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Chapter Twenty-Eight
Family Prayers
Jesus
kept his promise about not writing a letter until he reached Joppa. The reason for this lapse is still not
clear to us. My family and I
talked about this occasionally but could never reach a consensus, though I
think Mama might have been the closest when she suggested that Jesus was too
close to the truth. He was tired of
his visions and explaining himself.
It didn’t make complete sense to me then, but I see it clearly now:
Jesus was weary of his pending Godhead.
He was not ready yet. . . . Neither were we.
It
was Joseph, himself, who sent us summary of their trip before they reached
Palestine. From his short scroll,
we learned that the Trident made landfall at Paphos, the port city and capital
of the Roman province of Cyprus after leaving Cyrene in fair weather, without
incident. Joseph had very little
to say about this important stop—a city far more important than Cyrenaica. I would not learn these facts until I
became Jesus disciple, for Jesus said almost nothing about this island when he
returned. Papa, who had heard
about Cyprus from Samuel, knew enough about its history to inform us that it
was once ruled by Egyptians and then Greeks, and was a part of Cilicia before
emperor Augustus made it a separate province of Rome. The Greeks and Jews on the island had behaved themselves so
well that Augustus gave them a degree of independence greater than all the
other provinces. The citizens and
foreigners lived so congenially, Joseph and his entourage traveled easily by
coach to several other cities on the island to meet merchants and magistrates
without incident, and yet, in what should have been another highlight in their
journey filled with information about the buildings, landscape, and people,
Joseph said very little. Jesus
said nothing at all. A note at the
end of the scroll in which Joseph rambled awhile about the tedium of doctrine
and the importance of knowing one’s priorities—God, family, and friends put
Nehemiah and Simon to sleep. I
must have dozed off myself, for when I perked up I could hear Papa discussing
with Mama the silence of their oldest son and the apparent change of attitude
in Jesus’ benefactor. These
worrisome issues were the furthest thing from my mind. I looked upon Jesus adventures in the
world, especially his last stop, as missed opportunities . . . . How could I
have been so blind?
A thread ran through his letters transcending the
wonders he had seen. Already in
his youth Jesus saw our faith in a whole new light. The Universal God, Living Word, and power of prayer were
basic to what he believed. The
fundamentals, I mentally discarded in my childhood, were there in the
beginning. More than mere
catchwords, they were the foundation blocks for a new theology and
revolutionary faith.
******
In the period of Jesus’ odyssey Papa’s carpentry
business finally prospered. I
heard Joseph say to James that much of his success was, in fact, due to Jesus
absence, but there were other factors that contributed to the townsmen’s change
of heart, not the least of which was the influence of Samuel, the Pharisee,
upon the elders. The most
important factor, of course, was that the closest other carpenters were in
Sepphoris, almost a day’s ride from Nazareth. Many townsmen, who had shunned us in the past, were forced
to bring him broken chairs and tables and occasionally an order for a new piece
of furniture, though most of Papa’s important business came from men who had
remained Papa’s friends or from clients in neighboring towns, unaware of our
family’s reputation and past.
During this same period, without Jesus’ protective
hand, my older brothers continued to harass Nehemiah and I in spite of my
parent’s half-hearted attempts to monitor our games. Mama missed Jesus and worried about Papa’s sudden love of
wine. Without Jesus presence,
moodiness prevailed at dinnertime.
Jesus was sorely missed, especially during those weeks we heard nothing
at all from him. His antics, which
I now understand, had entertained and confounded us. He was, in spite of his eccentricities, a stabilizing force
in our lives. For James and
especially Joseph, however, this wasn’t always true. Jesus very nature irritated the third oldest son. After slacking off on his duties in the
carpentry shop, Jesus had, a short while before leaving on his trip, decided
that he would accept his responsibilities as the oldest son. This came after James had become Papa’s
apprentice, with Joseph next in line.
Papa’s decision, based upon Jewish tradition, to place Jesus in charge
of his brothers rankled even me.
Since Jesus would inherit Papa’s business and his brothers would become
nothing more than hired hands, the thought “what if Jesus never returned?” must
have flashed through James’ mind.
Jesus learned everything, including carpentry, quickly when he set his
mind to it, which intimidated James in his effort to master the craft. Jesus self-righteous nature and habit
of speaking his mind also diminished James in stature, making him that much
more happy Jesus was gone. Except
when Papa was around to protect us from their wiles and monitor James and
Joseph’ work, they had been free of Jesus’ scrutiny. Joseph’s resentment, of course, was more basic. He disliked Jesus overbearing
personality, too, but also resented his slipshod adherence to Hebrew custom and
law. There was no greater critic
of Jesus in our family than him.
Because James was next in line after Jesus, Joseph felt less compelled
to be a first-rate carpenter. By
virtue of being the third oldest son, he was, my Greek friends might say, out
of the equation. Even if Jesus
never returned, he would still become, like Simon and I, a hired hand. His bitterness toward the favored son
was not based upon such ordinary things as work ethics. It was, as it would one day be for the
Pharisees, priests, and scribes, a matter of doctrine—what Jesus believed and
who he was. On both accounts,
however, whether it was Jesus the spoiler or Jesus the heretic, there seemed to
be a good reason for James and Joseph not wanting Jesus to rush back home.
Simon, a slacker and idler, himself, had never
shared their resentment toward the oldest son. Like Nehemiah and myself, his behavior no longer
mattered. We missed strolling
through the hills with him on nature hikes, sharing his wit at the kitchen
table, and seeing him there by the window standing watch. There were, of course, many
factors in our daily lives not affected either way by Jesus’ absence. Joachim, the rabbi, would always hate
members of our family. The same
town elders, as before, shunned us as if we had the plague. On the other hand, we had made new
friends (at least in my opinion) in the Romans now guarding our house. The fear that Reuben might return to
wreak vengeance upon us had seemed to be cancelled out by their presence. A begrudging acceptance of the soldiers
had settled over Nazareth as they tramped through our backyard and clanked and
galloped through town. All things
considered, matters had improved for us somewhat in Nazareth. The only worry in our lives, outside of
Jesus’ prolonged trip and Samuel’s health, was the condition of the newest
member to our family.
Because he was so small, inconspicuous, and never
complained, Nehemiah’s worsening condition was often overlooked. I recall having fearful thoughts about
my friend as Papa read Jesus letter from Gaul, and yet the possibility was too
awful to accept. All of us
continued to be complacent, so that when we stopped finally to look more
closely at him, Nehemiah seemed to be wasting away before our eyes. Despite my efforts to keep his spirits
up, his body was failing him.
After awhile, he could barely walk without labored breathing, he had
little appetite, and he took frequent naps. As I watched him fade away, Samuel’s words weighed heavily
upon my mind. If I hadn’t
eavesdropped upon Papa’s conversation with him, I would still know something
was dreadfully wrong, but because I had been a snoop Nehemiah’s fate seemed
sealed. Samuel had said two
startling things when he lay on his sick bed last summer: “Jude will serve two
masters but will forsake Rome” and “I see the shadow of death in Nehemiah’s
eyes.” I wasn’t sure what the
first statement meant, but there was no mistaking the meaning of the
second. Yet my mind revolted at
Samuel’s words.
