meanderings

not enough
you want more
as you step on the heart
that beat beside yours
like a stone in a creek
expecting it to be there
when you make your way back
but life and rivers
do not remain static
enough may be over the next hill
or it may be buried under water
invisible on your return

i figured out that i'm not much of a poet. but i wrote this the first time taylor broke up with shosha, and even though the words are not crafted as well as i would like, i think they still fit.

Christmas story - 2010 (a little late due to technical difficulties)


Outside, the freezing desert night.
This other night inside grows warm, kindling.
~ Rumi

Farzan was not born a slave. Farzan was not born Farzan. He was born Mani, first born son of an Afghan trader. He was sold to his master after his mother died giving birth to his brother. He never saw his father again.
A long time ago, Farzan could remember his mother’s face and even her voice as she whispered his name, waking him from sleep. But the image was so faded now that it was more a memory of a memory.
His master had named him Farzan, which means wisdom. Farzan’s master was a priest and the wisest man of his village. No one was more learned than his master and Farzan was his only slave. His master had not wanted a slave. He said he had no need of one. He spent most of his days and much of the night in study, of the stars and of the Gathas. Some said that he could quote every Gatha by heart. Farzan believed this could be true, but he would never ask him. Nor would his master answer, certain to repudiate any exhibition of his knowledge.
His fellow priest had brought Farzan and his father to his master. “You are getting old,” he told him. “This young boy will help you in your old age.”
“His father is in need of money,” he added.
His master had looked long and hard at his father then. His father stood before the scholar, shabby and defiant, thrusting Farzan forward. Farzan himself had kept his head down, trying desperately to hide his tears from both his father and the old man before him. His master had glanced down at him and then back to his father. He never spoke a word to Farzan’s father. He simply nodded to his fellow priest to give him the money, turned and returned to the fire temple. It was the other priest who had led Farzan to where he would stay and given him food to eat.
The next day, his master gave him his new name. “I will call you, Farzan, he said. “For your father has not treated you as a jewel, and wisdom is the greatest gift you can receive.” Farzan nodded. His name, Mani, meant jewel, and this man was right; his father had not treated him as a jewel.
His education began immediately for of what worth would a slave who could not read be to the most educated man of the village. Farzan’s master was the most educated man of the entire region. Not only did he read and study the Gathas and the heavens, but also the writings of the Hebrews and of Buddha. The Hebrews interested him because of their shared belief in one Creator God when all around them, people worshipped a multitude of deities, petty and specific. Buddha interested him because of his writings on good living. Zarathustra would approve.
But there were those who didn’t approve of his master’s study. The purists did not think it proper to study any other belief system, nor to read commentaries of the Gathas. His master scoffed at these detractors. “How can we believe that Ahura Mazda does not speak to men in every age? Even Zarathustra was only a man. As the stars give light in the night sky, so Ahura Mazda gives to us the light of wisdom.”
There were also those who disapproved of Farzan. Not his status as a slave. Many who could afford them had slaves for domestic work or for training in a needed skill. No. What they disapproved of was Farzan’s status as acolyte. He had been trained from the beginning, not just to read and write, but to study the Gathas and to follow the path set by Zarathustra. The followers of Zarathustra did not proselytize and they did not intermarry with non-believers. His master did not disagree with this. He explained to Farzan how the Hebrews were often diverted from their worship by intermarriage with those outside their faith.
“We accept the gifts we are given “was all he ever said about the people who criticized him over Farzan.
But Farzan was not a gift; he was a slave. No matter how kind his master, he was still his master. His father’s betrayal was not forgotten. Farzan wasn’t sure how old he was when he was sold to the master. Perhaps five or six. He knew that there had been 15 cycles of the calendar since that day. He was by any reckoning now a man, but still a slave. He could not leave. He could not go in search of the father who had abandoned him, not that he wanted to. Farzan just wanted to be able to walk out of the village and go wherever his heart would take him. He could never do that. He belonged to his master.
Farzan‘s life as a slave was better than that of most of the free men of his village. Not only was he educated but he was well fed and kindly treated. He knew he should be without complaint. And yet, he felt this dark hole in his heart that his father had sold him and left him forever in the possession of another. He longed for a freedom that was beyond him, a freedom to choose his own path. That was his deepest wish. How could Ahura Mazda be truly pleased with his right living when he had so little choice? Farzan fingered the cord attached to his jacket. Good Words, Good Thoughts, Good Deeds. He managed the words and deeds well, but his thoughts were so often dark and ungrateful.

***

The moment a child is born, the mother is also born.
~Rajneesh

Freedom was not in his future but travel was. Many days ago a brilliant light had appeared in the sky, larger than any star that had ever been seen. His master had been studying both the light, which his master explained was not a star as they knew it, as well as the holy writings of Zarathustra and of the Hebrews. He speculated that the star might actually be a cluster of tiny stars so close together as to appear as one, but he could find no record of such a phenomenon in any of his texts. Neither he nor his fellow priest had ever heard of such a sighting as what now appeared nightly in the sky. Both priests had searched the Hebrew Scriptures and thought they had found a possible answer. Apparently, the Hebrews, much like the followers of Zarathustra, anticipated the coming of a saoshyant. The Hebrews called him the messiah. He was to be born in the town of Bethlehem in a place called Judea, a part of the Roman Empire.
The Roman Empire was far from the Persian Empire although its roads were said to be the best in the world. Still, Farzan wondered how they would get to a place so far away before the star disappeared as so many of the heavenly apparitions did. His master told him not to worry. If the star could no longer be seen by the time they reached the Roman Empire, then it meant their interpretation was wrong and the trip would still be worthwhile for all that they would learn there.
It was decided to purchase gifts for the child in a crossroads town his master had visited before. “Such wonders for sale there, Farzan. You will see traders there as dark as the earth and as pale as the moon.” Farzan smirked at such a thought, thinking surely his master was teasing him. His master merely smiled in return, nodding at his fellow priest who chuckled with delight.
The trip to Arabia was the longest Farzan had ever taken and was only half their journey to the Hebrew town. His master had not lied. He had seen men blacker than the dirt in their garden and men with the palest of skin covered with hair as yellow as a flower.
The smells were overwhelming. Farzan was used to having spices cooked in his food and the smell of incense spice burning in the fire temple, but the number and variety of spices for sale in this market was like nothing he had ever known.
On their last day in the town, they met a funeral procession. It must have been a very rich merchant for the crowd of paid mourners went on and on, wailing loudly to draw attention to the macabre parade. Finally, the richly draped body passed them, followed by a man with a small boy clinging to his side, weeping and calling loudly for the mother who preceded him. Farzan was overwhelmed by a scent and a memory that made him physically stumble. Only the hand of his master prevented his fall. He remembered again, vividly, the day they had buried his mother. He was shattered once again by the grief of that time, the inconsolable desolation that was the loss of his mother. The ache of his sorrow consumed him as if not a moment had gone from that terrible day.
The scent had not been there at his own mother’s funeral but it now surrounded him with a bitter sweetness that he knew would be forever linked with the memory of his mother.
“Farzan,” his master said kindly. “Are you unwell?”
“That scent,” replied Farzan, “What is it?”
“Ahh, “his master returned. “ A very expensive fragrance. Dearer than the frankincense we have already purchased. It is used only by the wealthiest of men.”
Good words. Good thoughts. Good deeds. Farzan was still besieged by the memory of his mother, her love for him, how much he suddenly missed her. “Should we not buy such a spice for this saoshyant, this messiah of the Hebrews?”
His master was silent in his thoughts, as he always was when making an important decision. Farzan had no way of knowing that this spice was used only for the dead. It was not a gift to present to a new mother or child. But his master understood what Farzan had not said. He knew this gift would be about a mother’s love.
“Yes, Farzan. I think we should.”

