Thorns of Glory, page 52
In the darkness, the rain purred on the thatched roof of our abandoned hut. The air was unbearably hot and humid. Jim squirmed in irritation as I wept quietly. As he fully awoke, I braced myself, expecting him to snarl like a polecat. Instead, he spoke softly above my ear.
“Jenny, are you okay?”
I swallowed to suppress my tears. “Are we being punished, Jim?”
“Punished? By who?”
“By God.”
“No. Why? Did you do something really wrong?”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “A lot of things.”
“Tell me one.”
“You remember over Memorial Day when I babysat for the Carters? I forgot to pay tithing. Three-and-a-half dollars.”
He snorted like a bull. “That’s nothing. I owe almost fifteen. Maybe more. I lost count.”
This only made me say more confidently, “God is punishing us.”
“No, no, no. Garth pays every penny. Probably fifteen percent. So why would God be punishing him?”
“He must’ve done something else. He never told his mom and dad about going to Frost Cave. That’s breaking the fourth commandment—‘Honor your father and mother that your days may be long upon the land.’ So he was sent to a different land.”
“If that were true,” said Jim, “every kid I know would be here with us. We could have a party. So go back to sleep.”
I became quiet. “Jim, will we ever get home again?”
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Good night, Jen.”
He rolled over and seemed to slip right back into deep slumber. I felt better. He’d been dismissive. Even rude. Typical Jim at thirteen years old. Still, I felt better. Maybe because his response had been so typical.
That’s how his words had affected me then. Not now. Not as I relived this moment in my dream. Jim’s words were echoey and distorted. I started sobbing. I think I was still half asleep as these sobs broke inside me like a wave against the cliffs. I sat up in the place where I’d laid down, a narrow mattress in a corner of the home of Simon the Leper.
The sobs wrenched at my lungs. My mind felt as if it was whirling in a tornado. I did not see anybody approach, but a woman threw her arms around me. I didn’t recognize her face. My eyes were too clouded by tears, I supposed. How long had I been asleep? I’d have guessed that prior to experiencing that dream, I’d hardly slept any time at all. A minute here, thirty seconds there. At some point I must have really zonked out. Too long. I’d only planned to take a catnap. It was my feeble attempt to while away the afternoon as I awaited the return of my son, Josh, and my niece Melody.
Where were they? They’d set off in pursuit of Hamira. I’d been prepared to accompany them, but Joshua had told me to remain in Bet Ani. He’d practically ordered me. That was a new experience, a predictable phase through which most teens passed, but it was jarring nonetheless. Joshua’s implication was that I couldn’t have kept up. My precious boy, transfigured into adulthood, was being protective, like any good son. But it wasn’t just that. For him, this “phase” of authority was now embedded. He was a soldier. A leader of men. I found his tone irksome and endearing simultaneously. He’d declared I’d be safer in Bethany, and his cocksureness on the matter had made me believe it. Melody had added, as an afterthought, that this safety was further guaranteed because it meant I’d be in closer proximity to Jesus and His followers. I didn’t find this idea nearly as comforting.
The mood in Bet Ani and all about the home of Simon the Leper was oppressive. The sky itself felt like an anvil on my shoulders. I heard a strange ringing in my ears. It seemed to require considerable effort just to draw breath into my lungs. Bickering and insults continued to be directed at Yeshua and His more devoted followers even after Josh and Melody departed. They argued with Him. Challenged Him. Doubted Him—even a few of His closest disciples.
I’d studied the crowd; some quietly wept and shook their heads. Others had looked on with clenched teeth. The most vocal critics had stood close to the Master, pleading vigorously that He ought to clarify the events of the past few days.
“Rabboni,” one young disciple named Thaddeus had inquired. “Why are we here? Why did we come to the festival at all?”
Another broke in. “Why did you ride into Jerusalem on a donkey’s foal if it was not to fulfill the words of Zacharias?”
“They were cheering,” a middle-aged follower had quipped. He might have been an uncle or some other relative of Jesus. “All of the citizens. Hundreds. Thousands! Did you not hear their voices? They believed in you. They believed the yoke of Edom was cracking. Could you not feel their passion? They would have done anything for you!”