As I looked at the small, frail boy beneath a large
olive tree, I grew irritated with Samuel’s forecast. Who was he to make such rash predictions? Did he think he was a prophet? Though Jesus wasn’t to blame, I was
angry with him, too, for not being here to make Nehemiah well. It struck me as unjust that he promised
old Samuel he would live to see him go on his mission when it seemed he might
not be around to save my best friend.
Nehemiah’s condition worsened so quickly, in fact, it seemed impossible
for Jesus to arrive on time, until finally, one morning, he simply didn’t wake up. He was alive—that was all. Throughout the first hour everyone ran
around in a panic. It suddenly
seemed that Samuel was, in deed, a prophet, though I sincerely hoped he was
wrong about me forsaking Rome. I
had dreamed so often of my great white horse, shiny helmet and flowing cape,
but when Nehemiah collapsed and slipped into that dark place, nothing seemed to
matter but my stricken friend.
Now that Nehemiah hung in the shadow between life
and death, I prayed for a great miracle: Jesus swift return. In the last brief letter he had said
nothing. Joseph of Arimathea’s
short scroll gave no timetable for their return. We had no idea when this odyssey would end, so, while we
waited for Samuel’s physician to arrive at our house, Papa, with our coaxing
and without thought for how it might be mailed without Justin, our courier, at
our disposal, sat down to compose a letter to Jesus, while Mama tried
desperately to revive the unconscious boy. That same hour a legionnaire just happened to ride past our
house, carrying a satchel full of correspondence for his cohort. Moving faster than I have ever seen him
run, Papa responded to the sound of horse’s hooves and charged from the
house. Through gulps of air, he
explained our crisis to the young man and begged him to take his letter to the
relay station in Sepphoris and make them understand how important this letter
was. The young man, whose name was
Drusus, was aware of Papa’s standing with Cornelius, prefect of the Galilean
cohort, and agreed to rush it to the relay station, but he couldn’t promise
exactly when and how the letter would arrive if Jesus and Joseph of Arimathea
were continually moving from place to place. There was no way of knowing where they might be,
whether on land or sea. The
problem was tracing the course of the recipients, explained Drusus. Where were they at a particular point
in time? How could the courier
know where they might arrive next?
I was impressed with the legionnaire’s explanation, but he offered us
little hope. Though James and I
understood the foolishness of this enterprise, Papa had to try. We had all been patient, everyone
agreed, through Egypt, Greece, Rome, Gaul, and Cyrene, and we hadn’t
complained. It was time, Papa declared,
handing his scroll to Drusus, for his oldest son to return.
Unlike Justin, the one-eyed courier, who had brought
us all of Jesus’ other letters, including the letter from Cyrene, the young man
remained in his saddle as he reached down, snatched the letter out of Papa’s
trembling hands, and placed it with all the other letters in his saddlebag. Refusing an offering of food and drink,
Drusus saluted Papa smartly, gripped his reins, and, with a polite nod, quickly
galloped away. That’s what I wanted
to be, I thought, feeling a pang of guilt. Since, as Papa pointed out, it took so long for mail to
arrive overland, Jesus’ ship could already be on his way home. That would be nice, everyone
agreed. Time was running out. It seemed improbable, however, that
Joseph of Arimathea would receive Jesus’ letter when his ship docked then race
back to Nazareth through Judea and Galilee to arrive just in the nick of
time. Even if Jesus arrived within
the next several days, James observed grimly, Nehemiah might not last that
long. It was time, Papa declared,
with tears in his eyes, while we watched Drusus disappear, to join in a circle
of prayer as Nehemiah lie unconscious on the table clinging to life.
******
It was another defining moment in the family of
Joseph bar Jacob. Old Samuel,
though clinging to life, himself, insisted on being present. To add the powerful prayer of a
righteous Pharisee to our circle, we constructed a temporary pallet nearby;
close enough to allow the old man’s hands to clutch ours. Ezra, who also joined our circle, had
brought Abner, the village physician from Nain, who was able to bring Nehemiah
to consciousness by smelling salts but had little hope that his tiny, frail
body could withstand the illness much longer. We never found out what afflicted poor Nehemiah, but the physician
reaffirmed what Papa already decided when Nehemiah had fallen ill. He had no signs of the plague. He didn’t even have a fever. He was suffering from a wasting illness
he had carried with him since being rescued from his Aunt Deborah’s house. The physician agreed with Papa that
Nehemiah’s miraculous recovery from the plague had only postponed the
degenerating disease, but there was no cure for a malady, which had been caused
by lack of a proper diet and neglect.
And yet, as dreary as his pronouncement was, the physician, who was a
pious man, himself, joined in our circle, as did several of our family’s
friends, including Uriah, who had snuck away from his father’s house.
There in our house, crowded in our kitchen,
surrounding Nehemiah on the table, were men, women, and children, who had misgivings
about our eccentric family and yet
demonstrated their loyalty by supporting us now. Samuel, whose influence was still very
strong in Nazareth, had sent out the word. Our visitors had known and pitied the little nephew of
Deborah, the village crone. They
were moved by our parents’ tradition of adopting orphaned children, in spite of
the notoriety of two of their sons.
It seemed unjust to me that Jesus would be included alongside of
Michael, my one-time friend, but Michael, who had been merely the son of the
village witch, was gone now.
Jesus, who Rabbi Joachim and many of the elders considered a heretic and
blasphemer, would return from his journey, perhaps a greater heretic and
blasphemer than before. With
baited breath—good or ill, Jesus family, friends, and foes waited for his
return. The realization filled me
in our crowded kitchen: If only he was here now to personally show his
self-righteous critics the power of prayer, instead of this motley gathering of
fair weather friends.
“Let us join hands,” Papa called out gently, this
time without his mug of wine.
Many of our visitors, who had come here to offer
sympathy (as if Nehemiah was already dead), shook their heads at this
foolishness and departed immediately from our house. Those visitors left, perhaps out of curiosity, joined hands
reluctantly with us. Samuel, in
his delicate condition, was given Simon and my hands on each side of him as he
sat up on his pallet. I was forced
to also to take with my free hand the unwashed, calloused hand of Joanna,
Ezra’s oldest daughter, and poor Simon held with great disdain the hand of
Uriah, who bravely attended the event.
I could no longer harbor ill feelings toward the rabbi’s son, as I
considered what Joachim might do to him when he returned home.
While the twins idled their time in the back room,
James, Joseph, and our parents clasped hands with each other and those visitors
standing beside them at the table.
When the awkward circle was complete, Papa’s voice rose above the
murmurs of its members, “Lord, we gather in your name, asking for your mercy on
behalf of Nehemiah bar Tobias, who lies stricken below us, hovering between
life and death. Call back your
reaper and send down your healing light instead. Please receive the silent requests of those holding hands as
one great force of faith and listen, as one voice, to our collective prayer.”