***

For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Saviour,
which is Christ the Lord.
~ Luke 2: 11

Farzan’s master and his fellow priest were important men. They were important even within the Roman Empire. They drew attention to themselves from the moment they entered the empire, not only for their foreign attire and obvious wealth, but for their knowledge and ability to speak in Latin, Aramaic and several other local dialects. Farzan was continually amazed by their knowledge.
Courtesy dictated that they pay homage to the local leader and share with him their reason for visiting such a remote outpost of the Roman Empire. They were accepted into Herod’s court with great fanfare and greeted with the utmost respect by Herod himself. Gifts and greetings were exchanged, but Farzan noticed that Herod’s smile never extended to his eyes; and when they explained their purpose, his eyes narrowed as his voice sweetened with flattery. His master was told how delighted Herod was to hear of this news and please, he must share with him the location of this child born to rule the Hebrews.
“Master, “Farzan spoke when they were again on their way. “I do not believe this Herod was happy with your discovery.”
“No, Farzan. I do not believe he was. He had Good Words to say about him and will likely bring gifts to him as Good Deeds would dictate, but he will not have Good Thoughts, do you think?
Farzan did not answer, wondering for the first time if his master suspected how often his own thoughts were rebellious and unappreciative. Did his master suspect how often Farzan had dreamed of running away from the comforts that had been provided to a mere slave? Were his comments about Herod a rebuke of Farzan’s hypocrisy of Good Words and Good Deeds hiding his non-virtuous thoughts?
They had not many days left to travel and the star shone as brightly as it had the first night. Farzan was troubled in his heart. He was experiencing the most exciting trip of his life, a trip most free men would never know. What was some elusive freedom compared to the life he had been given with his scholarly master?
In the last league before Bethlehem, the source of his discontent revealed itself to Farzan in a moment of illumination. It was not his status as slave that caused his dark thoughts. It was his inability to forgive his father.
What had he done to earn his father’s hatred? Why had his father not clung to him as the boy and his father had done in that far away Arabian town? His mother had died and his father had deserted him, sold him as you would an animal, and left him forever without family. He had so many terrible unanswered questions, but the one burned within him, encompassing all of the others. Why did his father not love him?
The path blurred before him as the tears he had not shed so long ago began to burn in his eyes. His master and the other priest did not notice him because they were so involved in their own conversation and calculations. They had spoken to many of the villagers and were hurrying to the place indicated as the home of the strangers who had come for the census over a year ago. The woman had given birth in a cave, and the man now took work as a carpenter. The sun was sinking behind the distant hills as they hurried forward to meet this unlikely couple and the child who was destined to be messiah to the Hebrews.
Farzan barely attended to the discussion with the father as his master presented their gifts and told the carpenter of his studies and the appearance of the star and how it had led them to this place. Farzan was struggling to control his sudden and fierce grief. How could he have Good Thoughts when his own father had sold him? How could he forgive him for not wanting him?
It was only as they were leaving that Farzan’s vision cleared and he focused on the baby they had come all this way to see. He didn’t look like a saoshyant. He looked like any other child. His father held him in his arms where the child looked quite content. It was both beautiful and painful. In his father’s arms was a familiar place for this child.
As the priests said their final goodbye, the small boy grasped his father’s beard with his chubby fist and gave it a gentle pull. The father looked down and smiled which brought a happy gurgle from the babe. And then, as if he knew how intently Farzan had been watching, the child turned and looked directly at Farzan, his eyes steady and old and wise as any sage. This child was both loved and loving. Farzan was captivated by the child’s gaze, rooted to the rough flooring of the house. He may have stood there indefinitely had his master not gently nudged him towards the door.

***

Great thoughts and a pure heart, that is what we should ask from God.
~Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Farzan walked away in a daze. Again his master and his colleague did not notice him, so engrossed in their own conversation of the meeting they had just had. The priests decided to camp by the side of the road rather than stop at an inn that night. The village inns were crude and they preferred their own company to mull over their recent experiences and the texts they had brought with them.
It was a cool spring night, and the fire was more than sufficient to keep them warm. It was well into the night when the two priests finally ended their conversation and gentle snoring filled the night air. There was no such sleep for Farzan. He had no words for what he felt. He performed his tasks inattentively. It was as though he was suspended in time, still ensnared by the eyes of the infant.
He had met the messiah of the Hebrews. He was convinced of that. He could not explain how this babe had conveyed to him so much without words or rituals or sound. He understood in a way he never had before that love was the basis of all Good Words, Good Thoughts and Good Deeds.
Farzan’s father had not loved him. This was the source of his inability to maintain Good Thoughts. But Farzan had been loved. He didn’t understand it, but he knew that his master loved him. How does a master come to love a slave? But even as he questioned it, he knew it to be true.
A low moaning interrupted his contemplations. “No. No. No!” came from his master as he thrust his sleeping cloak from his chest.
“What is it, Master?” Farzan asked as he rushed to his side. His master’s friend and fellow priest arose and held his master’s other side.
“We must return by another way,” his master gasped. “The evil in this man Herod. It is terrible, terrible! His plans are the work of Angra Mainyu. He desires to kill this holy child.”
His master’s words sent chills to the back of Farzan’s neck. His heart began to race and his breath seemed to stop. Such evil was unimaginable, to kill a holy child, the messiah of his people.
“We will not let this happen,” declared the priest from his master’s side. “We will return by the sea to Syria. Farzan has never traveled by boat. It will be another element of his education. We will mold this evil into good.”
“Yes, of course,” his master answered. “You are wise in this as always, my friend.”
Farzan suddenly felt the need to confess his evil thoughts to his master. He was such a good master and Farzan had been an ungrateful slave.
“Master,” Farzan began. “I have not had Good Thoughts as you have taught me. I have resented my life as a slave. In spite of how well you have treated me, I have longed to be free of you.”
“Farzan,” the old master said gently. “You have never been my slave. Did you not perform Navjote in your second year with me? We are family. I never recorded the purchase of a slave. I thanked Ahura Mazda for the giving of a gift.”
“You have never been a slave,” he repeated.
In that moment, Farzan knew this truth. It was his own heart that had enslaved him. His master had never treated him as a slave. This was the reason for his critics. His master had adopted him into full fellowship in both worship and into his life.
“Forgive me, Master,” Farzan beseeched. “I have been slow to understand.”
“It was the message of the holy child,” his master responded. “Let us unwrap our cords and worship facing the sacred star of the Hebrews. Perhaps this messiah will be saoshyant to us as well.”

ialli

i have not written about ialli because i knew that nothing i could say would suffice. no words could capture the gratitude i felt for her beautiful soul or the loss i felt when she left us. ialli was a dog. actually, she was a boxer, which means she was something unique in the world of dogs. we've had a lot of dogs over the years, and two boxers (well, four now with our two grandpuppies), and boxers are different. they carry a spark of something i find undefinable. i believe it is a spark of the divine.

we have two new boxers in our lives, evie and luna; and they have brought us incredible joy and so many smiles already. they have completely different personalities but are boxer personified. they are physically beautiful, innately curious, as frolicky (which dictionary.com tells me is not a word) as goats, and have an unmatched zest for life. they teach us every day how to live. they remind me so much of ialli. they remind me less of cocoa. why?

i think it is because ialli was loved completely by almost every person who ever met her. there was one man on the beach who instantly hated her. i'm sure that his story is long and bitter, although at the time i felt no sympathy for him. ialli knew it instantly, was confused, and barked at him for his feelings. no one else ever had any response to her other than smiles and adoration. ialli was a wonderful dog. she was made more wonderful by how people loved her.