More voices had spluttered on all sides of Him.
“They laid fronds and gifts!”
“They were ready to anoint the new David! Ready to anoint you! Ready to restore the blessings of the House of Jacob. Ready to reverse the curse placed upon us by the leaden foot of Esau and restore Israel’s pride and triumph. Could you not see this? Couldn’t you feel it?”
Jesus had risen abruptly, as if their words brought genuine pain to his ears. He’d exclaimed something about how they could not see. They could not feel. I didn’t catch His exact words among so many blustering voices. Whatever He’d said, it did not pacify the crowd in the same way past declarations from His lips had done. The Master had tried to walk toward the gardens. Some physically impeded Him, still demanding answers. He drew up His arms tightly against his breast, as if protecting vital organs, and pressed past them, offering no more words, passing a hedge of beanstalks, navigating fresh furrows of budding and colorful herbs, aiming determinedly for the leafier orchard that He saw as a place of sanctuary, a place of respite and protection. A few of His critics, especially the richly dressed Jews from Antioch, attempted to follow, but some of the disciples among the Twelve—the largest ones: Yakob, Andrew, and especially Shimon—forbade them.
“Let the Master alone,” Shimon had said, calm but stern. “Give Him privacy.”
“Shimon bar Jonah, you are not helping Him,” blustered Alexander. “I know you think you are. But you are not.”
Shimon had glanced back to ensure that Jesus had safely entered the orchard, fading out of sight. He’d seemed duty bound to fulfill his role as the Savior’s bodyguard before he addressed concerns from Alexander and the Master’s other critics. Then he’d turned up both of his hands, as if sympathizing with their frustrations. He’d asked, “What would you have me do?”
Alexander had raised his chin defiantly. “Shimon bar Jonah, do you, or do you not, believe He is the Messiah?”
Shimon had squared his shoulders. After a few beats, he’d seemed to wilt. “If Yeshua of Nazareth is not the Messiah, then I do not know the meaning of that word.”
Another disciple, one of the youngest in His inner circle, had declared to Alexander and also to Shimon, “He is the Messiah.”
Alexander had stepped toward the young disciple and took him by the shoulders. “I believe you, Yohanan. Luke believes it too. Hundreds here are convinced of this beyond any shadow of a doubt. But listen, and listen well: If Yeshua of Nazareth does not return to the Temple tomorrow to claim His throne, the very event that we and our ancestors have long dreamt and hoped for, all the things you and others claim to have witnessed—His miracles, His healings—will mean nothing. His entire ministry will have been for naught.”
“You waste your breath,” another member of His inner circle had said. I’d heard him called Nathanael. Some also addressed him by his surname, Ben Talmai, or Bartholomew. “The Master had that opportunity. I watched Him enter the sacred precincts. We stood there. We waited. He did not raise His arms. He did not call down the power of Adonai. He . . . chose differently.”
Alexander had raised his voice. “There is no other choice! Otherwise, He will lose them, Ben Talmai.” He turned to the older son of Zebedee. “Do you understand, Yakob?” He next faced James’s brother. “Yohanan, He will lose them!” Alexander’s arm had swept across the mass of pilgrims camped about, all of them intently listening. He’d turned to Shimon. “Look for yourself. Shimon Ben Jonas, look! They already doubt. The Shekhinah must declare Himself not only King of Judea but of the whole world! He must declare it upon holy ground—the House of the Lord. Have we not all read the scriptures? Has He read them?”
I’d heard enough. “He wrote them!” I’d drawn many stares. My outburst was impetuous. Of course He didn’t “write” them. He inspired them. Oh, who cared about the semantics! Next I added indignantly, “Jesus knows the scriptures better than any of you. What makes you men think—?”
Considering the initial attention I’d attracted, I might have thought my words managed to penetrate a little. Instead, the men’s eyes—and the women’s—had filled with ire. My conniption was utterly ignored, as if I’d said nothing at all. I’d become invisible. Arguing then recommenced without missing a beat. My words fizzled away. The discussion had risen in volume, as if to suppress my voice if I’d attempted to express anything further.
