Each morning I wake and come to this place, this little corner at the junction of many vineyards, and I wait.
I endure the scorn of the men, the boasting and the snide remarks. I even endured the shout of joy when my ex-husband, the man who promised to protect me, announced the birth of a son with his new, younger wife.
I could only bear girl after girl after girl, and this morning they sit at home in various degrees of starvation, watched by my mother.
And here I stand, unwanted. Willing to work, but rarely picked. And tired, so tired.
There are three of us who come every day, three women whose men left them behind for various reasons. We are the forgotten, the useless, the inconvenient memories our neighbors like to pretend they don’t see.
Henda is bitter as the herbs of Passover. She complains most of the day about the men of our village and the good days gone by, the days when we would have been allowed to glean. For years now the landowners have barred the practice, so our only option to avoid starvation is to come out every day and try for work.
Mila still has hope, though her children are closest to the grave. Somehow she keeps a small smile on her face and speaks of God with reverence. When Henda’s words become too much for me, I draw closer to Mila.
We come each morning before the men, before the dawn. At first we came with hope, now sometimes I think we come to spite them—because there’s nothing else to do, because the only other option is to stay home and watch the blurring of our children’s faces.
I kick a rock at my feet and feel the strap of my sandal come loose again. I’ve been nursing these for more seasons than they deserve. Someone should put them out of their misery. And then I snicker to myself, looking at my two friends standing beside me—the same could be said of each one of us.
I have plenty of time to stand in the dust and fiddle with my strap as, one by one, the landowners come and hire literally everyone else. I know I’m just a woman, that I can’t work as hard as a man, but I am diligent and fast, and more than that, my children are starving. Does that not count for something?
I wonder if the landowners know what it’s like to starve? Have they counted the crazy heartbeat of a child laying across them in the night, or when morning comes, dealt with the unreliable bowels of a beloved mother who insists on taking the smallest portion? Have they tried their very hardest, done the only work available to them, and still been unable to provide for their family?
The one whose job it was to feed my children left them, without a backward glance. Then my father died and my mother moved in with us, and now we all starve together. At least I didn’t have to face their hungry eyes this morning, they were still sleeping when I crawled out of bed to come out once again on this fruitless quest.
Why won’t anyone hire me?
In frustration, I throw the sandal to the ground and drop my head. My tears moisten the dust and transform a few particles into little wells of mud at my feet. Henda has had it for the day, she collapses and I recognize despair in the slope of her shoulders. I can barely hear the whisper of Mila as she prays a few feet away.
Dust poofs over my feet, one bare, one shod, and I raise my head, startled.
“Why have you been standing here all day doing nothing?” a man I don’t recognize asks, gruffly.
Sharp, desperate words rise in my throat but I manage to swallow them down with the last of my self-control. “Because no one has hired us!” The words burst out, containing the emotions of the day.
Of course he knows this. He also, no doubt, knows the gruesome particulars of my story and why I’m forced to stand here. We’re not a small village, but neither are we big enough that word doesn’t get around.
“You also go and work in my vineyard,” he says in a clear voice.
I almost don’t believe him. The only reason I’m still here is because I’m too stubborn to leave before the end of day, not because I expected any work at this point.
“Go on,” he says, more gently. “There’s still time.”
I lock wide eyes with Mila, grab Henda’s arm and pull her out of the dust. “We will work harder than anyone else. You will see.”
And we do. For an hour, the three of us work as hard and as fast as we can manage, ignoring the glances and snide comments of the men around us who’ve already begun to slack off as they think of full bellies and strong wine. Our hands start to bleed because we don’t have the gloves some of the other men wear, nor the time to be careful, but we don’t stop.
Even when end of day is sounded, we work on. I keep my eye on the line of men collecting their day’s wages from the foreman, but keep working until I see him look up and wave us over. I call to my friends and we jog toward him, all of us already imagining how we can use the small coins we will probably receive. I laugh a little, I didn’t even think about how much we would be paid, I was so consumed with working as fast as possible.
I am last, and when the foreman casually drops a denarius in my hand my heart stops. I look to my friends and see the same shock in their eyes, but whereas their feet are shuffling forward, mine stop where I stand.
I could take it, I know I could because he isn’t even looking. He’s talking to one of the other men. A full denarius would mean a filling meal for all of us, the first one in weeks. A denarius would mean another blanket to throw over us for the cold nights that are coming. I might even be able to barter for a new strap for my sandal.
But a denarius means a full days work, and I only worked an hour. I feel the edges of the coin in my hand, the heft of it, and I think. Then I raise my eyes and look to my friends. They’ve started to walk away, no doubt thinking the same thoughts—full bellies, laughing children, dry eyes.
But thinking of their children reminds me of my daughters. Then I think of my mother, and the words of God she reads to us late into the night whenever we have enough oil for the lamp.
I glance ahead to my friends, now a distance away. Henda’s stride is strong, but Mila looks back with pleading eyes, silently asking me to let it go. But I cannot. For the sake of my daughters, I cannot.
“Excuse me, sir. This is a mistake. We only worked one hour.” I cannot look up and meet his eyes—even the excitement of the small coin I’d expected is gone in the loss of this denarius. I hold out my hand and turn away. I don’t want to watch the dreams disappear.
But nothing happens. The coin stays in my trembling hand. After a moment, I turn back and raise my eyes. When I see his, it’s as if the earth shakes beneath me as I also hear him say, “there was no mistake.”
Thanks for setting this parable into a story that we can identify with....of how we too are bankrupt and desperate and lost and starving and rejected except........for God in Jesus saw us, choose us, gave us worth, saved us from death and brought us into life giving relationship with Him as His dearly beloved child. Thank you Jesus.
That was so powerful!
Experienced powerful emotions at the opposite ends of the scale.
All accomplished by your choice of words. Beautifully written.