“Let us now pray silently,” he said, looking around the group.
This last note caused a few more dissenters to leave
our circle, but there was still, by my count, fourteen people linked around the
table. Nehemiah, though briefly
conscious, lapsed back into the shadow of death. I kept repeating the same words over and over in my head:
“Lord please save Nehemiah, Lord please save Nehemiah . . . ” I will never know what everyone else
mustered up in their minds, but I could imagine the power of my parents’ and
Samuel’s prayers. More than the
others, their lips moved in that feverish pattern of the pious, eyes tightly
shut, and sweat forming on their brows, while many of the participants seemed
embarrassed by this event.
This lasted for many moments. When I felt drained of thoughts, I
looked around the group, wondering when it would end. I noticed, with surprise, that all of the remaining members,
except me, at least had their eyes closed in the manner Jesus suggested during
our first circle of prayer. For
all of our efforts, however, Nehemiah looked to me as if the Angel of Death had
arrived during our prayers. My
friend’s eyes had popped open and he looked ghastly pale. I must have been in shock that moment,
since I felt only curiosity at what I saw—was he dead or alive? Once again I wished Jesus were here
with us; he would heal him as he had the dead sparrow and Levi in the house of
the Gaul. Finally, as groans and
grumbles erupted from our group, Papa inspected the circle, himself. Family members and friends were greatly
agitated. Dropping his eyes to the
subject of our prayers, Papa broke the circle, bending down with the physician
close by. Sighing heavily, the
remaining links followed his example and released their circle-mate’s sweaty
hand, then stood gawking at the stricken boy. The physician waved us all away and sat down beside
Nehemiah’s head to inspect him more closely. Samuel now patted my knuckles in a gesture of
consolation. Joanna, Ezra’s boyish
daughter, had disengaged her hand from mine and placed it gently on my
head. Papa, who hovered in back of
Abner, looked sadly over at me, as Mama handed the physician a mirror.
The mirror, Papa purchased for Mama after their
flight to Egypt, was placed over Nehemiah’s small mouth. We all understood immediately what its
purpose was, but it seemed so futile, after looking at my friend’s lifeless
face, I broke down loudly in tears.
Perhaps, because of their shared guilt, my brothers wept quietly amongst
themselves. Also sniffling and
dabbing their eyes, were several of our visitors, touched by the moment, as
Abner now checked Nehemiah’s wrist then looked deeply into his unblinking eyes.
“Peace be unto you Nehemiah bar Tobias,” he
murmured, gently closing my friend’s eyes.
“No! No!” I shrieked. “The circle of prayer never
fails!”
“It’s God’s will,” replied Samuel, shaking his
ancient head.
“The mirror doesn’t lie,” droned the physician. “The
heart is quiet and the eyes are fixed.
Samuel’s right; we must accept God’s will.”
“No, we mustn’t,” I screamed at him. “Nehemiah’s too
young to die. If Jesus was here,
he’d bring him back to life!”
“That’s blasphemy.” Abner turned to Papa.
Mama wrung her hands in grief, as I rushed forward
to embrace my friend. Lifting
Nehemiah’s frail body up with strength I didn’t know I had, I rocked him to and
fro, as I recall Mama rocking Abigail when she injured her knee. The terrible injustice of it all overwhelmed
me. Once again I blamed Jesus for
not being here, and this time I spoke it out loud for all to hear.
“Jesus, why couldn’t you have returned to us,” I
bellowed. “You keep sending silly information we scarcely understand. You should be here with your
family. Only you can bring
Nehemiah back to life!” “Oh Jesus!” The moment gripped me. “Speak to God as you
once did to save the sparrow and the Pharisee’s son, as you once did to stop
Mariah’s evil spirit, and as you once did to bring rain from the sky. God of my father and my
people—universal and all powerful—listen to your son Jesus on our behalf.”
It was as if I had matured many years those
moments. I had spoken eloquently
to God. Samuel looked up at me in
amazement. My parents looked at me
in sorrow yet with great pride.
But there was an undercurrent of shock and awe in the gathering, for I
had spoken heresy in my brother’s name.
Ezra, to his credit, didn’t protest this time, and Abner, the physician,
seeing my grief kept his tongue. I
released Nehemiah, laid him back on the table, and felt myself being raised up
by my parents’ hands. As I looked
down at Nehemiah, I saw something I couldn’t believe. Rubbing my tear-filled eyes furiously, I studied his face a
moment then saw it again: his eyelids fluttered—once, twice, three times!
“Papa, Mama, look!” I pointed excitedly. “He
awakens! Nehemiah lives!”
“Nonsense,” grumbled Abner. Bending over to see for himself, the
physician announced calmly. “I’m sorry, child, I just shut those eyelids. The mirror doesn’t lie.”
“Give me the mirror!” I cried. “Let’s check him
again!”
“Jude,” Papa shook my shoulder, “stop this at
once! Let Nehemiah rest in peace.”
“Give me that mirror,” I shouted, stomping my foot,
“Nehemiah’s not dead. He’s alive!”
“Mary,” Samuel called from his pallet, “give him
your mirror.”
Mama handed me the mirror and I immediately placed
it over Nehemiah’s chapped lips, parted now I fancied as he took the breath of
life. Suddenly, as the mirror
displayed the telltale smudge, Nehemiah’s eyelids fluttered again, his eyes
opened, and he let out a gasp.
A few of the onlookers who saw this as sorcery, made
the sign to ward off the evil eye but most of Nehemiah’s audience were greatly
moved by what they just saw. Idly,
in a dumbfounded state, I wondered if this is was how Jesus felt when he
brought back the dead bird. The
Pharisee’s son may have just been in the dark sleep, but the sparrow had been
dead. Papa, Mama, Ezra, and Naomi
looked down in pop-eyed and slack-jawed awe. Samuel found the energy, with James and Joseph’s help, to
rise up on his shaky legs in order to witness the miracle for himself. Not only did Nehemiah begin breathing
on his own, but he looked around the room, his lips twitching as if he wanted
to speak.
At this point, I heard Abner grumbling “what sorcery
is this? That boy was dead. Your son called upon Jesus to save this
boy. Is this not the same son, who
the Nazarenes say called upon Beelzebub to send rain?”
“You don’t believe that!” exclaimed Papa, shoving
the physician aside. “Look at him.
This is God’s will. That
child, by your own pronouncement, was dead!”
I expected Papa to grab the physician’s collar now,
shake him severely, and throw him out of our house. It would not be the first time Papa defended Jesus’ good
name. This time, however, Papa and
Mama were too overjoyed at Nehemiah’s sudden return from the dead. The physician shrugged contritely and
shook his head. More reasonably
now, he suggested that the boy had not really been dead but in a deep, dark
sleep, but no one present could agree with that. It was agreed by everyone that hour that their prayers,
topped off by my appeal, had brought the boy back to life. It really didn’t matter whether he had
been dead or in a dark sleep. He
was alive! It was, in the words of
Samuel, merely splitting hairs, since it was obvious to everyone, especially
after the physician’s own examination, that Nehemiah had not been breathing, he
had no pulse, and his eyes were open and the pupils fixed. To give Jesus credit for this when he
was so very far away struck everyone except me as absurd. Yet in my childlike mind it was, to
coin a learned friend of mine today, cause-to-effect. I prayed to God, invoking Jesus name, and, as a result,
Nehemiah was alive.
