Imagining Palm Sunday (from the perspective of Simon the Zealot)

(painting by John Dunn, available here.)

(This piece of fiction is loosely based on Luke 19:28-40 and is told from the perspective of Simon the Zealot who I imagine being asked, along with Philip, to go to Bethany to get the colt for Jesus. Here's hoping you also find some time to wander around inside the gospel stories in the week ahead.) 

It felt like the first day of spring. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it. 

We were close to Jerusalem. The closer we got, the edgier we were. Jesus was quiet. When we reached the Mount of Olives, Jesus turned to me and Philip. He chose us, and told us to go and look for a colt in the next village, it would be tied to a post and we were supposed to just walk up and take it. 

How did he know this? 

We didn’t ask. He chose us, that was all that ever mattered.  Jesus and the others stayed resting in the shade of the olive trees. Philip and I walked alone. 

When you were with Jesus, walking beside him, it felt like the sun on your back – faith rose and blossomed. But with every step we took away from him, faith dimmed. Clouds of doubt rolled in, confidence wilted as we walked toward the village. 

We hardly dared think, much less talk about what might happen when we reached Jerusalem.  Instead, Jesus' stories ran through my head. Everywhere we went he spun stories, painting pictures with words. I tried to make sense of them, but I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to. 

Bethany was small and dirty, like every other village, nothing special. The smells and sounds nearly knocked me out after the quiet walk through the countryside. It was hot, the sun unbearable. I envied the disciples left behind, resting under the trees. The village seemed to go on forever. Women stared as we passed. Children ran up to touch our robes, then scrambled away laughing. We felt strange and out of place. 

The further we walked, the more foolish we felt. Reason raised its head - why this village? Why a colt? And where? Where was it? 

At the far edge of town, we heard it. A donkey brayed. I stopped mid-thought, and put my hand out to stop Philip in his tracks. Again, we heard it, the screeching sound like metal grinding against metal.  It came from somewhere to the right. We followed a small path through a thicket. Our steps slowed, nervously. Then we came to the edge of a clearing. An ancient stone house stood silent, a fire smoldered in a pit. Chickens pecked the ground. Off to one side stood a young donkey tied, just as he had said. 

My heart leapt. Philip grabbed my arm and squeezed tight. Our eyes met wide with surprise and glee. It was all we could do to keep from laughing. 

Giddiness propelled me, I rushed toward the colt. It skidded sideways, stretching the rope taunt, and erupted in a string of screeches, its lips pulled back, teeth exposed. I lunged and wrestled the rope until Philip again grabbed my arm. 

“Simon,” he said. 

I followed his eyes toward the house. A small man slowly emerged from the shadows. I pulled my hand back from the colt immediately. Behind the old man a woman and a small child peaked out of the doorway. Chickens squawked and scattered as he crossed the open yard. 

I have never seen such a short man, he would’ve made Zaccheaus look like a giant. He had a grave and wrinkled face and seemed coated with a lifetime of hard work and dirt. My heart sank. He would never let us have this animal. I thought of the sword at my side, it wouldn’t take much to force the plan. But the woman and child watched from the doorway. 

Philip bowed in greeting and I followed. The little man bowed. 

Braced for anger, his simple question startled me. “Why are you untying the colt?” 

Why. 

Why not, I thought. Why shouldn't we take whatever we needed to overthrow the Romans? Why try to explain the unexplainable to this dirty man in his dark hut? 

Philip’s hand was still on my arm. I stared at the man, so solidly rooted to the ground, and remembered Jesus’ words, “If they ask why, tell them ‘the Lord needs it.’”

Everything was always so unbelievably simple with Jesus, the simplicity itself was confusing. 

“The Lord needs it,” I said. 

The little man caught my eyes with his own and held them. I watched him measure the truthfulness of my words. I knew he likely guessed my thoughts about my sword, my urgency, and frustration. 

Something in my eyes satisfied and he turned to the colt. He reached out and patted the animal, murmuring into its long ears. “Take it,” he said simply, then turned and walked away. 

Our excitement grew with every step back through the village. We marched into the olive grove like victors returning from battle. The donkey brayed and bucked at the rope. Everyone gathered around shouting questions, slapping us on the back, startling the colt. “How? Where?” they asked. 

“It was just like he said, just like it,” I repeated, grinning and proud forgetting the doubt I’d carried across town. 

Then, Jesus pushed in to the circle. He smiled at our surprise and delight. His tired eyes crinkled in the corners. His robe was wrinkled and dusty from resting on the ground. 

“You did well, Simon,” he said, clamping his hand on my shoulder and fixing his eyes on mine. “You too, Philip,” he added. Like I said, he was like the sun, you know? And when he shone on you, it was something you never forgot. 

Jesus took the rope and leaned in quietly toward the donkey. He patted it, whispered in its twitchy ears like the old man had. I think in that moment, the colt felt just as loved as we did, just as happy and full of hope and excitement. It stamped a foot and brayed flicking Jesus’ face with its ears and we all burst out laughing. 

Peter pulled off his cloak and laid it on the donkey’s back. Nathan too, and Andrew, until the poor animal was draped with a rainbow of dirty robes. 

It was time for Jerusalem. 

I knelt right there in the dust and made a step with my hands. Jesus stepped and leaned while Andrew tried to steady the donkey. But the animal sidestepped and I teetered, pitching Jesus forward. His stomach landed with a thud on the donkey’s back.  My face reddened with embarrassment, but Jesus pulled himself up laughing and swung his leg over the side. 

When he laughed, it unleashed something inside of us. We were like boys again, free and happy. Here we were, caught up in the biggest adventure of our lives, with Jesus at our side, and the wonder of it carried us all along.  

Jesus turned the colt toward Jerusalem, leaning to whisper again in its ear, scratching the coarse hair where the rope hung around its neck. Moving forward, a nervousness settled over the crowd of us again. Then, we followed, and with each step our excitement grew. 

Thomas started the singing. His deep voice rose and the others joined in following the words of the psalm we all knew. The psalm of victory. I heard the words entirely new as we sang them there in the dusty streets, under the open sky. 

I waited all of my life for a king. 

Here he was and here we were together, marching into Jerusalem. But not marching, nearly dancing. As much as I wanted it to be different, as much as I remembered the sword at my side and my dreams of a mighty king on horseback leading me into battle, I was happy. Happy with this fool of a man plodding along on a donkey’s back, this man who loved me. 

