God Is with Us

“Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means, God is with us.” – Matthew 1:23

The first time I saw Mary, she was a still a girl, walking with a water jar perfectly balanced on top of her head.  She walked with grace and purpose, as if an inner light guided her steps.  Our eyes met, and I felt an instant sense of recognition, as if we knew one another in some deep and ancient way.  My heart was beating like the wings of a hummingbird, and my mouth felt strange and dry.  “What are you looking at, Joseph?”  my mother called.  “Oh, mother,” I answered, a little dazed, “I think I just saw my wife.”  My sisters laughed and began to tease, “Joseph is in love!  Joseph wants a wife!”  But my mother didn’t laugh.  She looked at me thoughtfully, as if measuring the weight of my words.  She shaded her eyes against the early morning light and looked at Mary, her small, slight figure made strangely tall by the water jug.

I was not much more than a boy at the time, but already I had strong hands and broad shoulders from working with my father.  We were carpenters.  You name it; we made it – benches, tables, doors, yokes, plows, troughs, even a rudder for your boat.  We were known for our honesty and skill.  No one was rich in Galilee in those days, except maybe the tax collectors.  Half of all we earned went to fill the coffers of the Roman Empire.  Sometimes late at night, I would hear my mother whispering her worries – how would they pay their taxes, put food on the table, and afford a bride price so that I could someday marry?  My father Jacob was a righteous man.  He said, “If God could provide a ram when Father Abraham was prepared to sacrifice Isaac, then God will certainly provide for us.  God is with us!”

I loved the Sabbath day best.  On Fridays, as sundown neared, my father would look up and say, “Shabbat shalom!  The peace of the Sabbath be with you, my son!”  We would put aside our work, bathe, anoint our heads with a few drops of precious oil, wrap ourselves in our tallits, and pray.  Then, after dinner, we would listen as father told wonderful stories of God’s saving work for our people – leading them out of slavery in Egypt, delivering them from the Philistines by the hand of our forefather David, and bringing them home from exile in Babylon.  Always, he finished the evening with the words, “Children, never forget – God is with us!”

As time passed, I worked hard and grew strong.  Always, I kept my eyes open for Mary, and sometimes I saw her, returning from the cistern or buying in the market.  I tried my very best to hide my interest, but always the beating of my heart like a hammer on a workbench sent a flush to my cheeks.  Soon my sisters would notice and the teasing would begin anew: “Joseph is in love!  Joseph wants a wife!”  Then one day, as my father and I were walking home, we passed our street and continued walking to a different part of Nazareth.  Thinking of my mother’s fresh bread, hot from the oven, ready for our supper, I said, “But Abba, where are you going?  Mother will wonder what is keeping us.”  My father gave me a knowing look, “Joseph, I think we should stop and visit with Joachim and Anna on the way home. What do you think?”  All the blood drained from my face.  Joachim and Anna were Mary’s parents.  We were going to Mary’s house!  I must have looked like I was ready to run away because my father linked his arm through mine and said, “Yes, Joseph!  I think a little visit would be quite nice.”

Mary’s house was at the very edge of Nazareth.  Her parents had a small olive grove, and in the middle of their grove stood an ancient press carved out of bedrock where the ripe fruit was rendered into precious oil.  My father strode into their yard and called out, “Brother Joachim, Sister Anna, shalom!”  The door opened, and Anna shooed a number of small children out into the yard, all curious eyes and smiling faces.  They seemed to be expecting us.  The table was set, and the wonderful aromas of baking bread, goat stew, and garlic filled the house.  There with her mother was Mary.  I noticed how grown up she had gotten, taller than her mother now, with her beautiful long hair covered like a grown woman.

We took seats at the table with Joachim while Anna and Mary buzzed about, bringing savory dishes for us to taste.  I wanted to say shalom, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out, except a funny little noise like the mewling of a kitten.  Thank goodness that everyone ignored me.  I closed my mouth and pretended to be very interested in what Joachim and my father had to say.  On and on, they talked, about weather, olives, fishing, and taxes.  Anna and Mary disappeared into the yard when a loud squawking suggested that the children were up to no good with the chickens. 

