time I go to the temple, I look over into her corner and wonder who or what she thought she'd seen. They told me later that she died with a smile on her lips, whispering the words, The steadfast love of the Lord endures forever. Today, as I got ready to go to the temple, slowly and wearily, I wondered what Anna would say to me now. When she was alive, I faced life with joy and confidence, thinking that nothing could bring me down. I was wrong. Life itself defeated me. God's very self brought me to the depths of the pit. I am left with nothing, only the echoes of my cries to a God who never answers. A few years ago, I had everything, and now I gather everything I have left in the world to go to the temple to make my gift. I know I don't have to. I'm only a woman. No one expects me to. No one cares, especially. No one notices if I do. Until this year, I'd have said that God notices. The God who has loved me from the moment I was woven together in my mother's womb. The God who sees my sitting down and my rising. The God whom Aunt Great-Aunt Anna loved with every fiber of her being. Until this year, I'd have said that that God sees. But last year, almost exactly to the day, a mysterious illness crept through the city, taking first my parents, then my sons, and last of all, my husband. And now, I am alone. Quite alone in the world. I have no money. Well, that's not strictly speaking true. I have two coins. Tiny they are, the size of my thumbnail. One to buy bread for tomorrow. The last one, I'll give in thanks to my God. The journey to the temple seemed longer than usual. I was jostled at every step. I almost gave up. The joy of the pilgrims seemed to mock my numb misery. At last, I stood before the funnels of the treasury. At the next funnel was a man who had come with his whole family. Seven sons he had. I know that, because he announced it so loudly. I have come to pay the temple tax for myself and my seven sons, he proclaimed, as he dropped eight gleaming silver half-shekels, one by one, from a great height into the bronze funnel in front of him. God is good, he declared at full volume. And then, under his breath, thinking no one could hear him, and so am I. He turned to walk away, barging into me as he did so. When he saw me, he dusted himself down, disgust written all over his face. I wanted to tell him I wasn't always like this. I wanted to tell him that I used to come with my husband and sons and pay the temple tax in full, just like him. I wanted him to see me not as I am now, but as I used to be. But even as I opened my mouth to speak, I realized that words simply couldn't say all that needed to be said. I turned to the treasury box, its bronze mouth seemingly mocking the smallness and inadequateness of my gift. I stood there for a moment, looking at those two tiny coins, all I had left in the world, held in the palm of my hand. As I stood there, I could have sworn I heard Anna's voice echoing in my ear, this steadfast love endures forever. Before I knew what I'd done, I dropped both coins into the funnel, my love gift for the God who, despite it all, I had to believe saw me and loved me. The sound of their double clink echoed round the courtyard. I looked instinctively in the direction of Anna's corner. There was a man standing there, surrounded by a group of people. He looked right at me, right, or so it felt, into my numb, grieving heart. He simply nodded at me and turned to say something to those around him. I could see from his eyes that he saw me, saw all of it. He turned to those around him and pointed at me, his eyes full of admiration. When I got home, standing outside my tiny room was my neighbor of a few days. She told me she was called Sarah, and that, along with her husband Jacob, a priest, she was here for the feast. She wondered, she said, if I'd like to eat with them while they were here. They had plenty to share. But why, I stammered, why would you do that for me? She smiled at me and said, love God and love your neighbor. That is the whole law. Someone said that to my husband recently, someone who meant it with the whole of themselves, and it makes more sense to me than anything else I've ever heard. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming need to lean against the wall for strength. Could it be? Could it be that the God who sees had heard my cry after all?