The oil sloshed low in Nava’s lamp as she kept her head low, eyes flicking to the Roman patrol pacing the outer wall of the village. The night had grown thick and long, and the whispers of the bridegroom’s procession stirred through the town like birds rustling before dawn. Still, he had not come. Still, her heart did not rest. Beneath her cloak, her fingers trembled—not just from the cold.
She had been foolish. Months ago, when she was betrothed to Yair, a kind potter from Cana’s edge, she had laughed at her future. Her father called her blessed. Her sisters praised her beauty. She had made her plans, even bought a ribbon dyed deep blue—a proper color for a new bride.
And then she had shamed them all.
She wasn’t proud of it. She’d trusted the wrong one—barely more than a boy with soft words and heavy hands. When Yair’s family learned the truth, they had broken the match. Her father hadn’t spoken to her since. Now she slept beside the animals, rising before the others to carry water—but never honored to do so. The elders watched her pass and turned away.
Still, when she’d heard the bridegroom would come to visit her cousin’s house as part of the wedding procession, Nazarene customs or not, she had clutched her lamp and come in the dark.
They stood in the courtyard awaiting him—all ten of them—but her oil was nearly gone.
“I told you to bring more,” murmured Avital, one of the others. Her voice held no grace, only judgment.
“I brought what I had,” Nava whispered back, blinking hard against the sting behind her eyes. She could barely afford oil. She’d spent the last of her coin just to fill her lamp halfway.
Then, suddenly, a cry. “Behold, the bridegroom!”
Light flashed down the path like a river—it was not just torches. It was Him. She didn’t know how she recognized Him. She only saw the man's face surrounded by joy, steps measured but sure, as if all of heaven walked with him. And in a way, they did. The light around Him swept over them, pushing away the unkind night.
And Nava froze.
Her lamp sputtered, flickered, and went out.
The others stepped forward with their bright lamps, gowns lit with golden fire. "Come," He called, not to them—but to all. His voice was gentle, but clear.
Nava stumbled forward, heart leaping. "Wait, my lamp—" she began.
He turned toward her, eyes catching hers. There was no shock, no disappointment in them—only knowing. “You came prepared in heart,” He said softly, as if reading the very ache within her. “Your flame has not gone out. Follow Me.”
She gasped. Around her, the others stared. One of the “wise” girls tried to speak, but He had already turned.
Nava pressed her hands together, her heart stammering like a startled bird. Not because she was worthy, but because grace met her where she stood.
Tears slipped from her cheeks as she stepped into the light.
She would not be left behind.
The oil sloshed low in Nava’s lamp as she kept her head low, eyes flicking to the Roman patrol pacing the outer wall of the village. The night had grown thick and long, and the whispers of the bridegroom’s procession stirred through the town like birds rustling before dawn. Still, he had not come. Still, her heart did not rest. Beneath her cloak, her fingers trembled—not just from the cold.
She had been foolish. Months ago, when she was betrothed to Yair, a kind potter from Cana’s edge, she had laughed at her future. Her father called her blessed. Her sisters praised her beauty. She had made her plans, even bought a ribbon dyed deep blue—a proper color for a new bride.
And then she had shamed them all.
She wasn’t proud of it. She’d trusted the wrong one—barely more than a boy with soft words and heavy hands. When Yair’s family learned the truth, they had broken the match. Her father hadn’t spoken to her since. Now she slept beside the animals, rising before the others to carry water—but never honored to do so. The elders watched her pass and turned away.
Still, when she’d heard the bridegroom would come to visit her cousin’s house as part of the wedding procession, Nazarene customs or not, she had clutched her lamp and come in the dark.
They stood in the courtyard awaiting him—all ten of them—but her oil was nearly gone.
“I told you to bring more,” murmured Avital, one of the others. Her voice held no grace, only judgment.
“I brought what I had,” Nava whispered back, blinking hard against the sting behind her eyes. She could barely afford oil. She’d spent the last of her coin just to fill her lamp halfway.
Then, suddenly, a cry. “Behold, the bridegroom!”
Light flashed down the path like a river—it was not just torches. It was Him. She didn’t know how she recognized Him. She only saw the man's face surrounded by joy, steps measured but sure, as if all of heaven walked with him. And in a way, they did. The light around Him swept over them, pushing away the unkind night.
And Nava froze.
Her lamp sputtered, flickered, and went out.
The others stepped forward with their bright lamps, gowns lit with golden fire. "Come," He called, not to them—but to all. His voice was gentle, but clear.
Nava stumbled forward, heart leaping. "Wait, my lamp—" she began.
He turned toward her, eyes catching hers. There was no shock, no disappointment in them—only knowing. “You came prepared in heart,” He said softly, as if reading the very ache within her. “Your flame has not gone out. Follow Me.”
She gasped. Around her, the others stared. One of the “wise” girls tried to speak, but He had already turned.
Nava pressed her hands together, her heart stammering like a startled bird. Not because she was worthy, but because grace met her where she stood.
Tears slipped from her cheeks as she stepped into the light.
She would not be left behind.