Unfortunately, his eyelids slammed shut again, his
chest rose and fell ever so faintly, and a drool escaped his lips. The physician apologized for repeating
the rumor he heard about Jesus, sat down beside his patient, and tried making
sense out of what he just saw.
“Praise be to the Most High that he lives,” he
declared, shrugging his shoulders.
“But how much longer he lives cannot be determined unless we know what
made him sick.”
“I thought we agreed,” Papa argued, “that it’s the
wasting sickness. His aunt practically
starved him to death.”
“Perhaps,” Abner replied shaking his head, “this
might have contributed to his illness, but I think there’s something else more
serious here than improper diet. I
bear witness, as you, to his miraculous recovery, but he’s not out of danger
yet.”
“Will you stay and help him?” Mama asked tearfully.
“Yes, of course,” he nodded thoughtfully, “but I
have other patients in Nain and your own town.”
He motioned to Samuel, who had sat down shakily
between James and Joseph on a stool, adding finally, “. . . . I might be able
to oversee both patients, Samuel and Nehemiah, for a while.”
“I have money saved,” said Papa, grasping his hand.
“You will be paid.”
“That’s not my concern,” Abner replied, looking passed
him at the sleeping child. “Until this day, I thought I understood the power of
prayer. . . Never have I seen such a display. I find it hard to believe that one young boy could change
God’s mind, after all of us seemed to have failed, but Nehemiah lives. We’re all witness to this fact!”
Abner walked over to me and bowed, as if I was
royalty, smiled quizzically, and shook my hand. “I will do all I can for your adopted brother and best
friend.”
I had changed my mind completely about the doubting
stranger in our midst. Lurching
forward to give him my best hug, I beamed up passed his scraggly beard and
discovered a kindly face. The
townsfolk, imparting their best wishes, had begun filing out of our house. Abner and Samuel’s chamberlain,
Mordechai, who had waited patiently outside, escorted the old man to his
house. The last ones to leave,
Ezra, Naomi, and their oldest daughter, remained a few moments longer, staring
in wonder down at my friend. Ezra,
a man of few words, had more of our heresies to chew on, but this time he stood
in quiet contemplation, uttering a blessing to the house of Joseph, his wife,
and children. Naomi promised to
return with her daughters to help in any way they could. Ezra, always faithful in spite of his
stubbornness, would remain Papa’s closest friend.
******
For several days following the miracle in our house,
Abner applied his art to Nehemiah with little or no response. Occasionally the boy’s eyelids would
flutter or his lips would twitch, but he didn’t awaken. With Samuel’s insistence, they moved
the boy by a wagon to his villa into a fine bed, where Abner could keep both he
and Nehemiah alive. Samuel wanted
very much to see Jesus again before he died. The physician promised us that the old man was in less
danger than the boy, but it would be convenient and practical if he could watch
them both in the same house. Ezra
had provided the wagon, which he had used to cart wool from the shepherds. Papa modified it temporarily by
cushioning it with lambs hides and pillows so that Nehemiah would have a
comfortable ride. When Nehemiah
was settled for his convalescence in the house of Samuel, we remained there in
his home watching the physician administer medicine and food into his parted
lips. We knew he was in good hands,
and yet a great sorrow filled me as I wondered whether or not he would be this
way until he died. . . .When would that terrible day be? As before, during the festive day
of Samuel’s feast for Jesus, I ran from the house and into the orchard by the
house.
I lie down with my knees tucked up to my chin and
wept. Every wondrous thing that
happened to me had no meaning if God let Nehemiah die or remain in his
death-like sleep. I called upon
God and I called upon Jesus. The
next moment I was looking up into Papa’s darkened face. He was but a shadow against the sun
overhead but I recognized his earthly voice.
“Jude, Jude, Nehemiah has awakened,” he was saying
over and over again. “Come-come my son,” he coaxed, raising me up, dusting off
the leaves, and leading me back to the house.
Mama was waiting at the great doors with my brothers
and sisters. Ezra’s family also
appeared in the background. We
were lead by the physician, who begged us not to tire his patient, to
Nehemiah’s room, where Samuel and a servant sat on each side marveling at the
little boy lying in the big bed.
He still appeared dreadfully pale and could barely speak or move as he
looked up at me, yet it was such a marked improvement over the condition he was
in before I yelped with joy, touched his face, and then hugged the physician
again.
“I’m not sure my potions did that,” he sighed. “I
suspected he might come to but not so soon. Praise be to the Most High. One moment I was looking down at a sleeping boy and the
next, his eyes were open and he was attempting to talk.”
“Ju. . . Ju. . .” he struggled, his lips trembling
and eyelids fluttering.
“Yes, I’m a Jew,” I said playfully. “We’re all Jews
in this house.”
“Don’t tease him.” Mama frowned. “He’s trying hard
to say your name.”
“Jude. . .” he looked up into my eyes. “I-I saw
them.”
“Who, little one,” Abner asked gently, feeling his
pulse. “Did angels greet you in your dream?”
“No, . . .” Nehemiah continued to struggle. “I saw
my parents standing over me.”
“What a nice dream,” Naomi offered sweetly. “We all
miss Tobias and Susanna.”
“What did they say?” I grinned happily at him. “Did
they tell you you’d be up and about soon?”
Nehemiah thought about this a moment and shook his
head. His voice returned to its
old form: “No, . . . they said they were waiting for me with my brother and
sisters. . . . There was light behind them, so bright it hurt my eyes, and they
became shadows against the white background, until I saw my little sister’s
face once more. She asked me to
hurry up, so I could be with them soon.”
“It was only a dream.” Papa reached down to ruffle
his hair.
“Yes, Nehemiah,” Mama said reassuringly, “your
family are with the Lord, but they want you to live a long life.”
“But my sister asked me to hurry up,” he replied
fearfully. “What does that mean?
Can someone interpret my dream?”
“Nehemiah,” Samuel said, patting his head, “the
Prophet Daniel had such a gift. If
it’s a God sent dream, I believe that meaning can be found by any faithful
soul.” “Often the Lord speaks in
symbols,” he added, glancing at Mama. “This time your dream seems quite easy to
understand, yet it must be false.
I can’t believe that any member of your family would want you to die,
just so you can be with them in Paradise.” “It’s not your time.” He looked down
severely now. “No one, except the Lord, knows when your time will come. Look at my old carcass, Nehemiah, I’m
living proof of that.”
******
Papa kept me busy with him in the shop so I wouldn’t
worry about Nehemiah’s health and continue running across the yard to see if
Jesus was on the road. I had
learned to sand very well, but the shaver, which had sharp edges was left to
James and Joseph’s experienced hands.