cocoa was a wonderful dog, too. but cocoa was damaged. her life was filled with anxiety. she was the most needy of dogs and what she needed more than anything was to be loved. she didn't have a dominant bone in her body. the one time she showed dominance was when ialli was a puppy. (ialli bore that tiny scar all her life.) but her people didn't like that, and cocoa wanted to please her people more than anything in life. her people loved her, and that love was everything. she never showed even the tiniest bit of aggression towards ialli again.

but she was very protective. she barked at shosha's boyfriend every time he left the room and came back in. she barked so much when we first got her. she was anxious and wanted more than anything to protect these people who loved her. the people she lived with, the ones she was misplaced with after her birth, did not love her. she loved them. it is a boxer's nature to love. cocoa loved a family that did not love her. we are all damaged when our love is not returned. we vary in how much we are changed by who we are, by our previous experiences, and by the relationship; but we never leave unrequited love unscathed. that's why it is such a topic of creative verse. it changes us.

as does being loved. being loved deeply and well changed cocoa. she lost some of her anxiety. she accepted ialli into her beloved family, along with various other dogs that came into our lives. mostly she loved her boy, her very own boy, who gave her more than any of us ever could.

ialli had some problems with other dogs, none of her own making. she was hated. i think it was maybe because she was so loved. i'm sure dogs could sense how deeply and thoroughly she was adored. i believe they were jealous. we all want to be so loved. but ialli was so good partly because she was so loved. she even made taylor love her, and he was so determined not to let that happen. i sometimes think losing ialli may have been the worst loss he suffered, and the boy has lost so much. is that why he pushed shosha away? could he just not bare her loss in the future so had to make it happen now? i don't know. taylor did not respond to love like cocoa did. i wish that he had.

meanderings is a good word for my blog. my mind seems to wander all over the place when i begin to write. what began about ialli went all over the place. i think that's because she was woven into our life like a seamless cloth. we can't divide those we love into compartments. they are all there with us, making up the people we are. what started this blog was looking at the photos of evie and luna and thinking how they reminded me more of ialli and less of cocoa and trying to figure out why. i think i did. i think it is because ialli, unlike cocoa, was not damaged by insufficient love. ialli was always and will always be beloved.

first love

my first love died this year. i would have missed it except that my daddy reads the obituary every day. he died suddenly of a heart attack. it seemed so weird - this person i thought i would love forever (doesn't everyone feel that way at their first break-up)lived most of his life without me ever knowing anything more about him.

our last conversation that i remember was when i was 16. he had dropped out of clemson after one semester... going off to college being the reason he had dropped me...and was thinking about joining the army... wondering if there was a reason not to. i didn't give him one. i was already in another relationship. he was not going to get a chance to hurt me again.

i was 13 when i met wayne. he was pretending to be the cousin of my sister's boyfriend... from abeleen, texas. he had to own up to the truth later when he really wanted to date me. i was way too young. we went out with my sister and her boyfriend once or twice. he was already 17. i was way over my head. so that was it for a while. but he came back when i was 14. supposedly i was old enough to really date then. what were my parents thinking!?!?!

i wanted to break up after three months. i had a crush on another boy... my mother and sister talked me out of it. so instead of breaking his heart, he broke mine.

but we had a lot of fun together. we went to plays back when nobody went to plays. we saw all the latest movies. he took me out to dinner at least once a weekend. we did football games back when i cared about football. we spent almost every sunday in the mountains hiking. he was sure that he was going to change the world, and i thought i had a pretty good shot at it myself. we were neither of us political but we were both immensely idealistic.

he wasn't religious in the least that i knew about, and i was at church like clockwork and had my whole life saturated in religion. so i found it strange to discover that he spent his whole life involved in a prayer ministry. and i wonder how much of the boy i knew was in the man who spent his life traveling the world with a wife and two daughters "saving the world". i think it was a part of him that made me love him, the part who wanted to change the world, the part that always envisioned a great life.

the hurt of our breakup left me years ago, but the memories of our good times together remain. i was sorry to know that his life had ended, early. but i feel like that optimistic, imaginative boy i knew had a life he was happy with, and that gives me a real sense of satisfaction.

my son is grieving over his first love, a relationship much different from my own first love... longer, begun at an older age, more complicated, and filled with a hope to beat the odds and get it right the first time... like a few do. it doesn't look good right now, but who am i to say. there is something to be said for the absence of scars from other relationships.. we carry them with us. i will not make a judgment on what is right or wrong for him.

but what i hope most is that like my oldest daughter, they can find a friendship that lasts past the romance if the romance is not to be, that he doesn't read in the paper about a person who meant so much to him who is now a stranger. because love is never wasted and love never dies... it morphs... it changes intensity... but those we love and who love us are always with us.

it is important to me that wayne had a good life.. a wife and two daughters, a life that was fulfilling... it is important because i loved him... with a 14 year old love...immature, unrealistic, and nevertheless real.

rest in peace, wayne, we were friends along with everything else.