As we were preparing to leave, my father said to Joachim, “Your oldest girl, what is her name?”  “Ah!”  Joachim smiled, “Mary!  The apple of my eye!  Strong, beautiful, kind, righteous, hardworking!  Such a treasure!”  “Mary,” my father said thoughtfully, “She must be getting old enough to think about a husband.”  At this, I immediately felt sweat pouring down my sides and collecting in a large puddle on the bench.  “Yes, a husband!” Joachim answered, as if he had never thought of this before.  “But where is one to find a husband worthy of my Mary in all of Nazareth?”  I began to feel dizzy, and my hammering heart threatened to explode right out of my chest.  I could tell that Joachim’s attention had shifted to me, so I looked at the floor and held my breath.  “Yes,” my father said in that same thoughtful tone, “Where indeed?  Perhaps the Lord will provide.  God is with us!  Well, Joachim, we must be on our way.”  We stood up and the men embraced.  I blushed as I heard Joachim whisper to my father, “He doesn’t talk much, does he?” and my father whispered back, “No, but he is like Mary, strong and well made, kind, righteous, and hardworking.”  As we walked back down the lane away from Mary’s house, my father casually asked, “Joseph, don’t you think Mary would make a fine wife?”  Suddenly I found my tongue, “Yes, Father, the very best!”

A week later, we went back to Mary’s house with my whole family.  The rabbi and two witnesses came along.  My father brought more money than I had ever seen.  How he had saved it from the tax collectors, I will never know.  He paid the bride price for Mary, the rabbi blessed our betrothal, and the witnesses said, “Amen!”  It was official now – I would be Mary’s husband and she would be my wife.  I don’t know who was more frightened, Mary or me.  Joachim poured wine for us, and my father raised a glass, saying, “L’ Chaim! God is with us!”  Out in the yard, I could hear my sisters singing with Mary’s sisters, “Joseph is in love!  Joseph has a wife!”  In a year’s time, we would celebrate our marriage.  For now, Mary would stay in her parent’s house and continue to learn and grow, while my father and I would prepare a place for her in our house, adding a room to our home. That night, by the light of the oil lamp, I began to work on a special project, a wedding gift for Mary, a cradle where we would rock our first child.

I’m not sure when I began to wonder if something was wrong.  One day I saw Mary’s mother in the market with her younger children.  When I called out, “Anna, shalom!” she nodded and hurried off.  The neighbors began to whisper, and when I approached, they would fall silent.  I no longer saw my strong and graceful Mary returning from the cistern, a water jar perfectly balanced on her head.  Then one night Joachim knocked at our door.  He looked tired and worried.  “Jacob, come walk with me,” he waved to my father, and the two men strolled off into the warm night air.

The next morning, I noticed that my father had the same tired and worried look that I had seen on Joachim’s face.  It was a Friday, and all day long he was quiet, as if deep in thought.  As the evening drew near, for the first time in my life, I was the first to say, “Shabbat shalom!  The peace of the Sabbath be with you, father!”  “Ah, Joseph,” he smiled back, “It is good to remember the Sabbath day.  God is with us.”  We went home to bathe and pray and eat.  After dinner, my father told stories, strange stories of our ancestors: Abraham and Sarah blessed with a baby in their old age; Tamar, who tricked her father-in-law Judah into giving her the child she deserved; Ruth, the Moabite, who came to Israel a poor widow, only to become the great-grandmother of a king.  One by one, the children fell asleep, and then my mother went in to bed, and only my father and I were left, seated in silence in the flickering lamplight.

My eyes were heavy with sleep when my father said, “Joseph, Mary is with child.”  At once I was wide awake, trying to make sense of what I had heard.  He continued with great seriousness, “You know, Joseph, in places like Jerusalem, they may not honor the old ways and wait for the wedding day, but we are not like that here.  You have brought shame upon this family and upon your bride.”  My mind was reeling, trying to understand.  “Mary is with child?”  I asked.  My father raised his eyebrows and opened his hands in a little gesture, as if to say, “What did you expect?”  “But father,” I blurted out, “we didn’t, it’s impossible, no!”  My father only shook his head, “Yes, Joseph.  It is true.”  His shoulders slumped, and with a long sigh he buried his face in his rough hands.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t think.  It felt as if the walls of the house were closing in around me.  I jumped up, sending my chair over backwards, and ran out into the streets of Nazareth.

For hours I walked, trying to puzzle it out.  My father thought that I had been with Mary, and we had conceived a child, but I knew otherwise.  That meant that Mary had been with someone else.  But who?  And how?  And why?  It made no sense.  Mary, so strong and kind and righteous, would never dishonor her family or our betrothal.  Would she?  Perhaps I had been wrong about her, blinded by love.  Perhaps she was laughing at me.  She didn’t want to marry me at all, and this was the only way she could get out of it.  What should I do?  Righteousness required that I tell the truth and release Mary from our engagement.  Then she would be free to marry the father of her child.  But what if he was a dishonorable man and rejected her?  Then she would have to depend upon the good will of her family to support her.  I knew of women who had been turned out by their families, who were forced to earn their keep on the streets as prostitutes.  I had even heard stories of angry husbands who, when confronted with their wives’ adultery, demanded that they be stoned.  I thought of my beloved Mary publicly shamed, or selling herself for a living with a baby on her hip, or broken, bleeding, and dying upon the ground, and my heart broke.  I began to weep, shaking my fist at the night sky, lamenting the loss of our future together and the end of my dreams for a happy home with my wonderful bride.