Simon had been forced out of sloth to assist me in preparing the wood
and grew closer as a brother to me during this period. For the first time that I could
remember, he acted companionable toward me, taking my side in
disagreements. Even James and
Joseph were treating me civil now that Nehemiah was away. This both gladdened and saddened me,
since it came at a price—Nehemiah’s illness. On the one hand I welcomed my brothers’ friendship, but on
the other hand it was only because I was not being monopolized by Nehemiah, my
best friend. Would they continue
to cavort with me as an equal in the orchard and hills when Nehemiah regained
his health? . . . I was not so sure.
One day, when our chores were done, Papa gave us
permission to romp, as a group, in the hills if we assisted his friend Ezra in
carting wool down the Shepherd’s Trail through the hills. The last time Uriah, Nehemiah, Michael,
and I helped, Ezra swore he would never employ us again, but, because James and
Joseph were assisting in the enterprise, he agreed reluctantly to Papa’s
request. It was, I knew, another
diversion to occupy my mind.
Joanna and Meira, Ezra’s two big, gruff daughters, whom no man in
Nazareth would dare trifle with, would allow us to assist them with the wool
pickup at the shepherds’ camp.
Ezra, who had full confidence in his daughters, was busy at the loom,
but would be along shortly to make his transaction after the pickups in Odeh’s
camp.
On
the way down the long winding hill to the shepherds’ camp, I temporarily forgot
about the crisis in our family and when our oldest brother would be home. I wasn’t sure how my other brothers
felt about all this. James and
Joseph had never been fond of Nehemiah and wouldn’t miss Jesus bossing them
around. When Jesus returned, all
puffed up about his great adventure, he might lord it over James, Joseph, and
Simon even more. When Nehemiah got
well, he and I would need Jesus protection from our brothers, so our adventure
today had special meaning. If
Jesus was on the Jerusalem road today, it might be the last time we shared such
a moment.
Joanna
and Meira did all the work, taking turns pushing the wagon down the hill. They would also take turns hauling the
loaded wagon back up through the hills, which is the hard part of the job. After the last disastrous time we
helped Ezra, he would not trust us helping him haul wool, ourselves, so we were
allowed to carry the many excess pieces in our arms. The first transport was a merry jaunt down the hill, James
and Joseph good-naturedly pelting us with dirt clods and Simon and I returning
fire, until we reached Odeh’s camp.
A Roman soldier stood among Odeh and his brothers, which excited me very
much.
“Where
are Longinus and Cornelius?” I asked pertly.
“Jude,
shut up!” James thumped my head.
“Ah
hah! This must be the younger
brothers of the sorcerer Jesus,” the young officer announced blithely. “I see
you often in the carpenter’s yard.
Where is Jesus, the miracle worker now?”
“He’s
not here,” grumbled Joseph. “Right now our brother is somewhere on the Great
Sea.”
The
Roman appeared to be disappointed that Jesus wasn’t here. He also disapproved of my older
brothers treatment of me and gave James a scornful look. Odeh stepped forward, motioning
politely to Joanna and Meira to begin filling the cart, then turned to
introduce Joseph bar Jacob’s sons.
When he came to James, the Roman snarled. Odeh, who seemed intimidated by the soldier, bowed
differentially, allowing the Roman to introduce himself.
“Four
unlikely brothers. Quite an
assortment,” he seemed amused. “My name’s Regulus Valentinius, Optio for Aulus
Longinus, First Centurion of the Galilean Cohort.” “I’ve heard about your friend Michael.” He looked down at
me. “If he’s not careful, he’ll run afoul of Rome.”
“Michael
has been gone a long time.” James glared at Regulus.
“Michael’s
not who we’re looking for,” Regulus returned James glare.
Though
a mere child, I knew that James was acting foolishly now. Suddenly, at Regulus’ signal, from the
nearby hills, several legionnaires strolled down the path to gawk at the
sorcerer boy’s brothers.
“These
are some of my men: Falco, Priam, Leto, Diblius, Zeno, and Gratian.” He motioned flamboyantly to each
man. “We’re looking for a rogue
named Reuben and his band. Odeh
and his brothers have seen him in the hills. Several of your neighbors have seen them in town.”
“Then
its true,” gasped Joseph. “We thought it was just a rumor.”
“Why
would they be around here?” James asked in disbelief. “I’ve never caught a
glimpse of them ever.” “Have you?” he turned to Simon and me.
“No-o-o!” we answered fearfully.
“Are
you certain Regulus?” Joanna came forward now. “My sister and I have been up
and down that path many times recently and not seen a thing.” “Those boys,” she
jabbed a finger, “romp in these hills constantly. If anyone’s seen them, they would’ve.”
“And
what’s your name?” He appraised the muscular girl.
“Joanna,”
she said tossing her wooly head, “and that’s my sister Meira.”
“Well,
Joanna and Meira,” said Regulus, removing his helmet to scratch his dark curls,
“this path you speak of is the back door to Nazareth, running all the way to
Jerusalem. Before Rome built its
famous road to your holy city, this was used by merchant caravans, but it’s now
popular with brigands and misfits who wish to hide from Roman eyes.” “Frankly,”
he admitted, walking idly over to inspect the cart, “Nazareth, with its
pell-mell buildings is a perfect place for such persons to hide if relatives
are willing to shelter them in their homes. If we come sniffing around, they merely scurry into the
hills and wait until we go back to our camp. The only way we’ll catch these rogues, without searching
every house and having to comb every inch of those hills, is for folks to step
up with information like our friend Odeh here.”
“It
means nothing if he’s still out there!” Odeh pointed accusingly.
“What
will you do if you catch them?” James asked, frowning at Odeh.
“Rome
will crucify them,” Regulus answered quickly, “and don’t look at Odeh that
way. Those men stole one of his
sheep. I understand your Jewish
zealots—they hate informers, but Reuben and his men are thieves and
murderers. They almost killed one
of our men and went on to rob a caravan on the Jerusalem road. During their robbery, they murdered two
men and they’re now on the loose in your fine town.”
“Are
you going to protect us again?” I inquired in a quivering voice.
“We’ve
never stopped.” Regulus looked down at me. “Because of the bad feelings between
Reuben and your family, Longinus has a permanent patrol protecting Nazareth and
your house. It has been Cornelius
plan from the beginning to make this an around-the-clock post. Now because bandits might be hiding in
town, we’re posting guards posted permanently here, especially in these hills.”
“Unacceptable!”
Joseph slapped his forehead.
“The
Romans are spoiling our good name,” cried James.
“Are
they serious?” Regulus looked at the rest of us in disbelief.
Simon
and I nodded our heads. Joanna,
the largest of Ezra’s daughters, walked over as if she just might knock James
and Joseph to the ground.
“I’ve been watching you two.” She looked at them
with contempt. “You’re both morons!
If the Romans don’t watch over us, who knows what those men might do?”
“Well
said!” Regulus gave her a nod.
“My
thoughts exactly.” Meira looked at her sister with respect.
“What
about you little fellow.” He swaggered up to me. “Do you want the Romans to
leave?”
