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Chapter Fifteen
Idle Hours
While we filed in for the evening meal, I realized Tabitha
had followed us into the house. I found myself once again holding her little
hand. Because it was getting dark,
Mama asked Jesus to walk her home.
I quickly volunteered to escort her, myself, but she said it would be
better if she snuck into her uncle’s house and avoid all the fuss. By now Jared would be drunk and in a
surly mood and we would have to give him a lengthy explanation of why she was
out so late. Before long, she
reassured us, her uncle would be snoring peaceably and not remember her absence
the next day. What the old drunk
didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him, she giggled hysterically before scampering out
the door. Before Papa gave the
blessing, we sat there at the table discussing what Tabitha had so casually
said. It had an ominous as well as
comic ring. James,
Joseph, and Simon laughed when she called Jared an old drunk, but I was worried
about my little friend. Uriah,
whose heart was pure, could not believe this of the town’s baker.
“He makes such wonderful cakes and pastries.” He
shook his head in wonder. “How could he have kept that secret from my papa?”
“The same way Jonah kept her secret from us,”
Joseph said with a snicker. “Jared was probably so drunk he never even knew.”
This caused James, Joseph, and Simon to break into giggles
again, so Papa called order to our table, uttered a quick blessing, and Mama,
with the twins’ assistance, began shoveling stew into our plates. As we ate a strange-looking but hearty
stew Papa had whipped up himself and munched on yesterday’s bread (since our
guards had eaten tonight’s loaves), we discussed today’s events. The confrontation with the Romans,
Jonah/Tabitha’s confession, and then the wonders of Jesus’ secret place seemed
hard to surpass. Papa was shocked
to hear that Jonah was really a girl, but Mama was not surprised.
“Oh, I suspected something was wrong, all right,”
she said with a shrug. “He or she was much too pretty for a boy. I’m worried about that uncle of hers.”
On the subject of what Jesus found in the rocks,
Mama was greatly impressed and it was Papa’s turn not to be surprised.”
“Oh, I use to collect those as a child,” he pshawed.
“The elders insisted that they were creatures left over from the Flood, but I
knew they were much older.”
When we had almost tired of these subjects, Mama,
who had slipped out for a few moments to check on her patient, wearily reported
about her own experiences today.
In spite of her exhaustion, there was a gleam in her eye as she returned
to the kitchen. Yet I barely
listened to her. I’m not sure if
James, Joseph or Simon listened at all.
“Michael opened his eyes while you boys were
gone. He closed them again, but
then his fingers and toes moved.
He moans continually in his sleep.
It’s as I thought before.
Michael’s sickness, unlike Reuben who had actual wounds, is in his
mind.”
So, what else is new? I thought, taking a sip of juice. Papa sighed, and Simon yawned. James, Joseph, Simon, and I continued to work on our
stew. Once again, after a faint
groan filtered from Michaels’ room, Mama re-checked her patient. This time,
when she returned after a brief moment, her voice raised a notch, she clasped
her hands with delight, and a more excited utterance flowed out of her
mouth. “Michael spoke to me
again!”
“Oh,” Papa said lightheartedly, “what did he say?”
“Michael made funny noises today,” Abigail chimed.
“This just happened.” She smiled at Abigail. “I
heard it just now.”
“Really?” James looked up from his stew. “Did he
lapse into unconsciousness again?”
“No,” Mama smiled slyly, “he’s still awake, just
very weak. I’m going to bring him
a mug of juice and bowel of stew.
Would you all like to take a peek?”
“What?” Everyone cried.
After
practically ignoring her throughout our meal, we sat upright on seats, mouth
agape and eyes popped wide. Papa
took the tray out of her shaking hands.
Jesus, who had been inside the room with Michael, called out cheerily,
“Behold, our friend Michael!” A lamp sat on the windowsill, its orange light
giving Mama’s patient an otherworldly glow, as it did Jesus. The youth lying on the padded table,
his head resting on a feather stuffed pillow, looked nothing like the
mischievous, fun-loving child I had romped with in the hills. His skin was deathly white, and his
lips were cracked and bloodless.