I felt my love for him surge in my chest as we repeated again and again the chorus of the psalm, “Give thanks to the Lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever.” 

I wasn’t the only one off pitch. Philip had no rhythm, not an ounce of tune, and we were an ugly bunch weaving our way into town, drunk on good news and friendship and the love we all needed. They heard us first (probably smelled us second) and women and children wandered out to watch us. 

Such a strange parade. We sang at the top of our lungs, jostling each other, slapping shoulders and backs. Peter reached out and grabbed a boy in the crowd, swung him on his shoulders and Andrew jumped to reach a palm branch. Breaking it, he placed it in the boy’s hand and the boy cheered and waved like mad. 

There’s something about a people, so beaten down with sorrow and fear, there’s little left to lose. Maybe this is what made them join us, welcome us, break branches of their own and join the singing, the dancing and shouting. Some stripped off their robes and laid them in the street and Jesus was there in the middle of it all, steady and solid as the sky.

Things got a little out of hand. 

But that never seemed to bother Jesus. He got tired sometimes, needed rest and space, but he didn’t try to control us. He let us be however we were, welcomed us and that day we were happy and he didn’t bother to contradict. 

But the Pharisees did. 

It was one of the things they hated the most about him, the way he refused to control us. He didn’t seem to need to control anyone and therefore refused himself to be controlled. It bothered me too, if I’m honest. I couldn’t figure out how he might overthrow the Romans without taking for himself some measure of the power and control they exerted over us. But it bothered me less when I was with him, then it felt like I could believe anything and, if I’m honest, I thought he would change when we got to Jerusalem. 

To the Pharisees, it was blasphemy, all of it. The way we sang and danced in the street, the image of Jesus on the donkey like some kind of street urchin playing king, it was all offensive. But mostly it smacked of disorder and freedom, two things they feared and fought tooth and nail. 

“Rabbi, tell them to stop, make them stop!” they shouted. 

Jesus turned from watching the dancing children, the singing men. I watched him meet the Pharisees’ eyes. My hand involuntarily drifted to the hilt of my sword. Jesus held the donkey still while all around him the crowd rose and swelled. There was amusement in his eyes and he smiled a sad smile. 

“If I tell them to stop,” he said, “the stones you walk on will rise up singing and dancing. You cannot stop joy, my friends, cannot stop praise that flows like a river. Heaven and earth are being un-damned. We will sing and dance while we can.”

If we ever needed permission, we had it. We cheered and sang all the louder, “Give thanks to the lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever!”

It felt like the first day of spring, I tell you. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it. It was glorious.

//

It’s harder now, to talk about the rest. When we reached the inner edge of the Jerusalem, Jesus burst into tears and the words he spoke terrified and confused us. Confusion and fear followed us everywhere that week; it hunted us, hounded us. 

For a long time, when I remembered Palm Sunday, I felt regret, embarrassment.  I see how little we really understood. 

But Jesus, he loved it. Now I know he carried our praise with him through the darkness that lay ahead. He focused on the memory of our singing when the crowds cried out for his death. 

Jesus’ first desire wasn’t to change us. It was to be with us.

And his being with us, changed us, slowly into something closer to who he was, what he was. 

I like to think of it like that – he carried us with him, our joy, our love, to the cross and we carry him with us, his joy, his love through every week ahead, singing and dancing or weeping in sorrow.  We carry him, he carries us. 

Palm Sunday: The First Day of Spring (#SmallWonder Link-up)

This post is loosely based on Luke 19:28-40, the gospel story of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem.  In preparing to preach on the passage this Sunday, I decided to spend some time inside the passage, imagining what it might have been like.  This story is told from the perspective of Simon the Zealot who I imagine being, along with Philip, asked to walk into town to fetch the colt for Jesus.  I can't overestimate how very helpful this practice was for me.  I hope you might also find some time this week to wander around inside of the gospel stories.

*    *    *

It felt like the first day of spring. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it.

We were close to Jerusalem. The closer we got, the edgier we were. Jesus was quiet. When we reached the Mount of Olives, Jesus turned to me and Philip. He chose us, and told us to go and look for a colt in the next village, it would be tied to a post and we were supposed to just walk up and take it.

How did he know this?

We didn’t ask. He chose us, that was all that ever mattered.  Jesus and the rest stayed resting under the shade of the olive trees. Philip and I walked alone.

When you were with him, walking beside him, it was like feeling the sun on your back – faith rose and blossomed. But with every step we took away from him, faith dimmed. Clouds of doubt rolled in.  Our confidence wilted as we walked toward the village.

We hardly dared to think, much less talk about what might happen when we reached Jerusalem.  Instead, his stories ran through my head. Everywhere we went he spun stories, painting pictures with words. I tried to make sense of them, but I couldn’t. Maybe I didn’t want to.

Bethany was small and dirty, like every other village, nothing special. The smells and sounds nearly knocked me out after the quiet walk through the countryside. It was hot, the sun was unbearable. I envied the disciples left behind, resting under the trees. The village seemed to go on forever. Women stared as we passed. Children ran up to touch our robes, then scrambled away laughing. We weren’t used to this feeling of travel, of being strange and out of place.

The further we walked, the more foolish we felt. Reason raised its head - why this village? Why a colt? And where? Where was it?

At the far edge of town, we heard it. A donkey brayed. I stopped mid-thought, put my hand out to stop Philip in his tracks. Again, we heard it, the screeching sound like metal grinding against metal. It came from somewhere to the right. We followed a small path through a thicket. Our steps slowed, nervously. Then we came to the edge of a clearing. An ancient stone house stood silent, a fire smoldered in a pit. Chickens pecked the ground. Off to one side stood a young donkey tied, just as he had said.

My heart leapt. Philip grabbed my arm and squeezed tight. Our eyes met wide with surprise and glee. It was all we could do to keep from laughing. Never before has the sight of a donkey been cause for such joy.

Giddiness propelled me. I rushed toward the colt. It skidded sideways, stretching the rope taunt. The colt erupted in a string of screeches, its lips pulled back, teeth exposed. I lunged for the rope, ready for a fight, when Philip again grabbed my arm.

“Simon,” he said.