Christmas Story - 2009


Every child created on Earth has a guardian angel. Everyone knows that. Even some humans know that. Those humans who have been told have shared their knowledge in their written language. It seems to Daniel like all the humans should know that, even if they don’t exist in the Heavens.
But humans are not made as angels are. Their life experience is so incredibly short and they do not know things the way that angels do. Angels have an awareness not given to humans. Human knowledge is a matter of faith rather than the certainty that angels possess.
Daniel is a young angel. He has an Earth name, but his awareness is still growing and is very limited, less than a hundred Earth years. In human terms, he thinks he would be considered a baby; but he is still awakening to his knowledge of humans so he isn’t certain about that.
Humans, having only a physical body during their time on Earth, have a physical birth. Angels awaken and their body, being heavenly, has no definite shape or form. It changes according to the need. Their birth is probably more like a human coming out of sleep. There is a gradual awareness that grows. Of course, no angel will be All-Knowing. That was the sad downfall of Lucifer to expect or desire that. Daniel’s awareness includes knowledge of Lucifer but not an understanding. How could any being desire to leave the bounds of heaven or the authority of the All Mighty? How could one bear to leave the light and love of life? It was a puzzle, but it did not diminish Daniel’s awareness and peace. It is not his purpose to know.
Angels are created as messengers to humans. Angels carry to humans the awareness of the All Mighty. These messages rarely penetrate the human’s consciousness, and even more rarely translate into the human language. Mostly, angels surround humans and their assigned humans in particular, with a sense of All Mighty love. Daniel doesn’t know if he will one day have knowledge of all heavenly beings. He suspects he might, but in his present form he has, as yet, no need to know.
Daniel knows that a human’s earthly life is only its beginning. He has already been assigned several humans that did not live to the human process of birth. Daniel has been with these children when their spark of life ended on Earth, gently cradling them in his arms, and carrying those tiny souls to the room of simple joy. He can feel the radiance of those tiny souls long before he arrives at their heavenly destination. Each former human child adds to the glow of unending joy. He has no experience as to the others, although he knows there are many rooms beyond his awareness.
As a newly created angel, Daniel is unassigned. He does not yet belong to a particular human. He will soon be assigned a human child at its birth, as all guardian angels are; but for now his assignments are instructional.
Beyond his assignments of the unborn, Daniel has participated in group assignments. One of his first had been a young girl named Lucia White. She had been surrounded by Daniel and a host of angels as her life slipped away from her body. Her guardian angel had embraced her soul at her transition as is the primary purpose of a guardian angel. Daniel’s job had only been to be part of the warmth and love encompassing her as she made the transition. It was the job of some of the others to accompany her and her angel to her heavenly place. Still others were left to sit with her parents in the darkness of their grief. Each angel there knew of the child that was to come to them, but none were allowed to speak his name. No angel questioned this. Their job was only to be a presence in the darkness.
Angels, being heavenly beings, cannot feel pain. Only the Son has been granted that knowledge. As part of the All Mighty, the Son brings both healing and complete empathy to the human creatures. Angels simply bring the message. Angels see human emotion in terms of lightness and darkness. They cannot empathize as the Son can, no matter how deep the darkness nor how great the light. But Daniel remembers the darkness of that room with the two grieving parents. The light of their love for each other was strong but almost overwhelmed by the darkness of their grief. Other humans would visit with varying bits of light to add to their dim but steadfast glimmer. Daniel knew that these bits of light embraced by this sad couple would strengthen their own in time. He also knew that remnants of the darkness would remain throughout their time on Earth. It was part of the mystery, and the first knowledge of any angel is the mystery of the All Mighty.
Daniel is awaiting his assignment. His awareness of the family is growing. His early, learning assignments have touched on several of its members. The mother, not the mother of the child he would be assigned to, but what humans would call the grandmother, had been a bearer of one of those bits of light brought to the grieving parents of Lucia White. He even thought she might have glimpsed a vision of their presence on that cold, wet night while reading in the Holy Book several days later.
One of his assignments to the unborn had been to her friend. And he was not there, but knew the guardian angel that was assigned to her friend’s daughter and the angel who was assigned to the woman’s first-born child on the same Earth day. This first-born child was born with a brilliance of joy into the darkness of the woman’s grief and that of her husband. The battle between darkness and light had been fierce that day. The darkness threatened to encompass the young couple and continued for years trying to extinguish the light of their human love. But the child was born with an extraordinary luminosity that could not be defeated. Daniel knows that it is possible that this human will bear the child of his assignment and his spirit quickens with delight at the possibility.
But he would be content with any assignment from this family. It is a family wondrously gifted with love. Two more children had been given to this human couple. Each one added its own unique brilliance to the strength of an already unusual quantity of human love. Daniel knows that the light is strong in this family and has battled the darkness with great ferocity. He senses the great hatred of Lucifer in the darkness but cannot actually feel hatred. It is an aberration for angels to know hatred in that way, although he is well aware of the capacity of humans to hate. He is glad not to be given an assignment in another part of Earth or into a family of darkness. His own light quivers at the thought of a child surrounded by darkness, whose brief life will hold so little light. Those assignments are given to older angels with the strength to bear it.
It has been an Earth year of many transitions for this family. Again, far fewer than those in other parts of the Earth, but every transition is a challenge to the light of human love. He had been allowed to wait with the family at the transition of the old man they called PaPa, a human that had been given extra years to absorb the light of his grandchildren and to feed their own. Daniel listened as the old man told his stories, letting go word by word of the memories that had darkened and brightened his life. He marveled at the last words spoken to the girls, the peacefulness of the last story told. Daniel followed the boy home, the boy so instrumental in providing the extra human years for this man. Daniel joined his guardian angel in embracing him in his darkness. Daniel was there as the man’s guardian angel waited to welcome him at his last breath and felt the raging storm of light and dark in the young woman who awaited another breath that would never come.
Angels cannot feel pain but expand with love. Daniel burned with love for these three children, one of whom would give him his first assignment. He had not yet been given the knowledge of which of these three would have the child of his first assignment, but he knew their guardian angels and would be told when the time arrived.
His next group assignment was to Betty Bedenbaugh. What a great transition that was! A human of such simple and unwavering faith, Daniel knew that she would be allowed a great reunion with her earthly family. She would once again be reunited with the brother lost to her in her youth, the daughter whose brilliant light had burned so briefly, even by human standards, and her life companion whom she would now follow to their heavenly abode.
Following so closely behind was the mother of this grandmother to Daniel’s assignment, the one humans would call a great-grandmother. Some humans, bound so tightly to their human companions, were allowed a more gradual transition. This was true for this great-grandmother, who loved her mate and her children so intensely that she would not have been able to bear the darkness of loss if left behind at their transition. She was allowed to suffer physically while her spirit was gently released. In the final Earth days, the thread-like ties that bound her to her body were almost transparent.
The light in her transition room was incredibly bright. The voices of these humans touched on heavenly song with the strength of their love and faith as they sang to her their beloved human hymns. The grandmother of his own assignment was so overcome by the power of her grief that she nearly collapsed. Daniel looked to her angel wondering if she would accompany her mother, but he nodded the negative. She left the room, not the Earth. The transition took place in her absence. Her daughter (another possible mother to his assignment) also left the room, determined to stay by her mother’s side. She, too, was spared the darkness of this woman’s passing. It is a great challenge to be present at a transition and can take an immense toil on the human spirit. Daniel, with his knowledge of heaven, did not quite understand this. It seems that even humans of faith can not see clearly to the heavenly places. Some do see, but as through a heavy mist.
The mate, with a quiet strength beyond even his own understanding, was left in the darkness of her passing, surrounded by a host of unassigned angels to assist his own guardian angel to battle his grief. His earthly family pooled their light to encompass his darkness. Once again, Daniel felt the gratitude of being given this family for his first assignment. There was great love and great light here. Daniel knows that there are transitions where the only light is the light provided by angels. Daniel’s strength is not sufficient for that kind of transition. He knows that if the darkness is great enough, the Son will accompany the guardian angel and the assigned human to their heavenly destination. For there is no darkness beyond the strength of the Son, who has traveled to the place of ultimate darkness and conquered it with All Mighty light.
Daniel knows that his assigned human will know darkness. Each of the three children that might bear his assignment has struggled with his and her own darkness. The eldest of the three experienced her first major transition with the passing of her PaPa. This darkness followed the darkness of the threatened loss of her chosen mate on Earth. Daniel knew that she had been granted last words to ease her darkness. The second daughter has long battled the darkness, facing her first transitions as a child. The battle between darkness and light has long been a part of her life and she has fought it with great human courage. The son, a child given as a bonus blessing to the human couple, battles an inner darkness akin to his own father’s struggles, but the bond between these two men are more powerful in their light than in their darkness.
All of these children are encircled by the steadfast love of their parents, their grandparents, their aunts and uncles and cousins, and their many friends. This abundance of love produces a fiery glow within Daniel at the thought of joining his light to theirs. He knows that the darkness will never quench their light.
Daniel understands that as a beginning angel he has been given a “soft” assignment, an assignment that will bring him much joy and strength. Daniel even has enough awareness to know that this joy and strength is given to him to assist him in his later, more difficult assignments. He is content.
It is close to the time the humans have chosen to celebrate the coming of the Son as a human baby. Daniel knows of the spark of light that is given each year to the woman who will be called grandmother to his assigned human. Each year he has watched her fret and worry that the spark won’t come. This year has been no different in that respect. However, this year, with her heart heavy with the compounded grief of an Earth year full of transitions, she has been sent two bits of light, each one bringing a healing touch to a tender place of pain.
The first was sent for the freshest human loss, the beloved friend of her husband and her family, an unexpected blow and a negative response to her plea to the All-Mighty. The second, awakening her from near sleep, was sent to provide some relief for the more encompassing pain of the great unknown that always seems to accompany a transition. Humans have such limited understanding of the All Mighty and the Heavens, even humans of faith.
The woman’s vivid imagination that allows her an occasional glimpse of heavenly things also gives her too clear a view of the darkness. She is very sensitive to the darkness, even when it is a great distance from her personal experience. But recently, there has been much darkness in her tiny human sphere. In addition to the transitions in her immediate family, there had been the one-in-a-million cancer that preceded the transition of her sister’s friend, the tragic young girl who made the transition by her own hand, reminding her as always of her own young friend, and the beloved son whose family sat long Earth months by his side, celebrating his life as they awaited his transition. Finally, there was the mother of her student, found by the adoring son after the transition had been made, a darkness that could never be erased on Earth.
Daniel and her guardian angel smile indulgently as the woman seeks to bring closure to this difficult year with her annual Christmas story. These transitions, deaths in the human language, crowd her mind as she writes, wondering how to do any justice to the impact on their lives. Daniel knows that there is no ending to her story because the story doesn’t end. Daniel knows of the joy in her future. Daniel can see the abundance of light awaiting this woman, her husband and all of her children. He can even see the healing that is to come for those around her, the ones whose pain so troubles her as she writes. Daniel watches as her guardian angel draws closer, engulfing the grieving woman as she struggles to find the right words. She is loved. That is both the beginning and ending of her story.