“No,”
I whispered, “Cornelius and Longinus are our friends.”
“Well,
by Jupiter,” he replied with a chuckle, “Regulus is your friend too!”
Ruffling
my hair, as all adults do, Regulus promised us that Rome would watch over
Nazareth and catch Reuben and his band.
Having hitched their horses in town, he and his men now made the trek
back up the path. With different
emotions, we watched the Romans depart.
Simon, I sensed, shared my awe of our Roman protectors, whereas Joanna
and Meira simply admitted what many townsmen secretly believed: the Romans were
necessary for Nazareth’s protection.
James and Joseph, I’m afraid, represented many youths in town, who had
been influenced by Rome’s past treatment of insurrectionists. I write this in retrospect now, for the
word insurrectionist, as many other words I use in this chronicle, would not
yet have crossed my mind. Although
James attitude about Jesus seemed to be softening, his anti-Roman attitude,
like Joseph, was still strong. My
understanding of Rome’s importance to our survival was far better than James
and Joseph’s foolish notions of patriotism. I was convinced more than ever, as we plodded up and down
the hills assisting Ezra’s daughters, of what I wanted to become. I had the very strange feeling that
this heresy, which my family tried not to think about, would be all right with
God if I did it with the honor and courage of the valiant Romans I had met.
******
I’m
certain that James and Joseph thought I was a collaborator and turncoat, but I
no longer cared. Though he had no
desire to become a soldier, himself, Simon now shared in my admiration of the
Romans. Our older brothers, deeply
affected by Joanna, Meira, and our solidarity or perhaps worried about Jesus’
imminent return, left us alone.
The following evening, as we waited expectantly at Samuel’s house, along
with Ezra’s family and several more friends, we celebrated the news arriving
that morning by our courier that Joseph of Arimathea was bringing Jesus back to
us as soon as his carriage could traverse the Jerusalem road. The letter from Joppa had arrived! The look on James and Joseph faces—eyebrows
raised and mouth open—belied their raised mugs when Samuel proposed a toast for
Jesus speedy return. Nehemiah, who
had been too weak to sit at the table, sat on a couch nearby with his mug
upraised with both his withered hands.
“Thank
you Lord for these blessings,” Mama rejoiced in a loud voice. “Jesus is
returning, Nehemiah’s health is returning, and Joseph’s business is returning
too.”
“To Jesus!” Papa cried, taking a long abandoned
swig.
“I’ll
drink to that!” Ezra shouted.
“To
Jesus!” The men, women, and children echoed.
“To
the Most High for a safe journey.” Abner shook his goblet. “May they arrive
soon!”
“To
the Most High!” Samuel cried weakly.
The
children were supposed to drink grape juice, not wine, but Simon managed to
sneak a long gulp from Habakkuk’s mug as he sat it down and turned to chat with
Ezra’s wife. I would learn many
useful things from Simon, including sneaking a swig or two from unwary
drinkers. When Jubal, Joachim’s
neighbor, wasn’t looking, I poured half his wine into my fruit juice, making a
sort of wine punch. It was
delicious!
The plan, of course, since Jesus would be here at
any moment, was to have a servant lead the weary travelers into the hall and,
when they entered the room, all of us would rise in our chairs with loud, happy
cheers. This had required Papa
talking Drusus, the cohort’s messenger, into riding ahead to ask Joseph to drop
Jesus off at Samuel’s estate rather than his father’s house. Though they should
be only a short distance away, not far beyond the Roman fort, the messenger was
given several coins, provided by Samuel, to pay for his time. We all hoped that this incentive would
hurry him along to catch the entourage before it arrived in town. It seemed foolish, claimed Ezra, for us
to expect the travelers to come here, when the messenger might pocket the money
and return immediately to camp.
Ezra was always skeptical, especially of Romans. His suspicion was not shared by Papa,
who had been impressed with Drusus’ polite manners, and yet, as one hour passed
and then two, and the sun descended lower and lower over the hills, our anxiety
mounted with our hunger. Many of
Samuel’s guests began to doubt that Jesus was going to arrive at all. To relieve our hunger pangs, our host
provided candied fruits, including dates, and all manner of pastries and
nuts. As we enjoyed Samuel’s hospitality,
Papa, Ezra, and several of the men’s concern over Jesus’ tardiness was dulled
by Samuel’s fine wine.
Mama, as the other mothers, tried to prevent us from
gorging ourselves on sweets and spoiling our appetite, yet she failed to
prevent Simon and me from getting tipsy on wine. As I looked around the room at the faces of the guests, I
felt light-headed, though not really drunk. The fruit juice had evidently diluted the wine
considerably. I hoped it had done
the same for Simon, who has snuck wine from Papa’s stockpile before, undiluted,
and managed to hide its effect.
When
a servant finally ran into the room announcing the arrival of Jesus and his
friends, pandemonium broke in the dinner hall. Looks of dread for the imminent appearance of the “great
one,” befell James and Joseph’s faces.
Simon and I were jumping up and down with glee, as Nehemiah, a wan smile
on his pale face, looked on.
Everyone, including the doubting Ezra, forgot the original plan and ran
as school children to the front door, spelling out the entrance in anticipation
of Joseph of Arimathea’s carriage appearing on the road.
Just
as the sun set on Nazareth’s western hills, we heard the clatter of wheels and
the sound of horses’ hooves. In
the distance silhouetted against the sunset, a coach escorted by six riders
approached, cheers went up, and typical of the ostentatious Arimatheans, his
oldest son, Matthias, charged ahead whooping and waving his sword. I knew immediately that it must be him,
for Levi, the second son, whom we learned from Jesus letters had been quite
sick, galloped in behind his brother, his sword still in its sheath. With great dignity the four Guards
followed in, reigned in their mounts, and waited with stony expressions for the
two young men to dismount. Though
Matthias enthusiasm made up for his brother’s entrance, we, who were privy to
Jesus’ letters, were not impressed.
Most
of us were caught up in the moment, but Jesus was our concern. As Joseph’s sons pranced around on
their steeds a moment, Levi shouted a humble greeting, while his older brother
reared his horse up in a show of horsemanship I’ve never seen. Ezra and Papa carried Samuel out and
sat him in a cushioned chair.
“You’d think they were conquering heroes,” grumbled
Joseph. “Look at the way they’re carrying on!”
“That one waving his sword is Matthias.” I informed
Ezra’s daughters. “He was possessed by a demon before Jesus cast them out. We think he’s addled in the head. The
other one, Levi, was very sick until Jesus healed him, and now he’s Jesus’
friend.”
“That’s enough,” Papa’s voice blasted into my ear,
“let’s not dredge that up.”
“Here come the guards: Loftus, Strabo, Glychon, and
Tycho!” I clapped with glee. “They’re Jesus’ friends too.”
“The two black men are carrying banners.” Mama
looked down at Samuel. “What do they mean?”
“They’re crests of the House of Benjamin,” he
cackled, waving his mug. “Ho-ho, I wonder what the Romans think of that!”
“But
why is that fellow waving his swords?” Ezra asked with a frown. “Is he drunk—or
just showing off.”