I followed his eyes toward the house. A small man slowly emerged from the shadows. I pulled my hand back from the colt immediately. Behind him a woman and a small child peaked out of the doorway. Chickens squawked and scattered as he crossed the open yard.

I have never seen such a short man, he would’ve made Zaccheaus look like a giant. He had a grave and wrinkled face. He seemed coated with a lifetime of hard work and dirt. My heart sank. He would never let us have this animal. I thought of the sword at my side, it wouldn’t take much. But the woman and child, watched from the doorway.

Philip bowed in greeting and I followed. The little man bowed.

Braced for anger, his simple question disarmed me. “Why are you untying the colt?”

Why.

Why not, I thought. Why should we not take whatever we needed to overthrow the Romans? Why try to explain the unexplainable to this dirty man in his dark hut?

Philip’s hand was still on my arm. I stared at the little man, so solidly rooted to the ground and remembered Jesus’ words, “if they ask why, tell them ‘the Lord needs it.’”

Everything was always so unbelievably simple with Jesus, the simplicity itself was confusing.

“The Lord needs it,” I said.

The little man caught my eyes with his own and held them. I watched him measure the truthfulness of my words. I knew he likely guessed my thoughts about my sword, my urgency, and frustration.

Something in my eyes satisfied and he turned to the colt. He reached out and patted the animal, murmuring into its long ears. “Take it,” he said simply, then turned and walked away.

Our excitement grew with every step back through the village. We marched into the olive grove like victors returning from battle. The donkey brayed and bucked at the rope. Everyone gathered around shouting questions, slapping us on the back, startling the colt. “How? Where?” they asked.

“It was just like he said, just like it,” I repeated, grinning and proud forgetting the doubt I’d carried across town.

Then Jesus pushed in to the circle. He smiled at our surprise and delight. His tired eyes crinkled in the corners. His robe was wrinkled and dusty from resting on the ground.

“You did well, Simon,” he said, clamping his hand on my shoulder and fixing his eyes on mine. “You too, Philip,” he added. Like I said, he was like the sun, you know? And when he shone on you, it was something you never forgot.

Jesus took the rope and leaned in quietly toward the donkey. He patted it, whispered in its twitchy ears like the little man had. I think in that moment, the colt felt just as loved as we did, just as happy and full of hope and excitement. It stamped a foot and brayed flicking Jesus’ face with its ears and we all burst out laughing.

Peter pulled off his cloak and laid it on the donkey’s back. Nathan too, and Andrew, until the poor animal was draped with a rainbow of dirty robes.

It was time for Jerusalem.

I knelt right there in the dust and made a step with my hands. Jesus stepped and leaned while Andrew tried to steady the donkey. But the animal sidestepped and I teetered, pitching Jesus forward. His stomach landed with a thud on the donkey’s back, knocking the wind out of his lungs. I was so embarrassed, but Jesus pulled himself up laughing again and swung his leg over the side.

When he laughed, it unleashed something inside of us. We were like boys again, free and happy. Here we were, in the biggest adventure of our lives, with Jesus at our side and the wonder of it carried us all along.

Jesus led the colt toward Jerusalem, leaning to whisper again in its ear, scratching the coarse hair where the rope hung around its neck. Moving forward, a nervousness settled over the crowd of us again. Then we followed and with each step our excitement grew.

Thomas started the singing. His deep voice rose and the others joined in following the words of the psalm we all knew. The psalm of victory. I heard the words entirely new as we sang them there in the dusty streets out under the open sky.

I wanted, waited, all of my life for a King.

Here he was and here we were together, marching into Jerusalem. But not marching, nearly dancing. As much as I wanted it to be different, as much as I remembered the sword at my side and my dreams of a mighty king on horseback leading me into battle, I was happy. Happy with this fool of a man plodding along on a donkey’s back, this man who loved me.

I felt my love for him surge in my chest as we repeated again and again the chorus of the Psalm, “Give thanks to the Lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever.”

I wasn’t the only one off pitch. Philip had no rhythm, not an ounce of tune, and we were an ugly bunch weaving our way into town, drunk on good news and friendship and the love we all needed. They heard us first (probably smelled us second) and women and children wandered out to watch us.

Such a strange parade. We sang at the top of our lungs, jostling each other, slapping shoulders and backs. Peter reached out and grabbed a boy in the crowd, swung him on his shoulders and Andrew jumped to reach a palm branch. Breaking it, he placed it in the boy’s hand and the boy cheered and waved like mad.

There’s something about a people, so beaten down with sorrow and fear, there’s little left to lose. Maybe this is what made them join us, welcome us, break branches of their own and join the singing, the dancing and shouting. Some stripped off their robes and laid them in the street and Jesus was there in the middle of it all, steady and solid as the sky.

Things got a little out of hand.

But that never seemed to bother Jesus. He got tired sometimes, needed rest and space, but he didn’t try to control us. He let us be however we were, welcomed us and that day we were happy and he didn’t bother to contradict.

But the Pharisees did.

It was one of the things they hated the most about him, the way he refused to control us. He didn’t seem to need to control anyone and therefore refused himself to be controlled. It bothered me too, if I’m honest. I couldn’t figure out how he might overthrow the Romans without taking for himself some measure of the power and control they exerted over us. But it bothered me less when I was with him, then it felt like I could believe anything and, if I’m honest, I thought he would change when we got to Jerusalem.

To the Pharisees, it was blasphemy, all of it. The way we sang and danced in the street, the image of Jesus on the donkey like some kind of street urchin playing king, it was all offensive. But mostly it smacked of disorder and freedom, two things they feared and fought tooth and nail.

“Rabbi, tell them to stop, make them stop!” they shouted.

Jesus turned from watching the dancing children, the singing men. I watched him meet the Pharisees’ eyes. My hand involuntarily drifted to the hilt of my sword. Jesus held the donkey still while all around him the crowd rose and swelled. There was amusement in his eyes and he smiled a sad smile.

“If I tell them to stop,” he said, “the stones you walk on will rise up singing and dancing. You cannot stop joy, my friends, cannot stop praise that flows like a river. Heaven and earth are being un-damned. We will sing and dance while we can.”

If we ever needed permission, we had it. We cheered and sang all the louder, “Give thanks to the lord for he is good, his steadfast love endures forever!”

It felt like the first day of spring, I tell you. Like everything we waited for was so close we could almost taste it. It was glorious.