Christmas message - Steve

Ever since I’ve known my husband, he’s had two best friends, David Goudelock and Steve Ellis. David was the family sanctioned best friend from the first grade, safe as your grandmother, steeped in Old South family tradition, and calm as a mountain lake. Steve was the college-found friend, eons away from tradition, passionately opinionated, and as original as a Galapagos Islands lizard.
David and Steve were the only non-relatives in our hastily put together wedding. David was there by Kerry’s side, probably discussing Clemson athletics. Steve arrived late and was wondering if anyone had picked up his tuxedo. I don’t know that I had met either friend before, but it’s possible that I had…. at least at the rehearsal dinner. But the whole wedding thing is a bit of a whirlwind in my memory and I don’t remember much of anything about the night before. What I do remember is that Steve made me smile from that very first day. He still makes me smile just thinking about the look on his face when he walked in the church and it suddenly struck him that he might need something different to wear.
We lost Steve this year. Barely more than six months after our long goodbye to PaPa and four months after our longer goodbye to my mother, we said an all-too-sudden goodbye to Steve. Lost is a good word for how it feels. When we first heard the news, we kept walking into different rooms, trying to find the one where his death was a mistake, a place where this significant person in our lives and our history was still with us. It was not to be. Steve was suddenly gone without even the chance to bid him farewell.
We’ve had a warm autumn. The first frost almost always comes around my mother’s birthday, October 22. This year, her birthday came and went with the warm sunny days of an Indian summer. Our azalea bushes in the front yard became very confused. In late October, they begin to bloom with incongruous white flowers. Every year, except for the first, I’ve taken our experiences of the year and woven them into a story of fiction, full of metaphor and symbolism of what the year has held. This year, as in my first year, circumstances have intervened. The story I might have written may emerge in the future, capturing a different set of circumstances. I don’t know. I just know that right now, my skill at metaphor falls too short. This year my pen will bleed openly. This year I give tribute to one who has left us for the next reality, the one we see through faith, but in the end, the one that is the great unknown.
My next strong memory of Steve comes from our trip out West together. We had just learned that I was pregnant and I was no longer blinded by Kerry’s credit card and real job, neither of which I brought to our marriage. My thrifty genes inherited from Mom Fowler kicked in and I didn’t think we could afford it. Of course, we went anyway. We are never going to have expensive furniture, designer clothes or any of the rest of the things that are so important to American suburbia. But Kerry and I are going to have adventures, and taking a trip with Steve would ALWAYS be an adventure.
I don’t have to repeat the oft-told stories of 500+ mile days or Steve and I wrestling over the steering wheel. These are legend in our family. But I think I do owe Steve a great debt for the incredible education this trip was. I felt like I was traveling with a full time guide. Was there anything Steve didn’t know about or had read about? I began to see the attraction of these two men. Both of them had found in the other another brilliant, inquisitive mind. I’ve always liked being around really smart people. It took me a long time to figure out that I was smart, too, because I wasn’t brilliant. But it’s like Churck Kriese says – you should always play people in tennis that can beat your butt 95% of the time. And it’s true. All those brains can’t help but rub off on you, at least a little.
So I learned first-hand of Steve’s intelligence on that trip, an intelligence that went way beyond his passion for sports, which I must admit, interested me much less. I was a sports enthusiast when I could play, but I’ve never been excited about reading about sports, and I’m a terrible spectator. I yell at the refs and the players and tried to kick the ball in my imagination at my children’s soccer games. (And I never even PLAYED soccer.) Steve probably couldn’t tell because of our conflict over the driving, but I came really to like him on that trip out West.
I started loving Steve after Shosha was born.
Steve loved children. I always thought that Steve would have a child of his own. One of my hardest challenges in accepting Steve’s death is that I thought this would be the life changer. I could see some 10 year old foster kid coming into Steve and Karen’s life and benefiting from their love. I thought that was the reason for the heart attack, to slow Steve down and turn his passion towards another child who needed him. I still have trouble understanding that it was the end, that Steve’s passion was stilled. There must be a special room in heaven where Steve is playing with other children. I just thought it would be here on Earth.
I can’t imagine anyone better suited to being a daddy than Steve Ellis. Steve collected children wherever he went. Steve had the same kind of aura my mother had. Strange children would come up to Steve and feel perfectly safe. At Steve’s memorial, the best stories were the ones about his love and involvement with children. I think Steve loved every child he ever met. He practiced all he could on Brandon, and I have no doubt that Steve couldn’t love Brandon any more than if he did hold that beloved title of father. But Steve was to Brandon what he was to all of us. He was Steve.
Shosha was not the easy conquest. She was wary of men and didn’t stray too far from her mommy and daddy in those early days. So Steve plied my daughter with marshmallows. He wanted to be her friend and when Steve decided to do something, he did it. I can still picture him sitting in a chair at that spacious kitchen we had in Six Mile with the wooden floors and the windows looking out over the backyard. Shosha studied him with suspicious eyes and a sweet tooth. She liked those soft puffs of sugar and figured she could scream her way out of anything this man did that she didn’t like. She crept slowly forward, her eyes never leaving his face while encompassing the marshmallow. Steve held it away from his body with the utmost patience. Like the cautious young creature she was, Shosha snatched it from his hand and retreated to watch him as she ate it. In the same way many a wild animal has been lured to a forbidden picnic table in a national park, Shosha crept closer and distanced herself less after each sugary treat. Soon, they were on the floor playing. By the time Maura and Nicholas arrived, my children had figured out, as Maura so aptly put it, that when Steve came around, he brought the party with him.
Steve didn’t get to know Nicholas as much as I could have wanted, both for Steve and for Nicholas. I do remember him asking if Nicholas had a name because we always called him “the boy.” I think that bothered Steve, and maybe it bothered Nicholas. We were just so overwhelmed by this new experience of having another male in the family that it just seemed natural to refer to him as “the boy.” But we got busy and there was less time with Steve in those later years than there should have been. It will remain a great regret for me.
Nicholas would have loved a time like our time together at St. George’s. Let’s face it. Steve was fun. We met Steve and Patty and Brandon at this great house on the beach. Shosha and Brandon were almost the same age, and Maura was almost as tall as Brandon and was sure she could do anything to be with Shosha on equal terms. Steve introduced the children to hunting ghost crabs with a flashlight, built elaborate sand castles with them on the beach, and on a boat trip to a small island, taught us all about the various shells found in that area. It was like having Rudy Manke walk the beach with us.
I don’t remember doing anything wildly spectacular or taking any long distance trips on that vacation. It was just nice. It was friends being together and enjoying each other and the children. It was what I wish Steve had more of. Not that he didn’t have a million friends and didn’t travel the world, enjoying all that each place had to offer. But there was a simplicity we shared there. That is what I would have given Steve more of. Steve didn’t slow down much, and I don’t remember us rushing to do anything during our time together at St. George’s.
When we first heard of Steve’s heart attack, I knew we needed to go see him. Kerry had already been worried about him, didn’t like the way he looked at the Florida State game. We immediately began to plot and plan how we could find a couple of days to get to Florida. We didn’t make it. Steve died before we could get there.
I hate the abruptness of Steve’s death. I have learned the importance of last words. But I also know that last words are a gift, not a given. That’s why it is so important to say to the people we love what we want to say while we can. We are only given today.
I will never forget my experience in Joyce Kilmer when I was stung by all those bees and thought I was going to die. My head felt the size of a huge pumpkin and my body felt so strange. I wanted to say last words. I wanted to let Kerry know how much he had given me, how completely blessed I was to have had the time together that we had had. I wanted to tell him how much I loved our children and how I was so grateful for every day I had spent with them.
I didn’t die that day. But I’ve never forgotten the experience. I knew already from Courtney’s death and Jeanne’s suicide that life is unpredictable and that all the life we have is the one we have in the present. The bees that day were another reminder, as was our sudden loss of Steve.
My Christmas story every year is a thinly disguised, annual sermon given to my children to make them cry, they think. But it is a sermon I really give to myself. So this is the point. This is my Christmas message to me and to all of those I love. Christmas is about paying attention to the man who showed us how to live with good intention and proclaimed that the kingdom of heaven has come. It is here. It is now. Let us celebrate.