His eyes were sunken into his head, with dark circles beneath. As he gazed out from the rim of
Gahenna, it seemed obvious as I looked into his unseeing eyes that he would
never be the same. Dreadful things
had happened to his body and mind.
He had escaped the black sleep just to remain in its shadow the rest of
his life. . . or so I thought, as I looked down at my old friend.
“Greetings Michael,” I said in a croaking voice.
“Ju-ju-ju...” He tried saying, though his lips
hadn’t moved.
“Yes, we’re all Jews,” I tried being glib. A similar exchange had occurred between
Nehemiah and I when Nehemiah awakened.
“His mind’s addled,” Joseph said dismissively. “He
still looks possessed.”
“No, no,” Jesus said, reaching out to stroke
Michael’s matted hair, “the demon has left him, but the battle was hard. It’s the war Michael must win. What matters most is his soul,
Michael’s mooring is in his shadowy world.”
“Gibberish,” Joseph grumbled. “He can barely talk.”
“Joseph, leave the room!” Papa’s voice thundered.
“I’m sorry Mama, but it’s true,” James was
apologetic, looking away from Michael’s eyes. “The glow in his eyes is lamp
light. Behind his eyes there’s
darkness and madness. Look at him
Mama. He can’t even feed himself.”
“You too, James—out!” Papa pointed toward the door.
Mama raised a spoon of stew up to his mouth. Michael allowed her to shove the spoon
in and seemed to chew his food, though the juice dribbled out of his
mouth. At that point, he tried to
say my name again but made other sounds—squeaks, grunts, and a mewing noise,
which upset me very much. Joseph
had obediently left the room. I
would not have been surprised if he ran away after tonight. James had also taken his leave as Papa
demanded, as did Uriah who seemed frightened by what he saw. Simon had always been fascinated my
gross matters, and yet Michael’s attempts at talking and his unblinking eyes
spooked him too. Suddenly, there
were tears streaming down my cheeks.
The image of Michael’s withered, listless body shook me deeply. Sobbing behind my fist, the effort to
cap my emotions failed. As Papa
led me quickly out of the room, the old affection for my lost friend spilled
out in one great sputtering shriek.
Just as suddenly, I was surrounded by concerned
faces. With Papa’s hand on one of
my shoulders and Jesus on the other and Mama bending down to give me her
motherly hug, I stood between the three pillars of my life. Uriah was in the background asking,
“What’s wrong. Has the demon
passed into Jude?” Papa scolded
Uriah gently for his remark. As
their heads loomed into view, I could see Simon sniveling and even James’ eyes
filled with tears. To complete
this mental picture, was Joseph mumbling an apology to me. As Jesus took over feeding Michael, the
rest of us congregated glumly at the table. Abigail snuggled up on the bench beside me with Martha
standing close behind, both looking very much like two German twins I would
later see in Rome. I remember
them, in their innocence, as being unaffected by this crisis. After everything my poor parents had
gone through—the ordeal of Jesus’ divinity, a seemingly endless procession of
adopted children, and persecution for the charity shown to a widow and her
incorrigible son, they provided even more dangerous care to Reuben, a wanted fugitive
of Rome. . . . Now this! I thought, sipping juice from a cup held lovingly in
Mama’s hands.
As Papa studied his youngest son, there was a
haunted look on his face. The
implications of what Michael’s vegetative existence meant to our family was too
much for him to bear. So why was
everyone comforting me? I know
Papa wanted a mug of wine. No one
should blame him if he did. And
Mama, who was responsible for the care of two patients, after caring for Reuben
for so long, was as worn out bodily as Papa was in his mind. I could understand, even as a child,
that Mama’s will was stronger than Papa’s. Somehow, by her faith in God and love for her family, she
would persevere. Though her body
might gradually give out, she would never lose her mind or indomitable
will. I could, at the same time,
see great frustration in Papa’s eyes.
His words those moments summed up everyone’s thoughts on the subject,
including Jesus, who sat down at the end of the table as Papa called us to
prayer. Before the actual prayer,
he explained to us unequivocally that we confronted another serious crisis in
our house.