//

It’s harder now, to talk about the rest. When we reached the inner edge of the Jerusalem, Jesus burst into tears and the words he spoke terrified and confused us. Confusion and fear followed us everywhere that week; it hunted us, hounded us.

For a long time, when I remembered Palm Sunday, I felt regret, embarrassment, how little we really understood.

But Jesus, he loved it. Now I know he carried our praise with him through the darkness that lay ahead. He focused on the memory of our singing when the crowds cried out for his death.

Jesus’ first desire wasn’t to change us. It was to be with us.

And his being with us, changed us, slowly into something closer to who he was, what he was.

I like to think of it like that – he carried us with him, our joy, our love, to the cross and we carry him with us, his joy, his love through every week ahead, singing and dancing or weeping in sorrow, we carry him, he carries us.

*   *   *

We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  

The Pharisee's House

The following is a work of fiction based on the story of Jesus eating at Simon the Pharisee's house (Luke 7:36-50).  It's based on a sermon from awhile back and seemed somehow appropriate for Lent.  
 
He tended to every detail. 

Invitations were carefully considered and extended.  The best linens laid, the finest dishes set out.  The seating chart arranged and rearranged again, everything situated to present himself in the best light.

He prepared his questions ahead of time. Clever queries, not too controversial, aimed more at displaying his own mental agility than fleshing out the nuances of this new and controversial teacher. 

Or maybe not.

Maybe the invitation was a moment of spontaneity he later grew to regret.

Perhaps there was a knot of nerves in his stomach as the meal approached, a cool sweat breaking out on his upper lip.  

Jesus and his disciples arrived wearing the dust of the day and looking tired.  By now Jesus had a reputation as a “drunkard and a glutton.”

The Pharisee’s friends arrived, other teachers of the law, exchanging looks, eyebrows raised.  They were likely cordial, but distant.  

Simon began to wonder if he'd made a mistake.  Everywhere he went, Jesus drew a crowd.

Strangers from the town gathered around the open courtyard, leaning, leering, murmuring among themselves.  

Those gathered at the table found themselves separated by a thousand years of interpretation, a million nuances, a trillion tiny judgments that left the conversation stilted, nearly unbearable.  

//


She was at the river, washing her thin clothes, watching as the dirt lifted layer by layer, carried away by the current.  She beat the cloth heavily with a stone in her effort to clean what could not be cleaned - the reputation that followed her like a shadow.

Far from where the other women gathered, she was free from their endless chatter, alone with her thoughts, her fears, her deep aching loneliness.

Over the wind, over the water, John the Baptist's wild voice rolled like the echo of distant thunder.  

Like water, his words seeped in, bypassing her loneliness and cracking open a well of pain that she carried deep deep within.  

Drawn closer, she watched as one person after another approached the water where John stood, waist deep.

“Repent!” he said, to each and then, splash, they sank under, supported only by his thick hands.  

“Your sins are forgiven,” he proclaimed over every face as it broke the surface, dripping.  

She didn’t ask how or why or by whose permission as she stepped forward into the water.  Her wet clothes clung indecently to a body gifted with curves that drew men’s eyes, even here, even now.  

Stumbling on the uneven riverbed, she righted herself and her eyes met the wide, wild eyes of John.  His eyes held her there in a steady gaze.  

She felt naked before his searching eyes, vulnerable as her shame fell around her, dropping like garments.  

In a matter of seconds, she was turned by rough hands that held her gently and plunged into the dark, cold water.  The sound of the river pummeled her ears.  It was a whirl of chaos, then she too broke the water’s surface.  

The light, the sounds, pierced her as she absorbed the word that was shouted over her, “Forgiven!”

She stumbled, weeping, toward the river’s edge and sat there stunned while people continued moving in and out of the water and the refrains repeated again and again, “Repent!” and “Your sins are forgiven!”  

There was another word too, on the lips of everyone there, “Jesus,” a teacher, a prophet.  Jesus was the one, the driving force behind the man with the wild eyes.  

Jesus was the one turning the world upside down, Jesus was the water washing it all clean, the light casting out shadows, the love piercing the shame. 

//
 
Word spread through the village, there was to be a dinner, a tete-a-tete at Simon the Pharisee’s house and Jesus would be there. 

She ran the whole way to her shambled home and tore through meager belongings until her fingers wrapped around the small jar she kept hidden, wrapped in a rag, her most precious possession. 

By the time she reached the dinner, she was sweating, out of breath, her hair hanging down in tangles.

There was a scuffle on the outer edge of the crowd, some shouts and shoving as she burst into the courtyard. 

Disheveled, she erupted into loud tears, overcome with emotion at the sight of Jesus.

Everything stopped.

Every eye turned.

Jaws dropped.

Every man at the table stiffened, drawing back, but Jesus' body softened visibly as she knelt.   

Bending over his feet, her hands eased along the arches, the callouses smoothing hot tears over dry, dusty skin. 

The weariness in Jesus' eyes, his shoulders, softened as he opened himself to the love that welled up out of her eyes, her hands, her sweaty, bent back.

Jesus, love-hungry and worn, welcomed her touch and what was a holy moment for Jesus and the woman - a sacrament - was a blasphemy for the Pharisee.

The sound of alabaster shattering ricocheted off the walls.

The scent of perfume wafting woke Simon like smelling salts. 

His eyes narrowed as he pulled himself back, half-rising from the table.  His lips curled into a sneer as what sounded like a low growl rumbled forth.    

Jesus, sensing the shift, half-turned and spoke the name, low and stern, like a master calling off a dog, "Simon . . ." and then, pausing, he added, "I have something to say to you."

"Simon."  It was the name that drew him up short, giving him pause enough to listen. 

Simon, the name his parents gave him all those years ago, the name he no longer used, preferring, instead, the shelter of religious titles.  The name stripped him to his essence and he replied as though a school boy to his master, "Yes, teacher, speak."    

//

The woman’s gratitude becomes a table, a meal where she and Christ are fed.  

Simon’s judgment becomes a wall isolating him from this meal of grace.  

Oh, God, may we also be moved through repentance and forgiveness to the seat of gratitude, at your feet.  Never let us miss this meal of grace.  Amen.  

This post is linked with Playdates With God.