When I got back to the house, my father had gone to bed.  I sat at the table and stared at the oil lamp.  My eyes became heavy, and I nodded.  Before I knew it, my head was on the table, sound asleep.  “Joseph!”  Was I dreaming?  “Joseph!”  I heard a voice.  “Joseph!”  I looked around, and there was an angel, a messenger from God, fiery and bright!  I hid my face in fear.  “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.  She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.  All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:  ‘Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means, God is with us.’”  Suddenly, I was wide-awake.  I looked around the room, now empty and quiet.  I tried to think.  I had heard of angels appearing to my forefathers, to Jacob and to Joshua and to Isaiah.  Was this truly an angel appearing to me?  Could a virgin conceive?  Would God choose Mary and me to raise a holy child, a child to become the great salvation of our people?

I remembered the ancient stories of God’s saving work for Israel.  I remembered God’s faithfulness.  My father always said, “God is with us,” but until that moment, I don’t think I truly knew what he meant.  God is always at work in the lives of faithful people, seeking their wholeness and redemption.  Now God was asking me to be a part of God’s great plan, to create a safe place, a holy family, where a Messiah could grow.  In that moment, I knew what I must do.  I put out the lamp and went to bed, slipping into a troubled sleep where I dreamt of royal stars rising in the east and astrologer kings crossing desert sands with rare gifts.

When I awoke the next morning, my father was already up, wrapped in his tallit, praying the ancient prayers.  I took out my tallit, touched it to my lips, and we prayed together.  When we finished, I turned to my father and said, “Abba, it’s time that I brought my bride home.  I think I can have Mary’s cradle ready just in time to welcome a son.”  My father smiled.  “Ah, Joseph, I see you are indeed a righteous man.  It will be good to welcome your wife into our home.”  He gripped me in a big bear hug that squeezed the air right out of my lungs.  “So,” he said as we prepared to break our fast, “You think it’s going to be a boy, do you?  Have you given any thought to the name Emmanuel?  God is with us!”

This story is from my upcoming book Testament.

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Pexels.com

Bent Over

Sabbath Day Thoughts — “Bent Over” Luke 13:10-17

It was the best sermon I had ever heard.  Shall I start with the voice?  Rich and melodic, captivating.  Within moments, I felt as if I had known him all my life.  He read the Torah with such love, as if he were feasting on every word.  And when he opened the scriptures to us, they came alive.  I could feel the compassion and mercy of God in ways that I had never felt before, as if even I were a beloved child of God.  The synagogue at Capernaum was quiet. Every ear strained to hear every sound.  When Rivka’s baby began to fuss, we all said, “Shhhh!” not wanting to miss a word.

But then it stopped.  Without warning or “Amen,” there were simply no more words.  Worshippers began to buzz and turn restlessly in their seats.  Slowly things got louder, like a wave of sound rising from the best seats at the front of the sanctuary and rolling back to where I stood, mostly hidden, in the doorway.  My husband Moshe placed a hand upon my back and cursed under his breath.  “Lord, help us! It’s you, Mahalath. He sees you.  I knew we never should have come.”

I should tell you about my back.  It started the year our second child was born, a sweet and ruddy boy to join an older brother.  I was still hale and strong.  With one child bouncing on my hip and another sleeping in a sling at my breast, I worked alongside Moshe. We brought in the barley harvest and shook olive branches to rain down a harvest of ripe fruit. I milked the goats, fed chickens, ground grain at the wheel, and spun wool into yarn.  Young and able with the handsome Moshe at my side and our beautiful boys, I was the envy of many, and that may have been part of the problem.  You know the ways of jealousy and the dangers of the evil eye.

One day, I bent to lift the bread from the oven, and I couldn’t stand up.  My back writhed like it was being squeezed in a vice, and my whole body seized in pain.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t move.  I dropped to my knees, sending the loaves into the fire.  The world grew dim and then went black.

I’m not sure how long I was in darkness.  I awoke to the sound of my children crying.  Moshe hovered over me, looking worried.  A Greek physician from Sepphoris had been brought to attend me. 