“My family,” he uttered, looking around the table
and taking time to stroke Martha’s blond head, “this time Mama’s patient is a
youth whose mind is lost and may never return. We had prayed that Michael, after he ran away, would find
his way in the world, but he’s back, damaged and discarded after his
misadventures, a castaway in the world of the living, still hovering it seems
in the land of the dead. I know Jesus
believes that Michael’s demon is gone, but we must pray foremost for Michael’s
soul. He is a hollow vessel, not
alive nor dead. So long as he
lives, he’s neither in paradise nor Gahenna. We must ask God to either take this tormented soul or give
him one more chance among the living. . . . Let us join hands in prayer.”
Papa’s
preamble to our prayer circle for Michael had been brief. His introductory prayer was even more
brief: “Lord, if it be your will,
take this unfortunate youth into your kingdom or let him recover and start a
new life, whole in body and spirit—not this in-between, neither-here-nor-there
shadow of a person we see now.”
“Let us hold hands and share our secret prayers with
God.” He directed, reaching out to grasp Mama and Jesus’ hands.
This time, following Papa’s example, we reached out
to the person next to us as we sat on the table benches. I grasped Abigail tiny hand, as she
squirmed in her seat. Uriah
reluctantly took mine, still not completely comfortable with our family’s
eccentric ways. Contritely, it
appeared to me, Joseph, after taking Simon’s hand, made a conscientious effort
to petition God as did James who joined with Simon and Martha, both fidgeting
with their eyes tightly shut. Mama
who held Martha and Papa’s hand, scolded Martha for wiggling so much. After a few moments of circle praying,
she excused the twins, who were becoming a distraction, which left me holding
Simon’s hand, who distracted me very much. Though Jesus had taught his younger brothers how to pray,
Simon wasn’t able to do it in his head without muttering aloud and peeking
through the slits of his eyes. He
once confessed to me that he couldn’t pray in the total darkness that shutting
one’s eyes caused. My prayer, in
spite of Simon’s twitching and squirming, remained focused on one simple
request. As I sit writing in my
cell I can see it flashing in the blackness of my skull: “Lord, make Michael
whole again in body and spirit,”—a simplified version of what Papa said in his
opening prayer. At one point I
looked around to see Jesus and my parents praying feverishly, faces uplifted,
lips twitching, with beads of sweat forming on their brows. Joseph and James were trying very hard,
themselves, as was Simon in his own plodding way, but Uriah had released my
hand and was standing there idly, his eyes wide open, a deadpan expression on
his pudgy face.
“Uriah, you’re supposed to be praying!” I whispered
into his ear.
“I’m finished,” he replied with a shrug.
“You’re not finished until Papa says amen,” I
corrected him. “You’re supposed to keep on praying and say it over and over
again while others pray in the circle.”
Uriah had been the subject of one of our circle
prayers and I thought he understood.
Stung by my rebuke, he clasped my hand, murmured a brief apology to me,
shut his eyes again, and, as his lips moved jerkily, returned to his
prayer. “Make Michael better! Make Michael better!” I heard him
chant. I for one was tired of
saying the same thing over and over again, so I began asking the Lord for a
horse and whether or not the bandits had left more of their treasure in the
hills. When the word amen was
uttered from Papa’s lips, I looked around sheepishly, wondering if anyone had
overheard my new prayer. Jesus had
told me that I must ask for needful things. I felt as if I needed a horse, but asking God to help me
find more stolen gold seemed almost blasphemous during this hour.
“Now what?” Uriah muttered.
“We wait,” I said from the corner of my mouth.
Papa stood up, yawned, stretched, and looked fondly
back at the kitchen pantry he had built.
He needed a mug of wine.
Mama, who peered, with blurry eyes, across the room, dreaded her vigil
over Michael. Everyone else in the
room, except Jesus, who was pure of soul, had probably thought, “Let him live
or let him die,” as they prayed.