“Showing
off,” Papa decided, as the carriage drew to a stop. “According to Jesus
letters, he has won Levi over, but Joseph has had trouble controlling his
oldest son.”
“Jesus
is the conquering hero,” I cried with sudden inspiration, “he discovered an
unknown god!”
Mama clamped her hand over my mouth. “Let’s not
bring that up!”
As
Phineas, the regular coachman, jumped down and opened the carriage door,
several greeters turned to the source of my outcry. I had, I thought proudly, blasphemed twice now. I was, like Jesus, a heretic. I understand these words quite well
since Jesus cured the dead bird, but that was before all his other miracles,
including the raising up Josephs’ youngest son. Now, as I stood among my family, Papa’s loyal friends, and
the servants of Samuel’s house, I watched my oldest brother emerge first from
the coach dressed in fine clothes and a turban on his head. For the first time in his life, Jesus
was, in fact, dressed as royalty.
It almost seemed like a premonition, though in retrospect, as I look
back. All he needed was a gold
crown, instead of the silly turban on his head. Following Jesus, also in his finest garments, was Joseph of
Arimathea, bejeweled, with elaborate Pharisaic headgear. Dismounting from his horse, Matthias
swaggered up after sheathing his sword, followed modestly by his younger
brother. In spite of what should
have been a life-changing experience, Matthias had not changed. With his robes swishing and sword
clanking in its jeweled sheath, he carried the same arrogance on his snarling
face we saw the last time he was here, but Levi had been transformed by his
miracle. Standing on the sidelines
deferentially, as they passed through the small crowd, stood the four guards,
which I remember clearly from our first gathering with Joseph of
Arimathea. From Jesus letters, we
had learned that the Nubians, Loftus and Strabo, and the Syrians, Glychon and
Tycho, who had guarded Jesus, were still pagans, though Jesus had such high
hopes for them. This only made
them loom larger in my eyes. Those
mighty black men and fierce looking Syrians had protected my brother. They thought he was divine. Those Gentiles during his travels and
aboard ship, who heard about Jesus miracles from his guards, also thought he
was divine. Yet, as I watched
Jesus embrace our parents, his brothers, then bend down to kiss the twins, I
saw only Papa’s oldest son and our brother, whom we had grown to love more each
day.
I was tired of mysteries and fine talk. I wished for things to get back to
normal. My protector was
back. Life would be interesting
again now that Jesus had returned.
That night, during our feast of lamb, Galilean fish, and assorted dishes
and dainties, I could tell that Jesus was exhausted from his journey and yet he
was, as usual, the perfect conversationalist. Even now, with an adult’s understanding of language, it’s
difficult to put my impressions into words. I am no longer innocent. There I was in the crossfire of the two Josephs: the father
versus the benefactor of Jesus. In
spite of his misgivings about Jesus miracles and his views during their
journey, Joseph of Arimathea still had big plans for Jesus. Papa, of course, wanted Jesus back in
his shop. Jesus could, the
Pharisee boasted, with the proper education, become a great religious
teacher. Joseph of Arimathea
offered to pay for his education in Jerusalem, but Papa, who had drank much
wine, laughed at this suggestion.
Jesus already knew more about the law than the Pharisees. When he was just a child he debated
with the priests and scribes in the temple. What need did he have of the arguments of old men? This, of course, inspired Joseph of Arimathea’s
loudmouthed son Matthias to huff and puff and grumble under his breath. No mention was made by either son of
the miracles performed on their behalves.
Though Levi remained quite civil, Matthias reminded his father of Jesus’
improper understanding of the Torah and heretical behavior in several cities
during their trip. Many of the Jews
they encountered, thought he was a blasphemer and heretic. Papa’s replied to Matthias “then we
should all be such heretics and blasphemers!” Everyone, including Samuel, who could barely sit up, broke
into laughter at Matthias’ puffed up expression. I saw Levi frown with disapproval at his brother, as
Matthias bristled and squirmed at this banter. He would probably have run and fetched his sword had not his
father understood that my father was slightly drunk. Instead, Joseph of Arimathea gripped Matthias arm and
good-naturedly dismissed the matter as the servants brought in the second
course of the meal. Papa
apologized, after Mama’s silent coaxing, promising to leave it up to his oldest
son. Perhaps Joseph of Arimathea
had only made his offer out of the goodness of his heart, because he didn’t
make an issue of it. In fact, he
changed the subject entirely.
It seemed plain even to us children, after Jesus’
letters, that he had lost favor in Joseph’s eyes. With a dreamy look on his face, he related one incident
Jesus had covered in his letters: a storm in which Jesus presence seemed to
calm the sea. There was, of
course, a second such miracle at sea, but the Pharisee went on to another
episode Jesus had also written about: the great whale surfacing from the waves,
that caused Jesus great joy. A
geyser of water, higher than the masts of the ship, spewed out of its nose,
exclaimed Joseph. The beast rose
up in a great arc, so that when it hit the water a great wave of water engulfed
the side of the ship where the onlookers stood. Matthias, Levi, and himself, he explained with mirth, were
shocked and angry, but Jesus stood there with his arms outstretched and eyes
uplifted, whooping with joy. It
seemed to me that Joseph was dodging Jesus’ miracles by concentrating on this
event, and yet the thought of such a creature filled me with wonder. As I listened to the great Pharisee
expound upon other episodes in their journey—their tour of Greece and Rome’s
temples and Simon and Jesus’ adventures in the Old One’s caves, I daydreamed
for a brief moment about my own desire to see the world. Would my family give me a feast when I
returned? What brought me quickly
down to earth was the thought of leaving them behind. In spite of my ambition, could I do such a thing?
As I listened to Joseph of Arimathea, I knew he was
a good man, in spite of his oldest son.
Who could blame the Pharisee for having misgivings about Jesus, when
practically everyone else except our family and closest friends rejected his miracles
and special relationship to God? I
wonder now, as I write my chronicle, after such a disappointing finish in their
friendship, if Jesus’ infinite mind understood the role this man would finally
play in his life. The subject of
his education never came up again—at least not for the carpenter’s oldest
son. The fact that Jesus had all
the knowledge he would ever need was not the reason he would not leave his
family again. The hills of
Nazareth, the olive orchard, Mama’s quiet garden, the warmth of our small
kitchen, and those times we sat together at the table for discussions, prayer
and meals—these more than any education or worldly travel, helped shape the Son
of Man.
******
As we sat around Samuel’s sumptuous table, the
hostility in Joseph’s oldest son was eased by good food and fine wine. Levi ate sparingly and drank modestly,
a far off gleam in his dark eyes.
At one point, I caught a look passed between Jesus and Levi: the smile
of friendship I’ve seen so often on my brother’s face. Though a onetime antagonist like his
brother, Levi had been won over, as many people, by Jesus embracing
character. Joseph of Arimathea’s
educated mind, I now understand, became a barrier to his full appreciation of Jesus’
views. The Pharisee continued to
chatter light-heartedly about their trip, while Matthias, Papa, and many of the
men grew progressively drunk.