“Ah!  You are awake!” the doctor said matter-of-factly.  He dribbled a vile tasting liquid into the corner of my mouth.  “Drink it all, dear,” he said with kindness. “It will help with the pain.”  I gagged it down, blinking back tears, and slipped into a sleep troubled by dreams of fire, serpents, and burned bread.

When I awoke, Moshe was sitting at my side, holding my hand.  Our boys had climbed into the bed with me.  Their small hands clutched the folds of my tunic. Their cheeks were red with worry and weeping.  “Ugh!” I moaned.

Moshe leaned in, “Mahalath, stay still.  The Greek says that you have been possessed by the spirit of the python.  You must save your strength to fight.”

Now, I had heard that in Delphi, on the far side of the Great Sea, the Greeks worship the sun god.  Poseidon speaks through priestesses possessed by the spirit of the python.  Twisted, bent, and rigid, they prophesy all day long.  For the right price, they might even tell you of a bright future.  But that had nothing to do with me. I loved Yahweh.  I was a beloved daughter of Israel, or so I thought.

I did fight.  I found my feet again.  I learned to live with pain.  I tended my children.  I did my best to keep our home and fields, but I never stood up straight again. Our neighbors said that I was “bent over,” as if I were a broken reed or a tree snapped by a windstorm. With every year, my back bent more noticeably, and as my shoulders rounded and my spine folded in on itself, my perspective grew small, narrow, and limited. 

My affliction made me unwelcome at the synagogue, for only someone cursed by Yahweh could look as I did.  But each week, I would wait at the back, hovering in the doorway, hoping for the smallest crumb of blessing.  Our neighbors stopped including us, uncomfortable with my woe and believing the worst.  One day, the neighborhood children began to call me names. At first, they did so behind my back; eventually, they did so to my face.  In time, most people just called me “Bent Over Woman,” as if I didn’t even have a real name.  I prayed always, hoping that if I could find the right words, I might be set free from this prison that my body had become.

So, while I could tell you that he preached the best sermon I had ever heard, and I could tell you that Rivka’s baby fussed, and I could tell you that the preaching stopped and the sound of whispering and unrest rolled to me like a restless wave, I could not tell you what he looked like, or why Rivka’s baby fussed, or why the rabbi stopped speaking, or why the sound of my restless neighbors rolled toward me.  Because the only thing that I could see was what I always see: my feet.

Moshe reached a protective arm around my back and held my hand.  “Mahalath,” he whispered, “He’s waving to you!  He wants you to come forward.”

I tried to turn and leave, but Moshe held me fast.  “Mahalath,” he urged, “What have we got to lose?” 

What did we have to lose?  It doesn’t get much worse than living in constant pain, shunned by your neighbors, and excluded from your church.  It doesn’t get much worse than being called Bent Over Woman.  My life had become an agony of loneliness and suffering.  With Moshe at my side, I walked to the front.

If it was quiet when the rabbi spoke, it was deathly still as I stood before him.  Every eye in the synagogue was fixed on me.  Every breath was held.  Even Rivka’s baby was silent. 

Then, this rabbi did a most unusual thing.  He squatted down on his haunches, down into my limited field of vision, and he looked up into my face.  He was sun-browned, as if he worked in the fields.  Fine lines creased the corners of his eyes, which were a deep, bottomless brown.  He smiled and his kind eyes sparkled with interest and concern. Next, he said the most ridiculous thing that I had ever heard, “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.”  Didn’t he see what everyone else saw: my hideous bent-over back?  Someone snickered. Moshe took a protective step closer.

What happened next is still being talked about in Capernaum.  The rabbi stood up and placed his two broad, strong hands on my poor crippled back.  What I noticed first was warmth, like the sun on a winter day bringing a blessing to your upturned face.  Slowly it flowed out from his hands, spreading down to the tips of my toes and reaching up to the top of my head.  It was then that I realized that my pain was gone.  The spirit of the python that had held me tight in its grip had departed!  I took a deep breath and then another. Then, for the first time in eighteen years, I stood up.  I gasped and shouted bold cries of “Alleluia!” and “Thanks be to the Holy One of Israel!” I hugged Moshe, then I hugged the rabbi as my neighbors watched in shocked silence.

Not everyone was happy.  The synagogue leader was scandalized that I had entered the sanctuary, and the rabbi had healed on the sabbath.  But the rabbi would hear none of it, for surely, even one such as I deserved the mercy that is shown to an ox or mule. 

With a wink, the rabbi turned to me. “Mahalath,” he called me by name. “Mahalath, I think I just finished my sermon for today.”