There could be no in between netherworld where he could slowly waste
away, while we lied to our friends or tried to explain our behavior to our
neighbors when it was obvious we were hiding something in our house. Ezra and his wife Naomi were not
stupid. None of the townsmen who
snooped around our house or the friends prevented from entering our home could
have been completely fooled by the deception. Perhaps the citizens of Nazareth had finally grown used to
the strange behavior of Joseph bar Jacob’s family, but the pressures of hiding
people in our home—Mariah, Reuben and now Michael weighed heavily on our
parents. My brothers and I
understood this clearly. Only
Uriah, who had escaped a tyrannical father and unhinged mother, felt better off
in this unsettling house.
Ironically, I can bear witness now, that my parents
were doing God’s work. Jesus was
right to scold us for complaining about our own needs during that period of our
lives. And yet, with the exception
of Uriah, it seemed so unfair to the remainder of us that we had to go through
this again. For my friend, who had
not suffered through the rescue and sanctuary given to Mariah, the witch, and
Mama’s nursing of our one-time enemy Reuben, today’s excitement made his stay
with our family an adventure and this episode with Michael a passing
affair. He had spoken my own mind
when he said, “It’s up to God, not us.
Let’s play a game.”
“What?” Simon looked at him in disbelief. “We can’t
play in the dark. What shall we
play?”
“I know,” I cried, snapping my fingers, “we’ll play
the mug game Michael taught me.”
“I’ve never heard of that game.” Simon looked
suspiciously at me. “How come you never showed me this before.”
“Yes, Jude,” protested Uriah, “you never showed that
to Nehemiah and me.”
“He showed me it just before he ran away,” I
struggled momentarily with that bitter memory. “I guess I forgot all about it
until now.” “Here’s how it goes,” I said, walking across the room to fetch
three mugs. “I take this grape, someone dropped on the floor, place it under a
mug, move all three mugs around, and you guess which mug holds the grape.”
“All right,” Simon agreed. “Who goes first.”
“What’s the purpose of the game?” James called from
across the room. “Are you gambling for something? That games going to grow old pretty fast.”
“We’ll use pretend money,” I suggested, running to
fetch a bunch of grapes. “These will work just fine, and we could eat them when
we’re done.”
“I suppose that would be all right,” said Papa, laughing
softly to himself.
“As long as it’s all pretend.” Jesus’ eyebrows knit
together. “Gambling is a game of chance, not talent or strength.”
During my discipleship, I don’t recall Jesus ever
preaching against gambling, in itself. When he spoke to us that night about Michael’s
game, he might have thought it was a frivolous way to while away our time, yet
he did something that night that reminded me of another episode in which he
seemed to frivolously use his powers.
Unlike the night he changed Michael’s pagan dice so that they displayed
the Hebrew symbol of life, however, Jesus had merely played a trick on us. He walked over to the three mugs,
placed a grape beneath one of the mugs, moved them around quickly, and asked me
to guess which one hid the grape.
Jesus had only made a few movements. I immediately pointed to the first mug. When he lifted up the first mug, the
grape wasn’t there. He then lifted
up the remaining two mugs and, to our amazement, the space beneath them was
also empty.
“How’d you do that?” Uriah squealed with delight.
“Is that magic?” Simon clapped his hands. “It’s
gotta be magic! Do it again! This is better than Michael’s dice!”
“Let’s not bring up the dice.” Jesus smiled slyly.
“This wasn’t magic, Simon. It was
slight of hand—a Syrian magician’s trick.
I switched the cups around so fast, you didn’t notice me concealing the
grape in my palm.”
He handed the grape to Uriah, who immediately
plopped it into his mouth.
“That’s it?
There’s no point this time?” Joseph’s mouth dropped in surprise.
“None whatsoever,” Jesus chuckled. “And here’s
something else to occupy your time.”
He seemed to present Michael’s dice out of thin air.
“There’s a different Hebrew symbol on each side. With a little imagination you can make an interesting game
out of the pieces. Who wants to
try?”
All of us, even James and Joseph, charged forward
with hands outstretched. Suddenly,
the cup game and Jesus’ Syrian slight of hand trick were forgotten.
“Each symbol should be given a value, from one to
six,” James suggested.
“Exactly.” Joseph nodded, examining the dice. “We
can write the equivalents and make rules for the game as we go along.”
I nodded eagerly, happy to see Michael’s dice. “The
rules should be simple,” I offered light-heartedly. “Whoever rolls sixes, wins
one round of the game, and so forth.”
