In the hush of Nazareth’s olive-laden hills, the veil between heaven and earth thinned as light spilled into the room of a young girl. She was called Mary—Miryam in her mother’s tongue—a name carried by prophetesses and song-weavers. Through her young life, she had been quietly confident yet open to wonder and mystery.
That night, although familiar with the imaginal realm, she was not prepared for what was about to happen. Suddenly, the angel Gabriel, radiant with a light beyond the sun, entered her presence, echoing words from ancient scrolls: “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.”
Overwhelmed with fear, she wondered, Is this a dream? A vision?
Gabriel spoke again with gentle assurance: “Be not afraid, Mary. You have found favor with God. You will conceive and give birth to a son and shall call him ‘Yeshua’—‘Deliverance.’ He is the inheritor of David’s throne, and his kingdom shall flow outward forever.”
As the message grew within her heart and mind, Mary’s lips trembled: How can this be? I have never known a man!
Beaming as one beholding the secrets of creation, Gabriel met her astonished eyes with reverence and replied: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, Mary. The power of the Most High will overshadow you as the cloud once overshadowed Sinai, and thus the holy child born to you will be called God’s Son. I bless your understanding to be magnified in God’s light and love.”
With those words resounding, she surrendered into a profound stillness where she held back nothing and embraced everything. Then Mary, daughter of Eve and the promise of prophets, bowed the arc of her will to the Almighty, saying with humble acceptance: “I am the servant of the Lord. Let it be to me as you have said.”
And the angel departed.
Within the brilliant light of his presence, time had stood still, but now that the light had faded from her chamber, she found herself in a liminal space between past and future. Vibrations deep within her body manifested paradox: She felt weak yet strong, resistant yet yielding, and empty yet full. Nonetheless, beneath her feet in the deep darkness, there seemed a well of light—one from which she could draw. Her acceptance of vulnerability and her openness to the Spirit turned into wisdom that drew light beyond light from the well as she embraced her fruitful fear and the deep urge to escape from it.
Gabriel’s words echoed from the heavens. . . .
“Let it be . . .” To me, she remembered saying!
Putting a grateful hand to her heart while embracing her body, she exclaimed aloud, “Me? Me, Mary!” then knelt on the ground as Isaiah’s words filled her, “A virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Immanuel.” Clasping her hands, she looked to heaven and reclaimed. ”Immanuel!” Just then Isaiah’s joyful announcement continued in her mind, “For unto us a child is born. . .” “Unto us!” Unto me!
With such jubilation, Mary bowed—not from fear, but from the stirrings of divine possibility and the awe of what had just transpired. And what was to be.
Almost unaware to her, the air shifted once more. But this time, the presence filling the room bore a warmth deeper than fire and more ancient than stars.
This Divine presence was not announced with trumpet or thunder. Clothed in glory, she entered as wind through almond blossoms and as the hush before dawn—her voice flowing as water over smooth stones.
Mary saw and knew in her soul: This was the Mother—the Heavenly Mother of all souls, Wisdom, opening the void that lies beyond worlds.
Stunned, for the moment, then astonished beyond understanding, Mary felt in harmony with all that is—a beauty and glory beyond her imagining. She stood and impulsively reached toward the divine presence, but quickly held back, weeping with a new joy beyond any she had ever known.
There was no sense of yearning or determination in her—only utter trust consuming her body as the Mother reached out and lifted Mary’s astonished head to her bosom.
“Mary,” spoke the Goddess with timeless tenderness, “Beloved daughter, chosen vessel. You knew me and I knew you before the veil of birth. I come now to embrace you in the eternal bond of our love, awakening in you a remembrance that flows between our hearts.”
Mary looked again into Her face and those eyes that held a reflection of herself in orbs of love, and deep within her soul remembered seeing them before—before time, beyond space.
Mary collapsed again into Her tender embrace.
“You were chosen,” said the Mother, “from the great council before the world was made. You were chosen to bear a son—not only in body, but also in heart—to shape his compassion, teach him kindness, and sow in him the seeds of mercy and love, of forgiveness and grace, which will bless the entire world. Within you is strength sufficient for this calling. Prepare, dear one, for sorrow shall come as well.”
Mary wept, for in this Divine Mother’s presence, her soul opened wide.
“You and I,” continued the Goddess, “will share this son. Listen for my whisper in your dreams. I will be at your side when our son speaks his first words, when he takes his first steps, when he turns to you for comfort.
Know also, dear one, that this child is destined to bear the sins and griefs of the world. He will be misunderstood, betrayed, and pierced. You will see him mocked, beaten, bound, and hung upon a tree. It will wrench your heart as it will mine.”
Mary wept again but did not turn away.
“At the end, there will be an open tomb from which He shall rise,” She said, “and through him, death will lose its sting. He will bring everlasting life, and you will see him again as He walks with you after the world thinks him gone. And I, your Mother, will walk with you both until the veil is lifted once more.”
She placed her hands upon Mary’s head and then her belly, blessing the womb within her. Mary felt the hair all over her body rising in a holy coldness and something deep and beyond eternity awakening all the cells of her being.
“You are not alone,” She whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”
Then, as gently as She came, She was gone.
The young woman who only a short time before was pondering how such things could be, now rose with clarity and strength, the fullness of which she had never known. She would carry within her womb and within her heart and soul the wonder the world would someday know—the promise of salvation. Wrapping her arms around her heart and her belly, the light of the moon encircled her, while the world, unaware, was spinning toward redemption.
Gloria Gardner Rees has taught English in the US, China, India, and Nepal. Her studies include nutrition, gerontology and adult development. Currently, she is involved in interfaith, humanitarian, and environmental work. In addition to writing midrash, she is co-editing a collection of essays by Latter-day Saints titled Pillars of my Faith.
Robert A. Rees is a scholar, poet, and humanitarian. He is the author of “Toward a Mormon Feminist Midrash: Mormon Women and the Imaginative Reading of Scripture,” Sunstone (2012) and “The Midrashic Imagination and the Book of Mormon,” Dialogue (Fall 2011). His most recent book is Imagining and Reimagining the Restoration (Kofford Books, 2025).
Art by Brooke Bowen.
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