I practically danced toward the door of the synagogue, followed by the rabbi and Moshe.  Out they went, but before I left, I turned to my neighbors, the ones who for eighteen years had ignored me, gossiped about me, called me names, and failed to show me the courtesy one might extend to a barnyard animal.  I looked them in the eyes and said, “By the way, my name is not Bent-Over-Woman.  My name is Mahallath. You are welcome to come break your fast with us today.”

The synagogue erupted in cheers and praise.  That sabbath evening, Jesus dined with us, and so did all of Capernaum. The pot never emptied, the bread seemed to multiply, and the wine never failed. But that is a miracle to tell on another day.  I rejoiced—and so did the whole village with me—in the wonderful things that Jesus was doing.

Luke 13:10-17

10 Now he was teaching in one of the synagogues on the Sabbath. 11 And just then there appeared a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. 12 When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.” 13 When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God. 14 But the leader of the synagogue, indignant because Jesus had cured on the Sabbath, kept saying to the crowd, “There are six days on which work ought to be done; come on those days and be cured and not on the Sabbath day.” 15 But the Lord answered him and said, “You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the Sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger and lead it to water? 16 And ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen long years, be set free from this bondage on the Sabbath day?” 17 When he said this, all his opponents were put to shame, and the entire crowd was rejoicing at all the wonderful things being done by him.

James Tissot, “The Woman with an Infirmity of Eighteen Years” (La femme malade depuis dix-huit ans), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons, in the collection of the Brooklyn Museum.

From Sheep to Shepherd

Sabbath Day Thoughts — “From Sheep to Shepherd” Acts 9:36-43

The noise was deafening.  Widows of every age surrounded me.  Some cast back their heads in ululation.  Others sobbed in lament.  Some pressed upon me the work of her hands, pointing to a finely woven flax tunic, a weighty woolen shawl, or the fine tracery of crimson embroidery threaded along the cuff of a sleeve.  “Help us, help us! Who will help us?” they pleaded.  I looked over to the husband, who sat on a bench in the courtyard, nearly catatonic with grief.

I was still fairly new to this apostle thing.  In fact, I had considered giving up after the resurrection.  In all honesty, I had proven to be a fairly worthless disciple.  I thought I knew it all.  I slept when I should have been praying.  I ran when I was needed to stand my ground.  In the Chief Priest’s courtyard, I had cursed in fear and panic, insisting that I didn’t know the Lord, had never met him, had nothing to do with him.  If the resurrection had convinced me of anything, it was of the greatness of God, the holiness of my Lord Jesus, and my utter worthlessness as a disciple.

In fact, I had returned to my home in Galilee and the familiar work of fishing.  The waves on the water, the heft of the net in my hands, the rise and fall of the boat under sail.  But I had proven to be a failure even at what was my birthright.  Then, in the early morning on the rocky shore with the smoke of the charcoal fire in my eyes and the taste of grilled fish and fresh bread on my tongue, the risen Lord had restored me to my purpose.  “Do you love me?” he asked.  “Tend my flock,” he commanded.  For the love of Jesus, I was trying.

Now if ever there were sheep without a shepherd, these women were it.  Across the Great Sea, the Greeks and Romans do things differently, but here we live by the Old Ways. Our women do not have inheritance rights.  The death of a husband or a grown son leaves a woman at the mercy of a new patriarch, and some are by no means merciful.  That was obvious.  A toothless crone with two canes wailed at my elbow.  A cross-eyed woman with an addled brain babbled for my attention.  An emaciated young mother, with two small children clinging to her skirt, sobbed hopelessly.  A bald woman with a goiter the size of a pomegranate held up an intricately woven kerchief.

From their stories, it was clear that Tabitha – or I should say Dorcas – had been their shepherd.  She had clothed them, fed them, and provided for them from her own purse. Her death was a tragedy for all.  It started with a cough, followed by the spike of a fever.  Her breathing had grown labored, her breath fetid.  Within a few days, she was gone. Now these lost sheep surrounded me with their tears and the ridiculous expectation that I should raise the dead.  They pushed me up the stairs, shoved me into the upper room, closed the door, and continued their non-stop racket.

The room was dark.  I crossed to the window, parted the curtains, and opened the shutters, flooding the room with light and a sea breeze.  Near the window, where the light was the best, stood a loom, threaded with a work in progress. Across the room, the body lay on a bed, shrouded by a woolen pall.  I peeled back the cloth.  Dark curls, like soft clouds, surrounded a kind face with creases left behind by years of smiles.  She wore a simple linen tunic.  Her hands were folded on her chest above her heart and she held an olive-wood cross.  So natural and peaceful.  I placed my hand on hers and shrank back from the cold flesh, inert and lifeless.