The Dutiful Son

He worked all day in the fields, starting when the dew shimmered on the cool grass and pausing only to drink a little water in the high heat of the midday sun.  Great, dark circles of sweat, dried now, stain his cloak and the blisters on his hands are open, oozing.  He’s spent, exhausted and under the exhaustion simmers a low-level frustration at all that remains to be done.  Looking up, he notices that slowly, one by one, the servants are dropping their tools and heading toward the house. 

Soon he’s alone in the field, the only one left. 

He finishes his row then stops to tidy up the poorly finished work of a hired hand.  Mumbling to himself, he thinks how nice it would be if they could hire someone as diligent, as neat in their work as him.  Someone who shows up on time and doesn’t quit til the job’s done and maybe even works an extra hour or two.  He smiles a wry smile, imagining a whole field full of workers, carbon copies of himself moving in lock-step to get the job done the right way. 

The image is quickly followed by the thought that just two of him would be enough and his smile fades as the memory of his brother returns.  With the memory comes a surge of anger that swells from somewhere deep in his gut, rising like bile before he quickly and automatically swallows it back down. 

He has a headache that’s made worse by the glare of the late setting sun and his shoulders are tight and stiff.  With a sigh, he turns toward the house. 

He walks slowly, dreading the quiet dinner with his father who too often sits staring into the distance.  When he’s not staring he talks longingly about old days when the two boys bustled through the house and fields together, tumbling along after their father like puppies, eager and excited.  Though shaded with joy and laughter, the stories are too familiar and from a past too distant to feel real and the most the older brother can muster in response is a sullen and sulky silence.  Every time he launches into his own story about a detail of the day's work he's haunted by the uneasy feeling that his father's isn't really listening.  Loosing confidence, he slows and lets the story hang unfinished over the table, like a question that has no answer. 

Climbing the small slope toward the house, he senses a hum of energy in the air, something like the pause before a long-awaited storm.  In the distance, the servants appear to bustle with excitement.  One runs past shouting and another runs in the opposite direction wearing a look of surprise and astonishment. 

With the excitement comes music, loud and cheerful, that gets louder with every step and grates on his already aching head.  The music is pierced with shouting and singing as though a party were in full swing. 

Grabbing the sleeve of a servant running by, he demands to know what’s going on. 

The startled servant’s look of joy vanishes as she stares into the older brother’s questioning eyes.  The feeling that she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t is immediate, but she pushes it down, trying to regain her cheer.  Breathlessly, she explains, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.”

Her words don’t make sense. 

He stares at her, not comprehending. 

Taking advantage of the moment, the young girl runs off, back toward the house, visibly shrugging off the older brother’s dark look as she draws closer to the music and dancing.

Scraps of the servant’s words, “Your brother.”  “Your father.”  “The fatted calf.”  echo inside his head as he tries to make sense. 

When it finally dawns on him his back stiffens and he draws back, pulling himself up to full height as he looks toward the house.  His heart that was already brittle, stiff and sore turns to stone and sits heavy in his chest. 

“Your brother.”  “Your father.”  “The fatted calf.” 

The duty, the devotion that carried him through the long, aching day, gives way without warning to a deep rage.  He turns and strides off into the quickly falling darkness like a lost soul.  

He paces behind the house.  He can’t go home, yet he doesn’t know where else to go, so he broods like a storm cloud on the horizon. 

Then his father is there, his face full of apology and understanding and unspeakable joy at the younger brother’s return.  Had his father commanded him to join the party, he would have obeyed, but it’s the old man’s pleading, his unwillingness to just leave him alone in the cool darkness that forces open the cloud of furry that’s been growing older brother’s chest.  

His false motivations and his deep sense of being unloved come pouring out in a torrent of rage.  A deep complaint wells up from within his heart, “Listen!” he barks, raising his calloused hand, commanding the attention that's already his, “I’ve been working like a slave for you.”  His voice is high, sharp and piercing and spittle flies with his emphasis. 

His tirade continues, each sentence flying at the old man who stands with watery eyes, his hands hanging at his sides, palms up, as if in preparation for an embrace.  

The party continues, the music rising and dropping in the background as the son spews the anger and hurt that has been his companion in the years since his brother abandoned them both.   

Finally, embarrassed and sweating, he's done and stands, breathing heavily, eyes averted.  He's told his version of the story and waits empty-handed for his father to confirm or deny it. 

"I'll leave," he thinks, in the pause that comes after the fading of his words.  Desolate, he lifts his head briefly as if in challenge before turning his muscled body toward the night. 

Light as a feather, his father's wrinkled hand shoots out and catches his sleeve, holding it tight with the fierce strength of love as he speaks the only word he knows can break the darkness, "Son," the old man said, "son."   

This post is linked with Playdates with God and Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday.

Making Straight the Crooked

 

He was teaching in one of the synagogues on the sabbath.  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.  When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, “Woman, you are set free from your ailment.”  When he laid his hands on her, immediately she stood up straight and began praising God. 

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.”  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 away to give it water?  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?”  Luke 13:10-16

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The dream came again that night, the night she now thinks of as the night before.  It was the same dream that had plagued her off and on for fifteen years or more, arriving sometimes nightly or leaving for a month or more before returning when she least expected it.   

It started with a familiar scene as most dreams do.  She was shuffling along, leaning on her walking stick, her back grotesquely bent so that her silhouette resembled a question mark, her posture posing an endless unanswered prayer.  She moved slowly down the dusty path that led to her house on the outskirts of the small village.  The streets were unusually quiet, the air was still and she watched her feet as each step stirred up small puffs of fine, dry sand. 

Slowly, she becomes aware of the sun bearing down on her twisted back, her bowed head.  It’s a welcome warmth, but as it grows in intensity it begins to feel like a searing heat burning through her thin clothing.  As the sun beats down she begins to feel a straightening, a strengthening in her back and she is lifted, her face turned upward toward the blue sky filled with bright sunlight.  In a move that feels both natural and miraculous her body unfurls in flight as she soars up into the sky.  The sky around her is filled with the faces of those she loves; the face of her husband, dead now these ten years, her children, and others long gone to all but memory. 

As she continues to soar, her body fills with the warmth of the light, the warmth of the faces she passes.  Moving higher, she glides directly toward the sun which she stares at, curious and unflinching in its glare.  She can’t turn her eyes away from the sun for there, in the brightest spot, is a face she knows, a face she remembers but cannot name.  She soars in the hope that getting closer would allow her the satisfaction of recalling the name.  