Christmas Story 2008

I am alone. The blanket of loneliness that weighs me down has more substance than the feeble cloak that covers my body. I live among the lonely in a group that seldom speaks and never touches.
I am a leper.
No one may touch me. I stand ten feet from the nearest person and shout my shame. My clothes are torn and I must cover my mouth with my cloak as I speak. No one looks at me. Not even the merciful, who lay a small coin or a loaf of bread in the dirt for me to recover after they leave, would think to look me in the eye, to say a word of kindness.
I am invisible to them. I have become invisible to myself.
I am a leper. More than that, I am a Samaritan living among Jews. My isolation is complete.
We share our meager meals. Even a Jewish leper recognizes the bond of leprosy and the need to share the always inadequate sustenance that keeps us alive. Alive for what is a question that we never speak aloud. Our punishment is great and public enough without bringing on the humiliation of a suicide to our already shamed families. That I am a Samaritan separates me even more, but I am still a man. All that we have left among our pitiful company is our link of manhood. We are not women.
It was not always this way. I was once part of a family. My father owned his own land and had three sons and a daughter. I am the middle son. I was the middle son.
My sister died in childbirth. After three times producing only dead children, she died herself. Her husband seemed relieved, freed from her to find another who could give him sons. She was the first one of my family to be lost to me. I mourned her, remembering how she cared for me and spoiled me before leaving to be a wife. She was 12 and I was eight when she left. I never saw her again. They lived in the next town but she was never able to visit. She had one pregnancy after another until she died. Her husband remarried after her death. I suppose I should be thankful that he did not divorce her. We never saw him after her funeral.
My oldest brother was next, killed by bandits as he took our crop to a better market. My father was never the same. It was his suggestion that we might make more money if we took our goods to the next town. He spent most of the next year at the synagogue, where he died one day in the midst of his prayers. They brought him back to my pregnant mother, who began an early labor and soon joined her daughter, son, and husband.
Men are not supposed to love their mothers as I did, and mothers are not allowed much affection towards their sons once they are weaned. But my mother would touch me as she set my food on the table, a seemingly incidental touch, and never often enough to catch my father’s notice, but her touch was like a fire of love. I could sense her watching me and feel her love in everything I did.
I loved my mother fiercely.
And when she died, I cursed God in my heart.
I was so angry. Why had he taken my family from me? I was 20 years old, much too old to need my parents. I was a man. And yet, their deaths filled me with such grief and anger that I could barely breathe. My brother and I said kaddish over my father. My brother openly cried, although he too was a man of 18. I did not cry. I said the prayers from a heart of stone.
It was then that my flesh began to decay. It was not long before I was discovered and banned from society. I accepted my shame. I knew the cause of it. I had cursed God and he had cursed me.
Of all my family, only my youngest brother still lives, and he is lost to me forever.
My aloneness hurts all the more for the memory of him and how he begged me to stay. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I would not look into his face to see my leprosy in his eyes. I could not bear how much he loved me. He wanted to help me, to provide for me, to love me in spite of the obvious punishment God had inflicted upon me. I could not bear such love.
My thoughts bring me to my feet and I lose all the comfort my stillness has given me. Movement brings the itch. Movement brings the pain. I know that I am lucky in my feeling. Most of my fellow lepers feel nothing in their putrid flesh. Thomas awoke this morning with another finger gnawed to the stub by the nighttime creatures that seem to know in which pile of rags to seek their prey. I always awaken when they come to me, jerking awake at their first timid nibble. My pain is a blessing and an irony. That my leprosy is different from the others matters less than the fact that I am a Samaritan.
Leprosy is a life sentence. The only cleansings are deep in our shared history, and those who were cleansed were forgiven my God. No such hope exists for me or my brotherhood of lepers. We will die lepers. All of us.
I am hungry. Pain gnaws at my stomach and my head aches as I walk. I am weak and dizzy. I should rejoin the others. My companions have been to the synagogue where they are still allowed to worship in their isolated space, as long as they arrive before all the others and leave without any contact with their unblemished Jewish peers. I am not allowed. My temple of worship is at Mount Gerizan, close to my home, to my brother whom I will never see again. Why can I not stop myself from thinking of him? It has been ten years since I left him and still the thought of him haunts me. When will I stop missing him?
I try to quicken my steps, to distance myself from this inner longing that is more painful than my leprosy or my hunger, but I am too weak. My steps are slow. I can only put one foot in front of the other and try to ignore the itching of my feet as they encounter the small stones on the path. Soon the sun will hover over my head and I will sweat. At that point, my whole body will burn. I should be thankful for the morning coolness. I will try.
* * * * *
“Jesus is here!” they shout. “We heard of him in the synagogue. He will be walking through the town.”
Even in the outskirts in which we live, where Jews and Samaritans coexist but never mingle except in the community of lepers, we have all heard of Jesus, the rabbi who speaks to the poor and enrages the rich. We have heard of his generosity and kindness. He has fed thousands some have said. He has cured the lame and the blind, and even raised the dead. I cannot believe these last rumors, but the thought of bread and of seeing this famous rabbi moves our feet to the edge of town. Here, if we keep our distance, we may shout of our distress. Perhaps he will pity us with bread.
We can see the dust of many feet in the distance. He is coming. No one else would travel with such a crowd. It may be that we will never actually see his face. Probably he will walk in the center of the crowd and will never notice us or hear our cries.
The men will walk together with the women behind, or so I think until they come closer. To my surprise, there are women scattered among the men. This rabbi is truly different. No wonder he makes people angry… to let women walk among the men. This is amazing. Truly, this is a man who might acknowledge a colony of lepers, who might offer food to our hungry assembly. My belly turns with the hope of food.
We creep as close to the road as we dare, covering our mouths and beginning our litany of begging with our heads bowed. Sneaking my eyes upward, I can see many on the edge of the crowd look with disgust and move away from us.
And then we see him. I don’t know how I know that this is Jesus. I cannot say what it is that makes him so different from the others. Certainly it is not his dress or his looks. And then, I know.
It is his eyes. He looks at us. At us, not on the ground before us, as even the most merciful do. He looks at us. He sees us. His dark eyes look long and steadily at each one of us.
When his eyes come to me, I am filled with a burning desire to go to him, to kneel before him and beg for his mercy. I feel that he would touch me and that I would feel the same fire I felt at my mother’s touch.
Suddenly, I have a vision of my brother’s birth. My father has put him into my arms. I look into his dark eyes. I carefully touch his wet hair. I marvel at his tiny fingers and breathe in the newness of his smell. I am overcome with love. The vision is so real that I cry out with my longing for my brother.
Jesus speaks. “Go. Show yourself to the priests.”
As one, we turn and head towards the town and the synagogue. It makes no sense and yet we never question that it is what we will do. Our hunger is forgotten. We only move to do as he says.
One by one, there are shouts of joy among my companions. Thomas raises his arms and begins to praise God. I cannot believe what I am seeing. He is raising two perfectly formed hands above his head. He has been healed!
That is when I realize the absence of my own pain. I do not itch. I do not hurt. I sit and examine my feet. They are perfectly normal. I slowly examine every inch of my body. My leprosy has gone. I, too, have been healed.
I cannot move. I am overcome by what has happened to me. I am filled with such joy that my heart is racing; my breath comes shallow and fast. I think I may faint.
The others leave me, leaping for joy, running towards the priests who will announce to the world that they are cleansed. As they go, I realize that they are running to rejoin a society that will still not accept me. I have no reason to join them.
This does not sadden me. My heart is so full of gratitude that there is no room for anything else.
Where is the man who has given me my life back? I feel not only cleansed, but forgiven. I have cursed God and yet he has had mercy on me and sent this prophet to make me whole again.
The crowd has moved on. I must run to catch them. Every step is a joy. I am free. I can run. I feel as if I can fly.
I see him. I call his name. I fling myself in the dirt before his feet and shout my thankfulness.
I feel his eyes upon me as he speaks.
“Where are the others?” he asks. I know he does not speak to me but to his followers. “Were not ten healed? Only one comes back to thank me, and he is a foreigner.”
His words do not wound me. His reprimand is not for me. I do not feel the hatred that usually accompanies that word, “foreigner”. It is his followers that bow their heads in shame.
“Rise and go,” he says to me. “Your faith has made you well.”
Tears of joy spring to my eyes as I raise them to encounter his. I know where I am to go. To my brother. I go to my brother.