I began to pace, as is often the case when I am worried, anxious, or angry.  What was I doing?  Who was I to raise the dead? What would happen when I failed, as I undoubtedly would? I had agreed to tend the flock, but I didn’t sign up for this.  All those expectations of the keening widows pressed in on me. I felt like I was the one wrapped in a pall, a shroud of their lament. I began to hyperventilate. “Feed my sheep?” I wheezed. “Thanks a lot, Jesus.”

“What seems to be the problem, Peter?” I knew that voice better than my own. He stood with his back to the window, his face in shadows. The sunshine, flooding into the room, seemed to shimmer and surge around his silhouette. I stopped hyperventilating.

“Jesus!” I shouted, half-angry, half-relieved. “C’mon. you don’t expect me to raise this woman.  Do you? I can’t do it!  I can’t!”  It may have been my imagination, but the wailing in the hallway outside the room seemed to escalate.

Jesus nodded, as he often did when I stated the obvious. “No, you can’t do it, Peter.”

This wasn’t helping my confidence at all.  I paced some more while he watched. I stopped and pointed at him accusingly, “You could do it!  You raised Jairus’s daughter.  I was there.  I saw her smile.  I saw her stretch her arms up to be held.  How about the widow of Nain’s son, hopping off his funeral byre as if her were embarrassed to be caught napping? Remember, Lazarus?  Three-days-dead and stinking, you called him out of the tomb.  You can do it!  You can do it!  But I’m not you.”

Jesus agreed, “No, you’re not.”

I paced some more.  I couldn’t do it, but Jesus could.  I shot a look at him where he was now leaning with an elbow on the window sill, and I swear, he raised his eyebrows like he does when he is waiting for me to draw an obvious conclusion.  I stopped.

“Are you really here, Lord?”

Now, he was smiling. “Didn’t I promise to be with you always, Peter, even to the end of the age?” 

He had made that promise.  He had even sent his Holy Spirit as a perpetual reminder.  As Jesus pushed away from the window and took a step closer to me, I felt the Spirit ripple within me. It was obvious. I turned away from Jesus and looked over at the peaceful and thoroughly dead Tabitha—or should I say Dorcas?  “I can’t do it,” I said again, “but you can.”

I moved toward the bed.  The sun warmed my back and moved along my limbs. I stepped closer still to the body and my shadow fell across her face.  I raised my arms with power and words of authority that were mine, but not mine, sounded loud.  “Tabitha!  Get up!”

The first thing I noticed was the slow throb of a vein, pulsing at her temple. Next, her chest began to gently rise and fall with the soft swell of her breath. Her mouth opened in an enormous yawn and a hand fluttered up to cover it.  Here eyelids blinked open, once, twice.  “O, Jesus!  You came!” she smiled.

I whirled around to see if the Lord was still behind me at the window. The room was empty.  The curtains fluttered in the sea breeze, the threads dangling from the loom danced in the shifting air.  Beyond the door, the keening of the women was undiminished and someone had broken out a shofar, blowing long, slow, mournful notes. 

I bent down and took the hand of the no-longer-dead woman. She was still clutching the olive wood cross but had kicked off the woolen shroud and was wiggling her toes.  I helped her up. “Sister,” I said to the puzzled Tabitha, “I know some people who will be happy to see you.” 

As I opened the door and guided her through, there was a moment of stunned silence.  Then, mourning shifted to joy.  There were glad shouts of recognition and fervent alleluias.  Tears of joy streamed down jubilant faces. The crone brandished her canes in celebration.  The fool sang a psalm of rejoicing.  The two children danced, hand-in-hand with their mother.  The woman with the goiter could only repeat, again and again, “Glory be to the great God of Israel, holy be His name!”  Arms reached out to Tabitha, touching, hugging, holding.  Tabitha was swept downstairs and out into the streets in a parade of rejoicing that they are still talking about in Joppa to this day.

I lingered in the upper room, leaning against the sill where the Lord’s elbow had rested, watching the celebration on the street below.  I still felt that I was not very good at this apostle thing. Thank goodness that no one had been in the room with me to witness my panic. But I learned that it is not so much about me as it is about Jesus.  Nine times out of ten, I can’t do what is asked of me.  I can’t rise to the expectations that they have for me.  But Jesus can, and even when I walk through the darkest valley, he is with me.