Then a burst of cool wind chills her body and stops her mid-flight, causing her to curl in upon herself in the old familiar position, like a fist clenched shut.  Darkness fills the sky and she begins to fall, spiraling through the night.  She passes the same faces again only they too are twisted now as if mirroring her bent body; hard and unfamiliar they leer at her fall through the darkness.   

This, always, is when she wakes.  In mid-fall she plummets down, down, until the only escape is waking.  She bursts into wakefulness like a swimmer emerging from a deep-water dive, gasping for air as she comes up dripping sweat and pulsing with fear.  She lies shaking, her legs twined through the tangled bedclothes. 

This is how that day started. 

She knew no cure for the dream other than fleeing as quickly as she could from her bed and house seeking the warmth of a sunny day.  The sun was just beginning to rise as she wrapped her outer garment around her, tying the knot tight.  She prepared a hasty drink and took small sips with shaking hands.  She ate without tasting, still under the fearful spell of the dream. 

She left her house in a hurry, not thinking what day it was as she followed the small winding path toward town.  It was a strangely quiet morning, the roads were nearly empty, the market-stalls boarded up, and only a few people could be heard rushing through the streets.  To the woman it felt as if the world itself was paused, waiting, the whole world poised on the edge of some great and decisive turn as if it too were waking, though from darkness or light she could not tell.  Even now in the daylight she couldn’t shake the terror of the dream; it followed her like the shadow of a hawk follows its prey. 

She heard a family pass, dragging sleepy footed children, heard the mother’s exasperated cry, “Hurry, now, or we’ll be late.”  Only then did it dawn on her that it was Sabbath, that the whole village was gathered in the synagogue.  Still not thinking she too turned toward the synagogue.  How long had it been since she’d last shuffled through the door?  The words of the ancient prayers were written on her heart and the crooked path drew her toward the door of the meeting place that stood open and dark like the mouth of a tomb before her. 

She was through the door before she realized what she’d done.  The reading stopped.  The room filled with a murmuring stillness as her eyes adjusted to the cool gray of the stone floor.  She stood frozen in place, staring at the ground beneath her, the same feeling of falling rising again within her.  She felt as though the darkness would swallow her, she almost hoped it would. 

Then a voice rose and cut through the darkness, “Woman, come here.”  It drew her like the sun and sky had drawn her in the dream.  She made her way toward the place where the voice had come from, the space that was now filled with a waiting silence that spoke louder then the crowds around her. Later she would be unable to say whether it was the silence or the voice that drew her or whether they were one and the same. She was helpless to resist the pull. 

There were shocked gasps and murmurs as she made her shuffling way forward.  Stooped, she noticed the feet of those around her, how those on the outer edges of the room were broken and blistered, the hems of their garments dirty and torn as hers.  Moving forward the feet she saw grew softer, cleaner, the garments bore rich colors and fine cloth. 

She stopped in front of two dirty, calloused feet in worn-thin sandals.  Her back seized up throwing her forward to her knees, drawing her tighter than she’d thought was possible, so that she knelt now in front of those feet.

He laid his rough carpenter’s hands on her shoulders, feeling there the texture of her muscles tight and gnarled like the twisted roots of an old tree.  His hands lay still, taking it in, the sum of her life written there across the lines of her back.  He was used to reading the grain of a piece of wood, in one touch he could tell which pieces would give under the gentle pressure of his hands and which pieces would break and snap, fighting him every step of the way. 

In his touch she felt every loving touch she’d ever received come pouring over her like flashes of light.  The touch of her courting husband, gentle and questioning, then full of need and desire on their wedding night and the touch of his hand clinging to comfort as they waited through the illness they knew would lead to death.  The touch of her son’s plump little hand patting her breast as he waited for milk, the final squeeze of her father’s hand as he lay dying.  All of these and more rose up from her memory and the touch of his hand strengthened those memories of love and without moving massaged them deep into her aching back. 

At the same time she also felt every harsh touch she’d ever received – the cold slap of her angry mother-in-law, the pushing of the neighborhood children who laughed at her stooped gait – all of these and more she felt being drawn up and out of her body through those same hands until there was nothing left but the memory and experience of love. 

Then came the warmth, almost too much to bear, that spread outward from his hands and seemed to make her swell as her muscles softened and her joints released their terrified, choking grasp.  She felt her body being drawn up and out in what felt like a split second and all of eternity at the same time.  Finally her head lifted and his was the first face she saw, full of warmth and radiance.  She recognized it immediately as the face in the sun in her dream.  She looked into his eyes and chose him even as he chose her and the last echoes of darkness faded from the corners of her vision as she stood fully upright, her body unfurled as though from a cocoon or a flower’s bud. 

Some who were there that day, watching, would say that even as the woman was being healed the sun itself dimmed for just a moment and a cool breeze swept through the room.  It was as though the chill from the woman’s bent body circled the room looking for somewhere to settle.  To some, this coolness felt like a reprieve from the terrifying brightness and light of the young man who spoke and they, almost without thinking, opened themselves to the darkness that crept in looking for a place to claim for its own.  As they did so their hearts hardened just a little, twisted even, like the woman’s back and something like the shadow of a sneer settled on their lips, subtle enough to go unnoticed by all but the keenest eye. 

The woman stood before Jesus unaware of anything but his light and her whole body shook with a chorus of praise that swept through her veins, her joints, her marrow.  She didn’t hear the questions that were posed, all she heard was the voice that rose in response.  The three words struck her like a gong, “Daughter of Abraham,” and at that moment her transformation, her redemption, was complete. 

She knew then the truth that had been there all along, always somehow just beyond her grasp.  She wasn’t a child of darkness, but a child of light and knowing this she no longer needed to fear the darkness for it held no claim in her.  At this moment the song that had been building in her body burst forth and filled the room like the voice of a thousand angels, like the voice of Mary great with child, the voice of Miriam dancing beside the Red Sea. 

To others in the room Jesus’ words and the woman’s song were like the sharp lance that pierces a boil causing their anger and rage to rise up out of the darkness within them.  They felt themselves suddenly full of darkness and fear; felt as though they were falling and could not stop themselves, caught as they were in the claim of the darkness.  They lashed out in fear, like the woman in her dream, they sweated and fought as the anxiety grew and settled deeper into their crooked little hearts.  