“How many rounds should there be?” Simon fingered
one of the dice.
“As many as we want,” Uriah said enthusiastically.
“We’re making up the rules!”
I would one day learn that the game we thought we
invented had been played in the time of the Pharaohs, but the wonderful dice
had done their magic. In what may
not have been a miracle, Jesus had done one more wondrous deed in bringing his
brothers closer together that night.
Always the advocate of fraternity and family fidelity, his prayers and
coaxing united us around a simple game of chance.
Our new crisis and Jesus efforts to divert our
attention toward brotherly pursuits included Uriah, whom we suspected would be
among us for a long time. I had
accepted Uriah, with all his childish quirks, as a member of our family and
considered him a loyal friend, perhaps the most loyal of the boys I knew in
Nazareth. Tabitha seemed to fill a
new, wondrous category too. All
this time Jethro and Obadiah’s taunts about Jonah’s girlishness had a solid
foundation. He was a
girl! I will never forget
Nehemiah, whose loss I still feel greatly. Of all my friends in Nazareth, Michael made the greatest
impact. Unlike Nehemiah, Uriah,
and Tabitha, however, the impact was more harmful than good. As I look back, it seems plan to me
that Michael’s stay in our house had sparked a mischievous streak in me. Even after I turned against him for his
attitude about my family and attempted theft of Papa’s savings, I was inspired
by his inquisitiveness and philosophy on life. The important thing, he had always told me, was “only do
what you can get away with” and “don’t get caught.” This philosophy had worked well for Michael until he went
after Papa’s savings. Jesus had
been aware of Michael’s plans, just as he knew about my lust for treasure. After attempting to keep my treasure
all to myself, my guilt had been too much for me, causing my recent fainting
episode and disclosure to Papa of my hidden pot of gold. Jesus, I’m quite certain, already
knew. So in the end, though
tempting when it suited my ends, Michael’s philosophy didn’t work in our
house. It was a good thing the
shepherd stole my loot. It’s too
bad the bandits caught up with him, but the lesson was clear, after our ordeal
last night. Had it not been for
Jesus’ protective spirit, my greed would have cost my family dearly.
******
After we gave the Hebraic symbols of the dice
numeric values and agreed that we would toss to decide the order of the roll, I
found myself in last place and meditating on my dark deeds. As a child, I had been sheltered
against the evils of the world, so I naturally magnified my misdeeds into
terrible crimes. I had horded
other men’s stolen gold, which seemed to make me a thief too. I had, because of my greed, placed my
family in danger. What sort of son
would do such a thing?
James, who won first toss, rolled a three and a one,
followed by Simon, who tossed a four and five. Uriah, then Joseph, both tossed a pair of two’s. Simon thought he would surely win and
hooted and did a little dance.
Because he couldn’t lose, Jesus remained on the sidelines, as an
observer, a warm smile on his face.
When the dice were handed to me, I cast them out without fanfare and
rolled two sixes, which meant that I had won the first round. Simon stomped his foot, but the other
boys congratulated my good fortune.
The symbol for the sixes, ironically, were the Chai symbols for life.
On a piece of parchment, Joseph jotted down our
scores. The results, though in my
favor, failed to make an impact on me, until Jesus reminded me of what they
meant.
“Are
you all right?” he whispered, holding up the dice. “I don’t believe in omens or
luck, but do you know what that means?”
“Yes,”
I replied with a sigh, “it means life, but I don’t deserve it. I’ve been really bad, Jesus. I hid treasure that belonged to people
the bandits may have killed. A
shepherd was also killed after finding my gold. It was blood money, which means that my hands were
bloodied—”
“Nonsense,
Jude, ” Jesus cut me off. “You’re still a child. Your judgment is faulty, but, in most cases, your heart is
pure. In the end, when confronted
with evil, you recognize it. You
confess your misdeeds. It just a
matter of time before you tell the truth.”
“You’ve
always have faith in me,” I looked at my oldest brother in awe.
As
the game proceeded, I continued to roll the highest scores, which included
several more pairs of sixes.