Acts of the Apostles 9:36-43

36 Now in Joppa there was a disciple whose name was Tabitha, which in Greek is Dorcas. She was devoted to good works and acts of charity. 37 At that time she became ill and died. When they had washed her, they laid her in a room upstairs. 38 Since Lydda was near Joppa, the disciples, who heard that Peter was there, sent two men to him with the request, “Please come to us without delay.” 39 So Peter got up and went with them, and when he arrived, they took him to the room upstairs. All the widows stood beside him, weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was with them. 40 Peter put all of them outside, and then he knelt down and prayed. He turned to the body and said, “Tabitha, get up.” Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat up. 41 He gave her his hand and helped her up. Then calling the saints and widows, he showed her to be alive. 42 This became known throughout Joppa, and many believed in the Lord. 43 Meanwhile, he stayed in Joppa for some time with a certain Simon, a tanner.

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Sabbath Day Thoughts – 1 Kings 17:7-15

He toddled after me.  Bare feet kicked pebbles and stirred small storms of dust.  He was practicing his words.  “Deshe,” he said, handing over a tuft of dry grass, brittle with drought.  I added the grass to my basket. 

Giza etz?” he said tentatively, holding up a stick, just the right size for kindling.  Into the basket it went. 

Perach.” He smiled shyly, extending a tiny wilted bouquet of chamomile, clenched in his small fist. 

Such a good boy!  So generous!  I tucked the flowers behind my ear and scooped him up, holding him next to my heart.  I could feel his little ribs beneath his robe and see the delicate throb of a vein, pulsing at his temple.

It hadn’t always been like this.  My husband, like his father and his father’s father, had gone to sea.  We Phoenicians are a seafaring people, weaving a vast web of trade that spans the Great Sea from Sidon to Cyrene, Rome, Malta, and beyond.  We pluck fish from the ocean depths, harvest rare pearls from the Gulf of Arabia, and hew great ships from the cedars of Lebanon.  For men, it is an adventurous but dangerous life, always at the mercy of wind and wave.  For women, it brings loneliness.  Always the siren call of the water pulls our men back.  Always, there is the waiting.

They said my husband was killed by a lightning strike.  First the rigging caught, then the weathered decking.  When the fire reached the amphorae of olive oil in the hull, it launched a ball of fire into the sky, worthy of the Great Lighthouse of Alexandria.  I don’t know if he drowned or if he burned, but I do know the tight cage of fear that had held my heart ever since.

Our son was weeks old.  There was no patriarch to take us in, no kindly kinsman to offer protection.  In Zarephath, my neighbors made the sign of the evil eye behind my back, worried that my misfortune would rub off on them.  The large amphorae of flour, oil, and salt fish that my husband had left behind slowly emptied, despite every economy.  I had grown slight with hunger and my milk had eventually failed.

I was collecting wood for a final fire, a last loaf to be baked, a little oil to be poured out.  My child, perched on my hip, looked at me with enormous eyes set in wan cheeks that had once been chubby.  As my eyes filled with tears, he demanded to be put down, little arms pushing and legs kicking.  With both feet on the ground, he stretched up a hand for me to hold. 

Ezra, Ama!” (Help, Mama!) he said.  He tugged on my hand, pulling me homeward.  Help?  Whose help?

We saw him outside the city gate.  He looked like he had been sleeping rough for a long time.  His tunic was rumpled, the armpits stained with rings of sweat.  His beard was enormous and wild.  Bits of straw clung to his shaggy hair.  He held a long, sturdy, wooden staff, the sign of a patriarch or a . . .

Navi!” (prophet), my little boy said.  His hands clapped with delight and chuckles swelled his small, empty belly.

Hearing my child, the prophet turned with a sharp look, taking in our skinny forms.  “Shalom!” he greeted us, “Please, could I trouble you for some water?”

All the wadis had gone dry with drought, but within the walls of Zarephath, our deep well remained true.  It was a simple thing to fulfill his request, but as I nodded and turned to do so, he stopped me.

“And please, a little bread with that?  Surely, you have a little something to share with Yahweh’s messenger.”

I thought of the handful of flour and trickle of oil at the bottom of my jars, and the fear that clenched my heart held even tighter.  Of all the people in Zarephath to ask for help, why choose us?  Our poverty was obvious. 

Lechem?” (bread), my son said, pointing to the prophet.

I sighed.  “You do not know what you ask, my friend.  My cupboard is bare.  We are headed home to eat our final few morsels and call it quits.”

But the prophet wouldn’t take my no for an answer.  “Please!” he insisted, sounding both compassionate and authoritative, “Don’t be afraid.  Make me a small loaf, bring it here; then, bake for yourself and the boy.  Yahweh will bless you!”