Later, when the memory of the dream would return creeping into the corners of her thoughts while she stood kneading bread or washing, she would stop where she was, most often outside, and turn toward the sun, straightening to her full height and lifting her face to its warmth.  Or if, in the evening, shadows began to press in around her and she felt her heart start to bend she would wrap her prayer shawl tight around her shoulders and, against intuition, walk out into the deep darkness of the night.  There she would stand, sometimes the whole night through, watching the stars, those tiny points of light until finally the darkness faded to gray and the lights gave way to the one great Light that shines on us all.  


This post is shared with Playdates with God, Imperfect Prose (see link in side-bar) and #Tell His Story.

Sarah's Laughter

I wrote an essay recently in which I described laughter as a form of prayer and this got me thinking about Sarah's laughter at the news that she was going to bear a son.  The following story is based, loosely on the story of God visiting Abraham and Sarah found in Genesis 18:1-15. I know that infertility is a very difficult and painful experience for many women and please know that my thoughts here are meant to reflect the overall arch of the story of Sarah and Abraham and in no way reflect an opinion about the reasons for or experience of infertility.

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It came out sudden and sharp, more like a bark or a cough, surprising her as she knelt, crouched at the entrance to the tent.  Unwilled, unwelcome, the laughter split her dry lips open, cracking them, like parched ground. 

She felt a wave of shame at the sound as it escaped and the visitors turned in surprise.  Her husband turned too, that old fool, and she looked at him, helpless, feeling again powerless over her own body, unable to stop the sound once it broke free. 

She was afraid when she saw the visitor look toward the tent and her breath caught in her throat when she heard him question Abraham about the sound, “Why did Sarah laugh?” 

Again, as if by instinct, the denial rose and slithered out like a snake between her teeth, "I did not laugh." 

Her hand flew to her mouth, as if to catch her words and shove them back inside, but she was too slow and they shot out, arching through the air like an arrow aimed directly at the place where the man sat. 
 

He turned then and looked at her, full on, his eyes piercing despite the distance between them and Sarah felt a shiver of fear run down her spine.  She felt the flour and dough that clung to the under-side of her finger-nails, the dirt and dust that lined her sandaled feet. 

Under his gaze, she became aware of how dead she felt, how the life had drained slowly from her face and chest over the years as she crumbled inward upon herself like some craven creature.  Looking into those eyes she felt her own dryness and thirst, her bones that crackled and clicked with each movement, she felt the emptiness of her body, of her soul, as though nothing was left of her but a walking corpse.

This was her fear, of course, but as the man held her gaze the fire in his eyes softened until the gentleness there came to resemble something like the look of love she’d seen in Abraham’s eyes during those early hopeful years.  The softness there, the love, both heightened and quenched her thirst as it crossed the distance between them.   The love circled her and fell like a heavy rain, sudden and fierce, washing over her empty body.  His gaze was like a heavy downpour in the desert that runs in rivulets over the dry ground, seeking entrance into the depths of the earth.   

When she saw the love in his eyes her mouth opened involuntarily and something like a little gasp, a small rush of air escaped and at that moment his love entered in.  Pouring in past her lips and teeth and tongue where just moments before the lie had slithered out.  Love entered like summer rain and settled deep inside in the small crack the laugh had hollowed out. 

Sarah shut her mouth tight, quickly, when she realized what had happened, but the man’s eyes only softened further until they crinkled at the corners and twinkled with humor.  Then his mouth cracked too into a wide and generous smile like the sun as he said, “Oh yes, you did laugh.”        

She denied the laugh, but she couldn’t deny its effect, the way it opened her, split something deep within.  It started as a derisive sound, a reflexive rejection that rose from deep within her dried-up body at the mention of a child. But even that small hacking, choking sound broke something free within her. The laughter moved inside her like a fault-line as it made its way through, dividing and realigning as it took hold of her body.

When she would tell the story, years later, of their son and his long time coming, people would accept it all without so much as a blink until she came to the part where he smiled.  There was no question that God might walk up out of the blue for lunch, might open the womb of an old woman, but the part where the face of God cracked wide open, split in two by a smile, that, was more than they could accept and, so, over time, it was dropped from her story. 

Though it took years to come to pass, Sarah secretly credited the laugh for opening her womb, at least the smallest bit.  But who's to say whether it was the laughter that grew steadily over weeks and years or the tears that followed, springing from the same deep riven place within, either way life had come and it dwelt now within her.  After all, if the world can be created through words, then surely a womb can be opened through laughter, split wide like a seed when the sprout of new life unfurls. 

Joseph's Dream (The Surrender to a Life Larger and More Beautiful)

This year I've found myself drawn to the character of Joseph in the stories of the nativity.  Mostly I find myself wondering about him - what kind of person was he to be able to surrender to a life so far beyond his control and desire?  to allow the inklings and images of a strange dream to shape his future?  As I wondered I started writing which led to this little bit of fiction.  Enjoy!  and May your Christmas be blessed! 

 

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There was no way to get comfortable, just as there was no way to quiet his racing mind.  Laying on the thin sleeping mat it felt as though his thoughts mirrored his body, restless, twisting, turning and seeking resolution.  He rose a time or two, paced, knelt, and rose to pace again.  He wandered out at one point into the dark night, the cool air, and paused to look up at the wide sky, the brightly hanging stars.  Rather than feeling relief, though, he was overwhelmed by his own smallness so that the wideness of the sky left him feeling more lost and fearful than he had since he was a small boy.  The enormity was disorienting, frightening and he quickly turned back inside and lay down with something like resolve. 

 

Still, sleep didn’t come. 

Most of what he knew about life he’d learned from working with wood and it was no surprise that his distracted mind, even now, kept returning to his workshop.  He’d learned, over time, to read the wood and find there the answer to his questions, not in the way of the sooth-sayers, seers and magicians who lined the market square, but in the same way that every skilled craftsman knows that all things material speak also of the eternal if one is able, willing, to listen. 

So it was that his mind worked on the problem, the conversation, going over it again and again as though sanding, seeking beneath the surface some deeper meaning, some guiding revelation.  He’d turned and walked out when she told him, the largeness of her revelation, of what she was asking, striking him like the wideness of the night sky so that he felt suddenly small and foolish, lost.  His leaving was automatic, rising from the primal urge to flee in the face of pain.   

