For two years I lived with Mary or Miryam (as she prefers). I watched, listened to, followed, and learned about her in ways no one had before. Mary knew I was there, also that she needed to allow me to report on her and her life. Yes, in such episodes, I crafted, cared for and composed a Mary of my own making by adding to the Gospels' foundational design. But, she understood this. We never talked directly. Yet, our roles were understood. She lived and I learned how she slept, dressed, cooked, ate, worked, made friends and prayed. Most of all, what Mary thought. Whatever fulfilled her, drove her, and frightened the young woman I took responsibility to note, for you, the reader. She let me see much of what others had previously missed. Mary is one of my people, the Jews (maybe an ancient ancestor). My heritage ran back to her steps, sandaled, as she walking out the calling on her Jewish core. I watched her growth. This young woman and I had enough in common for her to allow me to see her most troubled moods and the truly fragrant lightness of her ancient ways. She spotted me taking notes and was never uneasy - okay, at times she was - you'll read about those. I could tell she took me to be a scribe sent from above. I let that pass. Unspoken, and with a grin, Mary nodded to my purpose to tell others. Though we two remained strangers, Mary knew my job trailed past her existence and beyond her imagination. You might say that God had a parking spot reserved for me wherever she was. I learned to admire that woman beyond the limited print of Scripture.