It made no sense.  Why would I ever consider such a thing at the expense of my child?  Yet, my son seemed to have reached a different conclusion.

Lechem, AmaLechem!” (Bread, Mama!  Bread!).  He stomped his feet, pointed at the prophet, and pulled me toward home.

It was against my better judgment.  I stirred the coals from last night’s fire.  I fed it with tufts of grass, which caught with a soft chuff.  I carefully added our sticks and watched as tongues of flame leapt up.  I scooped out most of the last of our meal, mixed it with water, and kneaded it into a smooth cake.  I stretched it thin, rubbed it with the last of the oil and slapped it onto the baking stone, now so hot that it sizzled beneath the oiled dough.  The fragrance of baking bread made our stomachs roar as the little loaf puffed and turned golden.  With skilled fingers, I plucked an edge and flipped it over, revealing a well-browned bottom.

“What am I doing?” I asked my son.  His cheeks had pinked with the fire’s warmth.

Lechem, Ama!  Lechem!” he repeated, pointing back to the city gate.

I wrapped the loaf in a cloth and slipped it into my basket.  I filled a cup with water and stood swaying in the doorway, basket in one hand, cup in the other.  “Stay or go?” I wondered.  My son made the decision for me, stomping off on his short legs to the city gate where the prophet waited.  I followed, questioning my every step.

I don’t know what I was expecting.  A choir of angels?  The peal of thunder?  A heavenly affirmation?  What I got when we found the prophet, waiting outside the gate, was a thank you.  “Now, go and do the same thing for yourself,” the prophet instructed.  He dismissed us with a nod, said his blessing, and began to devour his loaf with grimy hands.

I picked up my boy, balancing him on my hip as I walked slowly home.  I had heard that Yahweh, the great God of Israel, is a generous god with unfailing love for the lost and the poor.  Yet here we were, the widow, the orphan, and a stranger, clinging to life by our fingernails, preparing to eat our last bread before returning to our ancestors.  Maybe my neighbors were right.  Maybe the gods Baal and Asherah had cursed me.  Maybe I deserved what was surely coming in the days ahead.

By now, we were home.  I set my child down and pushed the door open.  He walked over to the great flour jar, taller than he was, and patted it with both hands.  “Lechem, AmaLechem?”  He sounded hopeful.

“Yes, my love, bread.” I answered.  I tied an apron on and pushed back my sleeves.  I crossed the floor and pried the heavy clay top off the amphora. 

Below, my son was stamping his feet.  “Lechem, lechem, lechem!”

I was so shocked by what I saw within that I dropped the clay top.  It hit the hard earthen floor with a dull thud and split in two.  There, within the amphora, finely milled flour rose all the way to the top.  I plunged my hands in, and felt the silky dryness slipping through my fingers.

My son had moved to the oil jar.  Again, he placed his palms on the rounded sides.  He patted with his small hands and sang in a tattoo rhythm, “Shemen zayitShemen zayit!” (Olive oil! Olive oil!).

I pried off the top and gasped.  The oil jar was filled to the brim, the first pressing, fragrant, clear, and golden green.  A few bubbles rose to the top and rested on the surface, as if freshly filled.  My boy was laughing now, spinning with childish delight until he plopped down onto his bottom with a breathless thud.

I sat down next to my son, dizzy with hunger and mystery.  Perhaps Baal and Asherah had cursed me.  But Yahweh, the holy and almighty One of Israel, had blessed me.  In an instant, the certainty of our death had changed to the promise of life.  My heart felt funny, felt wild and free, felt like the cage that had bound it since the death of my husband had been sprung.  I put my hands to my head to stop the world from spinning.  As my son crawled into my lap, I laughed and cried until I felt empty and filled with a peace that I had not known since my husband’s death.

Perhaps it was the generosity of Yahweh that made me do it.  When God is so good, how can you keep it to yourself?  I picked up my son and went back to the city gate where we found the prophet dozing in the sun.  Crumbs from my little loaf dotted his beard.  A smear of oil had been wiped on the front of his tunic. 

I put down my boy and he nudged the prophet’s sandal with his little bare foot.  “Navi?”  I asked.

He opened an expectant eye.  “Call me Elijah.”

“Elijah, my son and I would like you to stay with us.  Will you come?”  The boy smiled.  He reached out one hand to the prophet and with the other pointed home.

The prophet rose and brushed the crumbs from his beard.  He balanced his staff against the city wall then reached down to pick up my son, who settled comfortably into his arms.  The Prophet Elijah smiled, “We thought you would never ask.”

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