CHRISTMAS 2007


Judas stared into the sea. His fingers deftly explored the ropes of the nets, seeking weak or torn spots in need of attention. His hands moved over the surface of the net with practiced ease while his thoughts were distant and restless. He watched the waves break the surface, running through the rocks and sand, bubbling foam and debris before racing back to meet the next wave tumbling to shore. He felt that same troubled energy churning in his belly. Worry gnawed away at the breakfast he had forced himself to eat. It would worry his mother to see him fasting. She would think he had listened to the pious Pharisees who insisted on assigning blame.
It is not that she would object to a fast. Fasting had always played a part in their lives. Fasting and prayers were rituals of duty and comfort. But she would worry that his fast might represent a penance he didn’t owe, a penance both his parents refused to acknowledge. His mother’s heart might be breaking from sorrow, but not from shame.
His mother’s parting smile belied the pain that was written in the worry lines across her face. Although his mother had only given birth to two sons, both of those sons had reached manhood. Judas was well into his adulthood, having made his first trip to the temple almost four years ago. His mother’s face had long ago lost its smoothness and youthful beauty, but it was only in the last few months that she had begun to look old. Their sorrow had taken the lightness from her step and her smile, but he could still see the determination and love in her eyes as she watched him leave, accepting his excuse of checking on the boat and taking the nets with him into the impending storm. She must have sensed his need to get away. She would know that the boat would have been made secure the night before and the nets would have been better tended within the shelter of their home. She would know that he left to confront his guilt, a guilt their society encouraged and she denied.
“We will have faith,” she told him. “God will provide.”
He nodded at her words and tried to push his doubts aside. It was a harsh world. Many did not survive. Many suffered in ways that Judas could not even attempt to imagine. His family had never been hungry, had never lived with the want that surrounded so many around them. They owned their own boat. They did not have to sell their labor day by day with no guarantee of tomorrow’s wages. The nets he mended were their own. The sea was abundant with its daily bounty. They would not go hungry because the wind was fierce and the sea a churning mass of foam on this day. There would be bread and fish for their dinner, and there would be fishing tomorrow. He sat by the sea with the work of his hands, hands that were beginning to numb with cold, not because he had no choice. He did not live a life of luxury. He was not a tax collector or a landlord. But a plentiful fire warmed his house where he could have easily sat mending his nets. There was grain in their jars, salted fish for months if they needed it, and the oil to cook both. There was much to give thanks for. He knew that. Some days it was comfort enough. Some days it was not. Today, he faced the cold wind blowing off the sea to clear his thoughts, to look within himself to find the faith that came so hard for him in these last few months.
Judas was raised in a family of faith. His father had taken his brother and him to the synagogue to pray every morning since before he could remember. They dutifully kept the Sabbath and gave alms over and above their tithes. His mother could often be found visiting the sick of their community with her warm fish broth and bread. She gladly cared for the little ones of a sick mother with no older children. No matter what the religious authorities said, he would not believe that their suffering was the result of a secret sin on the part of his mother or father, or even of his brother. His parents had lived honest, loving lives and did not deserve the blame that was directed towards them. What happened to Benjamin was not their fault.
They didn’t believe so either. “Our God is a God of mercy,” his father told him. “He would not hurt our Benjamin for something we did. There is so much sickness and suffering. It is the way of our lives. We have suffered less than most. And God will teach us in our suffering and will provide us with mercy.” His father would not discuss who had sinned to cause Benjamin to become so ill, to almost die, and then to awaken without the use of his legs. “We must give thanks that God has spared his life. I would not like to think of life without Benjamin. I am thankful for both of my sons.” His father had embraced him then. “We will be Benjamin’s legs for him.”
And so they were. His father had made a special pallet for Benjamin. Judas and his father could easily move Benjamin around their small house; and on the Sabbath, there were always friends who were willing to give them a hand. Benjamin had not missed a Sabbath service since the fever had left him. Judas and three of Benjamin’s friends would share the burden of his weight. They had traveled the distance of more than a mile growing stronger with each journey. Whatever Benjamin’s friends thought of the Pharisee’s words, they were always willing to help carry Benjamin wherever he wanted to go. Never in his life had Benjamin lacked for friends and the loss of his legs had not changed that.
Everyone loved Benjamin. He was the perfect child. Adults loved him for his intelligent, respectful way of talking with them. Men had always commented to Judas’s father what a blessing it must be to have a son like Benjamin. He was always first to memorize a scripture and to understand its meaning. He was the only one in the village to master the languages of the travelers who passed through their town on the way to Jerusalem. It had been a great boon to the fishermen of the town to have a native child who could bargain with the strangers passing through for the best price. Until his illness, no one in the town had a single, harsh word to say about his family. Any family that could produce a man like Benjamin was to be honored and respected.
The strange thing was that all of the other children liked Benjamin as well. He had more friends than anybody. No one seemed to resent the positive attention the town bestowed upon Benjamin. He was everyone’s favorite playmate as a child and everyone’s best friend as they grew up. He was kind and considerate and the kind of person everybody just liked. Everyone wanted to be around Benjamin. Even now, when Benjamin was so limited by his inability to walk, their house was constantly filled with friends and laughter. Others would drop in at the end of the day to tell Benjamin an amusing story or to share the news of a new engagement or to describe the dress of the newest travelers in town. Benjamin was everybody’s friend, and even from the confines of his pallet, he brought a brightness into any room he occupied.
Judas loved Benjamin. Benjamin brightened Judas’s life in the same way he brightened everyone’s life around him. Judas would rather be with Benjamin than with anyone else. But…he had also resented him, had traveled that dark path of feeling inferior. Benjamin excelled at everything with what seemed complete effortlessness. How could a younger brother not feel inferior? He hated those feelings within himself. They were not good for him. They hurt. When he concentrated on how good Benjamin was then everything Judas himself did well paled in comparison and he felt like a failure. Judas actually had a wonderful, bass voice that in any other family would have been a gift worth noting. But what was the ability to sing next to the ability to speak four different languages and to understand as many more different dialects. It was nothing.
Judas had never actually crossed the line into hatred for his brother. Even the anger he felt towards his parents’ obvious favoritism never reached expression. Instead, it burned within him, filling him with shame. It only decreased his sense of self worth. And now, there was the fear that his self loathing was justified. What if it had been his resentment that had caused Benjamin’s illness and resulting paralysis? What if Benjamin suffered now because of his own jealousy? The Pharisees certainly believed that someone had sinned to cause the sickness that had afflicted Benjamin, especially when he lost the use of his legs upon his recovery. His parents didn’t think so, and Judas didn’t want to believe it, but what if they were right? What if all this pain really was his fault?
He reached to wipe his tears away with the edge of his cloak, and looked to the horizon of the dark sea ahead of him. The swell of the waves, their white caps blinking at him and the sound of the lapping of the waves on the shore provided a rhythm that was soothing in spite of its harshness. He waited before the sea. His hands fell still. His eyes glazed over as he allowed the sounds to lull him into a peaceful rest that he couldn’t explain. It was so much bigger and grander than his feelings of self doubt and pity. The enormity and power of the sea washed away at his worry and fear. Slowly the worry began to pass. The tightness in his gut loosened. His breath became smoother and the pain within began to dissipate. A prayer stumbled from his lips, joining the rhythm of the sea. Soon he found that he was singing to the accompaniment of the booming water. He sighed at the unexpected relief from his troubled mind. The sea always seemed to hold the power of healing for him. He would return to his home refreshed, relieved for the moment of his doubts and fears.
*************
Judas’s eyes sought out his brother Benjamin as he came into the room. Benjamin sat listless on his pallet against the wall. His hands lay limp in his lap. However, as soon as he looked up to see Judas, a bright smile lit Benjamin’s face.
“Hello brother, weren’t you cold outside? I would gladly have helped you with the nets. It’s one of the things I can still do to help. I want to do whatever I can.”
Benjamin’s eager eyes held his and Judas saw in them the pain his own helplessness gave to Benjamin. Judas was overcome with love for this brother who so often had held him and carried him when they were younger, and who now had to be carried wherever he went.
“It was nothing,” he told Benjamin, “You know how I love to be outside when it starts getting colder.”
“That’s true,” Benjamin replied. “I never have envied you the time you spent on the boat during the winter.”
Benjamin’s words gave Judas pause for thought. He had never thought of Benjamin envying him at all. The idea seemed ridiculous. It was true, however, that their father would sometimes ask Judas and not Benjamin to work on the boat during the winter months, trusting Judas’s superior skills in the restless sea. It was one of those things that Judas did better than Benjamin that he had never even considered. He glanced back at Benjamin with this new, unexpected thought, but Benjamin’s smile was unchanged. It was full of love and absent of envy. If Benjamin held any resentment of Judas’s ability to come and go as he pleased, it did not show on his face.