He was grateful now that he hadn’t struck out in anger or rage as he might have in his youth.  Grateful that life had taught some level of restraint. 

He’d always been a dreamer, an idealist of sorts and in his youth the use of force and power were reflexive as a means to an end.  Believing in the righteousness of his ends, his ideals, he’d been known as a hothead, a firebrand, a short fuse that was quick to light and long-burning.  His religion, his righteousness, and the accompanying anger had given him a sense of identity, a sense of arrival and of having a place to stand in the world which, at the time, he took to mean that he was at long last a man. 

It was hard to say exactly what had changed him over the years other than the usual series of failings and fallings and losses.  The wood too, had worked on him even as he worked on it.  Wood doesn’t respond well to power and anger.  It had enraged him at times working beside his own quiet father; the way he couldn’t make the wood do what he wanted it to, couldn’t make it bend to his willing, but instead had to surrender himself to its lead.  It was the wood that caught him up short time and time again, caught him in his fire and force.

It took years of projects that splintered and split apart at the last minute, of bent nails and wood that turned on him to accept that he was not in charge.  When he worked in a shop of his own he would occasionally give in to frustration and rage, throwing a project with defiance.  There was a humility required in the craft that stood at odds with everything he believed about the world and what it meant to be a man in it. 

But that was a long time ago and now he felt himself changed, smoothed, worn-down, as though he were the piece of wood and life was itself the skilled hand of the carpenter.  Life had sized him up, stripped the bark and rough edges away until he found himself exposed and yielded like wood in skilled hands. 

Life had whittled away at him until what was left was something less, but purer and he’d fallen into a habit of waiting to see what use there might be for one so diminished. 

The arrangement, the engagement, had seemed too good to be true, unexpected, but fool that he was, it brought a spark of hope.  The girl wasn’t pretty, but sturdy and young.  To his eye she seemed like a tree, a rough exterior hiding something truer within; she had a depth and presence like all trees do and he found himself drawn to her.  He’d approached the engagement like he approached most pursuits these days, slowly, watchfully, and maybe that was why her words shocked him so, stung him in a deep place. 

Now he lay wrestling unwilling to accept one more submission, one more surrender to a life larger and more painful than he’d bargained on. 

At some point he found himself dwelling in the thin space between sleeping and wakefulness and this was when the dream came.  In the dream he was working in his shop, fitfully sorting through piles of discarded wood, looking for something he couldn’t name.  There were layers of dust and wood shavings everywhere that rose up like small clouds and flew like sparks as he frantically lifted and moved the lumber. 

Then he found himself in a shaded wood.  Sunlight glinted down through the uppermost branches of tall trees, but the ground where he stood was dark and cold.  Here too he was hunting, searching for something.  His axe hung from his calloused right hand as he plowed through the woods that seemed to go on forever.  He felt a deepening anxiety as he pressed forward, stumbling over the roots of ancient trees; the feeling that he was forgetting something important mingled with the feeling that some dark shadow was following him.

He was running, crashing through the woods given over almost completely to panic when he saw a glimmer of light in the distance.  The light calmed him enough that he stilled, turned and, as it happens in dreams, found himself standing inexplicably in a brightly lit clearing.  A stream ran through it, chattering along happily and beside it stood a young tree, its leaves green and shimmering. 

Something about the tree and the happy brook and the way it contrasted with his fear and anxiety sparked a deep rage inside of him.  Feeling the axe in his hand he turned and wielded it with all the strength of his youth.  He fell the tree in a few quick fierce blows and let the head of the axe fall to the ground, leaning over it drawing in deep shaking breaths. 

Then, looking up, he saw a small shoot growing up out of the stump as if in defiance to his destruction.  It grew and sprouted branches, leaves, before his very eyes.  It was as though the tree he’d cut down contained within it the seed, the root of an even greater tree.   This, too, sparked rage in him and he leaned back, straightening, and lifted his ax into the air bent on destroying the stump and the shoot with it. 

It was then that he felt the hand, hot and heavy like fire on the back of his arm, then that he felt the Presence of one standing, hovering behind him.   The touch stopped him, mid-swing and the fullness of time fell open around him.  It was as though the angel’s touch released a damn of sorrow and fear that had been building and the intensity of it all bent his knees and brought him broken, weeping to the ground. 

There was no way to say how long this lasted; it was an eternity and a moment at once.  As he felt the fire on his arm, he felt his own fear and foolishness as he had when confronted with the night sky and when the girl had told him her story.  Then the words came like a force that pulsed through him entering not just through his ears, but through his whole being, “Do not be afraid.” 

Those words washed over him like a wave so that his fears were lifted and following, like a second wave, he heard his own name, ”Joseph, son of David.”  At the sound of his name, he felt himself returned, no longer wandering or lost, but solid, present like one who’s returned home after a long and harrowing journey. 

As he knelt, rooted beside the stream, he felt the angel lift his chin, the touch now cool and refreshing, like water from a spring.  His chin was lifted and his eyes looked to where the tree had been and there he now saw the girl, Mary.  She looked straight at him and in that gaze he felt himself being aligned with her, felt the love rising in his gut, felt for once that he knew where he was, who he was and that everything from then onward would arise out of that knowing. 

In her eyes also he saw the light of the child that would come, like a glimmer of light without shadow, a small spark that would grow.  As he looked, the angel whispered in his ear one last word, “Jesus.”   And at the sound of the name, the spark leaped in Mary’s eyes and Joseph’s heart leapt within him. 

In the morning it would seem that after the dream he’d fallen into a deep, heavy sleep,.  It was the kind of restful, peaceful sleep he would never experience again.  For though the dream located him, changing forever the map of his life, the days and years ahead were still filled with restless, shifting nights.  Nights of worry,and foreboding, nights of fleeing and the hovering fear that he would prove at long last to be nothing more than a fool.  In this way his life was sanded down, bent in ways beyond his choosing and he learned to stop wondering what it would become and lean into what was. 

During those restless nights the dream was a star that guided him and he clung to it fiercely, that and the shepherds' visit, the star that hung low and heavy over the birthing place, and the visit of three dark strangers who mumbled in a foreign tongue, fussing over the child.  All of these became points of light in the darkness so that now when he lay restless, wrestling on his mat and rose, stepping out into the wide, dark expanse of the night, he felt not small and fearful, but rooted, as one following a scattered trail of stars toward home.