Playfully it seemed, Joseph accused Jesus of bewitching my dice. Simon called it an outright miracle
that I did so well. I couldn’t
disagree with them. The fact that
I had rolled “life” so many times made me almost feel immortal. That night, as Michael began showing
improvement in his bodily movements and speech, Mama moved with dedication
between his room and the table were we congregated, her concern divided between
her patient and family. The small
improvements Mama reported were not enough to raise our spirits, which was achieved
by the games we played while drinking pomegranate juice and eating the grapes
intended for the game of mugs.
Papa, who had disappeared as we played mugs,
returned with wine on his breath as we finished a round of dice, but no one
appeared to notice at first.
Uriah, James, Joseph, and I had begun dozing off. Simon was already sound asleep. It was refreshing to see Papa happy and
in a good mood. He had been talking
to Arturius and Clement, the night guards who relieved Falco and Priam. According to Papa, they weren’t such
bad fellows, especially Clement who, like Regulus, claimed his mother was a
Jew. Clement had run away from
home to join the legions, a story that immediately perked me up. Everyone at the table had been waiting
for Mama to return with another progress report. So far we had been told that Michael’s eyes followed her
constantly now, he was trying to form sentences, and lastly a tear had formed
in his deadpan eyes—all signs of improvement she believed. These small indications, however,
seemed insignificant once we dashed into the room to see for ourselves. Though his eyes moved, Michael was
still in a dark place. Papa’s
sudden, noisy return roused everyone at the table and jolted Simon awake. Interrupted by her tired enthusiasm, I
had the sudden urge to hug and kiss my saintly mother, though I was unimpressed
with her report. As we listened to
Papa relate the exploits of the ‘Jewish guard,’ it seemed likely that he had
plied the normally grouchy night guards with wine, which he drank freely
himself. We were amused more by his
telling of the story than the story itself. He was obviously tipsy, and Mama was not pleased with this
at all. Jesus cast him a sad look
yet said nothing. I couldn’t blame
Papa for his lapse. The look in
his eyes and weariness in his voice had been a forewarning to us. Many Jewish men turned to the
vine. Uncle Joab had been a drunk
and so was Tabitha’s Uncle Jared.
It looked very much as if Papa was becoming a drunk too. . . . But Mama
wasn’t a drunk, I marveled, watching her shuffle across the room to check on
Michael once more.
Gradually,
as Papa chattered about the state of affairs in Nazareth and the Roman world,
his eyelids fluttered and words slurred until finally, and predictably, he
nodded off to sleep. By then Simon
and Uriah had drifted away from the table and tumbled onto their pallets. After awhile, James and Joseph, too
tired, themselves, to show proper disdain, stood up, smiled faintly at me and
took their leave. Finally, as I
watched Papa’s head pitch forward, a light-headed giggle escaped my throat as
his brow thudded on the table and a snore fluttered out of his beard.
“It’s not funny,” James called from his pallet.
“I know,” I exhaled, “I just don’t want to cry.”
Jesus, after slipping out of the house awhile,
re-entered that moment, bolted the door, and walked over to tuck me in. It was sort of a ritual for us during
times of trial. As he pulled off
my sandals and pulled the blanket over me, he said nothing. I knew he was upset, perhaps because he
had prayed so hard for Papa, even more than Mama, and yet when I was tucked in
with my head resting on my favorite cushion, he gave me great comfort. I believed his words instantly, without
one shred of doubt.
“Listen Jude,” he whispered so only I could hear,
“one day Papa, as all mortal men, will meet the Lord, but it will not be by
wine. I’ve had a nice chat with
the Father. Once again this urge
will pass. Our ordeals will
end. Please trust in the Father,
if not me. . . . Sleep little brother.
Dream of your great white horse and the many adventures ahead. Cast the worries of this world from
your mind!”
“I trust you Jesus,” I said drowsily. “If you say
it’s gonna be all right, I believe you.
But what about Michael? . . .Will he stay this way for the rest of his
life? . . .Will he live or die?”
“Go to sleep Jude,” he replied, patting my head. “Say one more prayer for Michael before you tumble off to sleep. I’ll lead Papa off to bed and then say one more prayer for him myself.”
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