**********************

“He’s back.”
The door was filled with Benjamin’s friends.
“He’s staying again at Peter’s mother-in-law’s house.”
“Everyone has been talking of the healings wherever he goes.” This was Matthew and he looked directly at Benjamin. “One man was healed of a skin disease that he had since childhood, almost twenty years and they say his skin is as clear as a baby’s.”
Judas saw the hope in Benjamin’s eyes. He had heard of this traveling preacher. He had heard of the healings, but he had never witnessed one. He knew of Peter, had fished the same waters of Capernaum that Peter fished. He knew James and John, the sons of Zebedee. They had told him a story that he had found hard to believe, a story of an angry sea and waves that listened to this man’s voice. How could that be possible?
Benjamin’s friends were urging Benjamin to come with them.
“We must go now,” they insisted. “The house will be filled if we don’t leave immediately.”
Benjamin looked to Judas. His eyes a question mark. Should they go to see this healer? Would he be able to give Benjamin back his ability to walk?
Once again, Judas was filled with love for his brother. Hadn’t his father and mother both predicted that God would show them mercy? Hadn’t he already provided them with so much to be thankful for?
“We will go,” Judas told him. “We must get Benjamin’s cloak. It is a longer walk than we’ve taken before and the night is cool.”
They bundled Benjamin against the cold and took their places around the pallet. Their excitement gave them energy as they walked down the road. They walked steadily but the way was long and they were forced to stop several times to rest. Finally, they could see the house from the distance and the crowd that surrounded it.
“Don’t worry,” Judas assured Benjamin. “We’ll find a way to reach him.”
But the crowd was immovable. They tried several different ways to push their way to the front door or even to an open window. A single man might maneuver his way to the front, but four men with a pallet had no chance. The three friends and Judas lay Benjamin down to rest.
“Perhaps some of the crowd will leave,” Benjamin said hopefully.
It didn’t look like it. No one had moved in the last hour since they had been there. If anything, the crowd had increased so much that Jesus could hardly be heard at the edges of the crowd. Judas looked at Benjamin. He sat quietly hopeful, waiting patiently. Judas would not disappoint him. Judas would take his brother to Jesus. Jesus would heal his brother. If there was ever a person who should be granted healing, it was his brother Benjamin, and Judas was determined that he would do whatever needed to be done to get Benjamin to Jesus.
“We’ll never get through the crowd,” Judas told the friends. “But I think there’s a way to get Benjamin to Jesus if you’re willing to help me.”
And he told them his plan. At first, they were skeptical, and then Benjamin laughed. “Judas, you are brilliant! Of course it will work.”

**************************
It was hard work, and before they were finished, all of them had taken off their outer garments and were dripping sweat. A few people had gathered to watch them, commenting softly; but no one had tried to stop them.
They could see directly down over Jesus’ head. Others had been watching their progress with obvious curiosity. They had not been quiet. They could not avoid the dirt dropping into the room. The crowd made room around Jesus, but Jesus himself had ignored them completely, continuing with his lessons. The rabbis and the lawyers were looking up at them. Their faces showed their hostility and disgust.
Matthew had gone for ropes and they had made the pallet as secure as they could. Judas and the others embraced Benjamin before they began to ease him downward as gently as possible. It was not possible and the pallet jerked so that Benjamin had to hold tightly to the ropes to keep from falling. Finally, he lay at Jesus’ feet. Benjamin said nothing but focused his eyes on Jesus with a love that was pure and bright.
Jesus looked down upon Benjamin. Judas could not see his face but he could see Benjamin’s. It was totally trusting.
“My child,” Jesus said. “Your sins are forgiven you.”
An almost audible gasp went through the teachers and lawyers at Jesus’ words. Benjamin’s own heart sank and all of his feelings of guilt and shame came roaring back. “It is my sin,” he thought, “not Benjamin’s.” At that point, Jesus raised his eyes to the roof and looked directly at Benjamin. It was as if his thoughts had been spoken aloud. He thought his heart would burst from the pain.
And then Jesus smiled, a smile that felt like the sea, and he returned to face the Pharisees who were whispering among themselves.
“Why do you have these thoughts in your hearts? Which of these is easier to say to this paralytic man? ‘My child your sins are forgiven’ or to say ‘Get up, take up your pallet and walk’?”
Benjamin’s expression had not changed at all. He continued to look at Jesus with shining eyes. Jesus’ words had brought no disappointment to him.
“But to prove to you that the Son of Man has the authority to forgive sins on earth,” Jesus turned to speak to Benjamin. “I order you to get up, pick up your pallet and return to your parents.”
Benjamin never hesitated. He stood on the legs that had been useless for months, he picked up the pallet his father had made, he looked up to the roof at his friends and Judas. His face radiated the joy they all felt. He bowed his head to Jesus and walked boldly from the house. People moved aside before him, many shouting praises to God, all of them expressing their amazement at his healing.
Jesus looked once again to the roof and into Benjamin’s eyes and his words rang again in Benjamin’s heart. “My child, your sins are forgiven.”