Jesus did not mention controversial subjects at the table, perhaps at
Joseph of Arimathea’s request. The
unknown god of the Greeks he told us about in his letters and his views on the
universal God must have been on the tip of his tongue, as well as the wondrous
miracles he performed on behalf of the Lord, but Jesus, as his benefactor,
talked only about the sights and sounds he had experienced in some of the great
cities. He spoke kindly of the
guards on their journey, Loftus, Strabo, Glychon, and Tycho, as well as Simon
of Cyrene, their best host, and mentioned his favorite moments on their trip.
It was decided, as the feast drew to an end, that
Joseph, his sons, and his guards would not depart for Arimathea until tomorrow,
but everyone else were anxious to break away. Drunkenness and overeating had taken its toll. Jesus, once again belonged to his
family. We were anxious to draw
out more information from him not imparted in his letters. After our feast, Mama tucked in
Nehemiah, thanked Abner again, and checked on Samuel once more. Unlike the last time Joseph visited
Samuel’s house for Jesus “going away” feast, his final words with Jesus during
his “welcome home” feast were brief.
None of us heard what was said between them, as we waited tactfully at a
distance during this exchange, but we saw Joseph and then Levi embrace Jesus,
while Matthias merely gripped his forearm in the Roman fashion and gave him a
curt bow.
Ezra and his family and the other diners had greeted
Jesus warmly in a long line of guests before the meal, but they dispersed
quickly after offering their goodbyes to Joseph and his sons, calling out their
farewells briefly to Jesus before disappearing into the night. Jesus had chatted with each guest
personably before and during the feast.
I had felt jealous at this attention, until I reminded myself that Jesus
would go home with our family tonight.
Some of Samuel’s guests, I was certain, still thought Jesus was a
heretic and blasphemer, yet had begun taking my brother’s eccentricities in
stride. Those who thought he was
touched in the head probably found his antics entertaining and were just
satisfied having a fine meal. I
could care less at this point. I
was tired of these festivities and the issues that would one day shake the
foundations of the world and was glad we were taking Jesus home.
******
We
visited Nehemiah one more time before we left, but found him asleep. Abner, who promised to stay on awhile,
looked worn out from his care and vigil of two very sick patients. Samuel was incorrigible and difficult
for the physician to manage without the servants’ help, whereas Nehemiah needed
someone there all the time to check his vital signs and make sure his air
passage was clear. Looking up
wearily at my oldest brother, as everyone else filed out, Abner smiled
crookedly and uttered a tired laugh.
“So,”
he reached out in the dim light, as if groping through a fog, “you’re the
famous Jesus I’ve heard much about!”
“Well,
I hope what you heard its good,” my brother laughed softly.
“Jesus
cured a dead bird,” I chirped, looking expectantly up at him.
“Nehemiah’s
not a bird,” replied Jesus, “he’s a little boy under the care of a physician,
who will make him better.
Sometimes God must take his own good time.”
“All
right,” I challenged, folding my arms, “but you cured the Pharisee’s son.”
Abner
shook his head with amusement. “Are you saying that this story is true,
Jesus? I can do nothing more for
this poor boy.”
“Pray,”
Jesus whispered faintly.
“It
works!” I nodded eagerly. “Jesus.” I tugged on him, as he made a motion to
leave. “You can do it yourself.
Come on, show Abner your stuff.”
“Just
pray,” Jesus repeated, leading me out of the room.
Abner
rose up with a troubled look, calling out irritably, “What stuff is this? Magic? Sorcery? You
think I can save this boy with prayer?”
“Pray!”
Jesus called back.
As
we joined the others heading home, Mama promised the chamberlain that she would
return tomorrow afternoon, unless Nehemiah’s condition worsened, which was true
for Samuel too. For the boy,
however, the urgency was greater, since he was unable to clearly explain how he
felt. Abner or one of the servants
would have to stand watch over him day and night, whereas the physician only
had to check on Samuel once in a while.
If a crisis occurred, the chamberlain would send a runner to bring Mama
and Papa back to Samuel’s house.
This
was the plan. Though I was disappointed
that Jesus would not do this all, himself, I was glad to have him back. Jesus was modest about his God-given
powers. He had always told us to
pray for what we wanted and that we had the same power as him. So Abner must pray that Nehemiah and
Samuel get better. Perhaps, I
would once again pray for them, myself.
As Jesus held my hand and we followed the others down the road, I
promised him this. He smiled but
said nothing. I didn’t tell him
that I would also pray for a big white horse. I might also pray that Michael had found his mother in
Jerusalem. Except for the warning
Regulus gave me about Michael, I hadn’t heard a word about him for many
months. It seemed no one wanted to
talk about him anymore.
Jesus,
whose message would one day light the world, held a lamp in one hand, as did
Papa and the other men. As I
listened to Papa bid Ezra and our other friends good night and watched them
breakaway with their lamps and head home, I felt a strange—what was the
word?—disquieting peace. Though I
was confident Nehemiah, as well as Samuel, was in good hands with Abner, the
physician, and was very happy Jesus would be home with us, I felt guilty for
not thinking about Michael, who had once been my adopted brother and best
friend. As we filed into our yard
through the gate, I turned to Jesus, who was also wrapped up in his thoughts.
“Jesus,”
I murmured, not wanting to be overheard.
“Yes,”
he replied, tilting his head, “what is it little brother?”
“I’m
worried about Michael,” I whispered discreetly. “We haven’t seen or heard from
him for a long time.”
So
that the others would not hear, Jesus slowed us down, allowing our family to
move ahead. Papa looked back with
curiosity but followed Mama and the others into the house. The lamp cast a golden and silver glow
on Jesus fine clothes. I wondered
if this was not how the Magi appeared as they approached the manger. My brother had come back dressed like a
king!
“You
want to know where Michael’s at,” he spoke slowly. “. . . . Only Michael knows
this. How can you spot a shadow or
see a ghost skirting the dark?
Michael will be found when he wants to be found. Pray for him Jude. If you pray very hard, you may find
him. Until that day, its up to
Michael to find his way.”
“But
what if he’s lost?” My voice quivered. “What if he can’t find his way?”
“Michael
isn’t lost,” Jesus corrected gently, “he’s chosen his way. All who walk in darkness, yet know the
light, do so deliberately. They
have forsaken God. For these
souls, we must pray that they change their path, a change that begins in the
heart, so no matter where they go in the world they’ll find their way.”
It
was a message I would hear again and understand perfectly as a disciple, but
that moment, looking at the King of Kings, I grew impatient with all this fancy
talk. What was my brother trying
to tell me about my one-time friend?
Would I see him again?”
“Do
you suppose he’s gotten himself into trouble somewhere?” I asked, looking back
at the road.
“Jude,”
Jesus sighed, leading me up to the house, “do you really want to know?”
“No,”
I answered with a shudder, “if it’s bad, I don’t want to know!”
“Then let’s go inside,” he coaxed gently. “I want to get out of these silly clothes. I could use some sleep!”
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