Next, Yacob insisted that Yeshua was wholly and perfectly aware of what was expected of the Promised Messiah. Yacob’s brother—young Jochanan, that is, John—echoed what I had said: that Jesus knew the scriptures by heart. I lost track of the conversation after that, undoubtedly because I felt put out for being ignored. Was it because I wasn’t a Rabbi or that I held no respectable office like these men from Antioch and others did? Was it because I was a woman? I chalked it up to the latter.
Another woman—one named Susanna, whom I’d briefly met—had leaned close to my ear and whispered, “A worthy question. What makes these men think?”
As I’d faced her, she was grinning impishly. I’d smiled. Small consolation. What did it matter? It was plain that no one cared what I had to say. If I’d contributed another word, I feared I might have been shouted into silence. Or physically removed.
Next I pushed through the huddle of people, back toward the house of Simon the Leper. My steps hastened. I had to get away. Escape. Perhaps my feelings were like those of Jesus. I’d needed a place to hide. To meditate. To pray.
I’d curled into a back corner of the two-room domicile. At first I made a feeble effort to talk to God. I think I’d only uttered four words: “Father in heaven, pleeease . . .” My thoughts felt scattered. Sleep overcame me. Then, later, as I said a moment ago, I awoke sobbing and blubbering like a lunatic.
“Are you ill, woman?” asked the lady who held me. The term woman might have struck me as an insult in another setting. Here, it rang with compassion: a title of respect. My eyesight cleared enough to appraise that she was about half my age. If I’d met her before, I was too distraught to remember.
I continued to sob like a fountain. So embarrassing. I couldn’t register why I felt so out of control. A combination of emotions. In my mind, Jim’s thirteen-year-old voice still rang: “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Good night, Jen.” These words echoed alongside images of older—er—“present day” Jim languishing in some horrible Jerusalem dungeon. Maybe discussing my own turmoil at a time like this seems shallow. Self-obsessed. My Savior was about to lay down His life—for me! For everyone I loved. Yet the only image my brain could conjure was Jim, suffering in darkness and filth. I wasn’t even certain he was alive. I suppose the Crucifixion of the Savior of the world was too big for my little mind to take in. My missing brother . . . that I understood. The dream was apparently a catalyst to an entire collage of emotions.
The woman rocked me gently, as if trying to settle the heart and mind of a little girl. I did settle down. Somewhat. The violent sobbing, at least, abated. I used my sleeve to wipe my face. She had a towel and swabbed the tears under my eyes.
“Thank you,” I said. Then I laughed awkwardly.
“It’s fine. I am Miriam.”
Another Miriam. Was it possible that half the women in this country were named Mary?
She made herself distinctive by adding, “Miriam of Migdal.”
I studied her more closely, “Mary . . . Magdalene?”
“Yes. Do you know my village? Near the shore of Galilee?”
I was a bit breathless. I started to nod. Finally, I shook my head. “Not really.”
I was being hugged by a woman who . . . the first woman who would behold . . . I was being comforted by Mary Magdalene!
She was around thirty, I guessed. Not a speck of make-up. What was I saying? That was hardly unique! No one here wore cosmetics. I guess I’d just always envisioned, well . . . Blame it on Hollywood. Mary Magdalene was very pretty. She had harder lines than I might have imagined, but that was true of most Judean women. I sensed that Mary of Migdal was a tough cookie. Her clothing helped her stand out. Worn but bright. Clean. Triangular patterns of blue and yellow. A pale head-covering hid ample locks of dark hair. “You are Jennifer, I am told. Celtic. ‘Fair one.’ Are you really from so far away as Gaul or Espania?”
I had no idea where those places were. Espania . . . Spain? Close enough. “I . . .” It jolted back to my mind that Jim had already established a different origin story. “We are from Babylon.”
It didn’t seem to matter to her one way or the other. “I’m honored to meet you.”
I laughed again, in spite of myself. “Honored to meet me?” I regained my composure.
I looked around the room. A few people milled about. Some were trying to nap, as I’d been doing. Others were busily engaged in preparing the evening meal. There weren’t as many souls inside the house as I might have expected. Certainly not as many as on prior days.
How long had I slept? The cheerless mood had zapped my energy more than I had realized. Afternoon was settling into evening; many lamps had been struck. Spices wafted about: coriander, cumin, mint, and others that I couldn’t identify. I smelled fresh bread. I leaned on the arm of Mary Magdalene and rose to my feet. The chattering and arguing outside seemed to have subsided.
“Quieter,” I noted to Mary, glancing toward a window.
She frowned a little. “Many have gone. The Master is also gone.”
I thought a moment. It was Wednesday. The Savior’s “down day.” At least, that was how I’d seen it described in various chronologies about the last week in the life of Christ.
“Where has He gone?”
Miriam shrugged, eyes downcast.
Simon’s wife, Martha, focused on flattening and squaring small balls of dough, her expression distant, distressed. “We’re not quite certain,” Martha said.
A tall man with russet-colored skin appeared in the doorway. He wore a leather tunic with variegated patterns of cream and brown. “Is the Master—” He cleared his throat. “Is the man called Yeshua of Nazareth within?”
Jesus’s youngest half brother, Jude, answered from his cushioned seat on the floor near Martha. “He is not here.” Jude’s left eye didn’t move the same as his right. Lazy eye. Maybe an injury.
“Where might I find Him?” asked the foreigner, his tone urgent. When nobody answered quickly enough, he decided introducing himself might be appropriate. “I am Simeon of Cyrene. These are my sons.” He indicated two young men behind him wearing similar tunics. “We have journeyed from Cyrenaica. We came here to observe Passover . . . in hopes that we might meet Him.”
Yakob, or James—that is to say, not the brother of Yohanan but the eldest half brother of Jesus—entered the house, slipping past Simeon and his sons. He turned back to address those making inquiries. “We don’t know for sure,” he admitted. “Jerusalem, perhaps.”
Simeon furrowed his brow. “Is that wise? I mean . . . is it safe? We have heard unsettling rumors. It is said that some in the Great Council—”
“We have heard the same rumors,” James interjected. “His disciples—the Twelve—are with Him. He is safe. We expect them to return soon.” His tone was not reassuring. “You are welcome to wait. To encamp. There are many open places now.”
Simeon looked confused, disappointed. He nodded respectfully. “Thank you. God’s blessings be upon you.”
“And upon you,” said James.
Simeon withdrew, speaking to his sons in low, agitated tones.
Lazarus, the teenager whom Jesus had raised from the dead, entered the doorway after Simeon and his sons departed, an additional basket of leafy herbs in his hands. He indicated the father and two sons. “Have we seen them before? Are they from Alexandria?”
“Cyrenaica,” said Martha.
“Inquiring about Jesus?” asked Lazarus.
Martha sighed wearily. “Of course.”
Lazarus remained upbeat. “It’s just as I said. A few will depart. Many more will come.”
Jude and two of his sisters, Anna and Salomé, nodded at this. Others stared at the floor or wrung their hands. Lazarus’s enthusiasm managed to lighten the mood a bit. After he gave his baskets to his sister Martha, his other sister, Mary, embraced him. For no particular reason, as far as I could tell. In appreciation, I think, of his positivity. Or just in gratitude that her brother, so recently declared dead, again lived.
Mary Magdalene accompanied me to the adjoining room. Mary, the mother of Jesus, came into view, along with Mary Zebedee and Susanna, the woman who’d quipped, “What makes these men think?” There was also another woman, Joanna. She was a bit stout, like me, I suppose, but she wore a beautiful sun-yellow dress that made her seem out of place in this rustic neighborhood. A woman whom I hadn’t met, who looked about the same age as Mary Zebedee, had also joined to help with the meal.
Mary Zebedee started chopping the herbs from Lazarus’s baskets. “The Libyans will meet the Master and my sons soon enough,” she said solemnly, I think to reassure herself.
