When Jesus Wept (28 page)

The symptoms appeared on the same day word came that our departure from the hospital was abruptly ordered. A ferret-faced man named Ra’nabel ben Dives, who was secretary to High Priest Caiaphas, arrived at the head of a pack train of supplies.

It was more like a royal procession: a half score of donkeys were tended by twoscore servants and preceded by a crier and three men blowing silver trumpets.

“Make way for the high priest’s retinue. These supplies are urgently needed by the suffering beggars of Jerusalem. Make way!”

Ra’nabel, head piously covered, walked behind the procession, praying loudly and thanking the God of Israel for the sacrificial generosity of Lord Caiaphas. By his prayer he informed the citizens of Jerusalem that this charity was absolutely essential to the survival of the Sparrows.

In truth the total supplies Caiaphas sent would only have required a single cart to transport, but they were welcome just the same. Or so I thought when one of the servants pounded on the door of the hospital, and Ra’nabel announced the gift.

While I spoke in a normal tone, the secretary continued stridently proclaiming to all Jerusalem the goodwill offered by Caiaphas. He made certain to make the aid sound massive and the plight of the “destitute and dying” very grim indeed.

I told him the help was very welcome. “And, thanks be to the Almighty, the danger is past. The boys are all on the mend, getting better every day.”

Ra’nabel then informed me that our presence at the hospital was no longer required. “Lord Caiaphas thanks the House of Lazarus for its good service as you return to Bethany.”

“Return to … you’re ordering us out?”

“Lord Caiaphas, mindful of his responsibility to the poor of Jerusalem, wants to take personal charge of seeing that the contagion does not spread. We will take over now.”

In my foggy mental state it took a moment for me to comprehend these actions, and then it came to me. Word had reached the high priest, probably through one of the crones, that the Sparrows were improving as we worked and prayed in the name of Jesus of Nazareth.

If the boys had died, then Jesus could have been blamed, but he could not receive credit if they were made whole. The high priest had waited until a successful outcome was assured before seizing the credit for himself.

I started to reply to this takeover, suffered a sudden bout of coughing, and finally acquiesced.

When Mary protested, Ra’nabel’s features lost their ingratiating aura. “You would do well to keep silent! We know the
man from Nazareth is a sorcerer. It has come to the attention of Lord Caiaphas that incantations have been performed using the blasphemer’s name. You are hereby ordered to gather your belongings and be out of here by tomorrow or be arrested for witchcraft.”

With a hand trembling with both illness and emotion, I penned the news in a note to my sister Martha. I also asked that she prepare the disused building behind the barn for me to occupy.

Mary, reading my words, protested. “Brother, you’re not well. When you get home you need your own bed.”

“No,” I countered. “I cannot be where I’m a danger to the others. I’ll be fine in the old cottage. But only you and Peniel can come see about me. Please make it clear to Martha that I love her, and there is no way I will expose her to this disease.”

Our departure from my boys was tearful. Laying hands on each child, we prayed in Jesus’ name for their continued strength and full recovery. “Remember what we say: there is true power in Jesus of Nazareth. Not another one of you has been lost. Who has ever heard of such a thing?”

Mary kissed each boy’s forehead … then we were gone.

By the time we reached my front gate, my head was throbbing. I could not open my eyes wider than a squint because the Judean sun was unbearable. My throat felt parched, yet when I tried even a mouthful of water I could not swallow without a great effort to overcome the pain.

Because I did not want to alarm Martha, I said nothing about any of my symptoms. A few days of rest and good food, I reasoned, and I would be on the mend. In my deepest heart I
knew this was self-deception at best. I was afraid to admit the extent of my illness for fear Martha would insist on summoning Jesus to help me.

The thought of being the cause of his arrest … or worse … was something I could not permit.

I pretended to scratch my beard, complaining that Mary and Tavita had made the Sparrows more presentable than I was. In reality I fingered the line of my jaw, the glands underneath alarmingly swollen and hot to the touch.

Martha met us and would have swept me up in an embrace, but I fended her off abruptly. “Need rest and quiet,” I said brusquely. When I saw how my tone had hurt her, I added, “A few days … right as rain.” It was becoming harder and harder to speak at all. With every word either my throat seized up or I coughed, so all my phrases came between short pauses. “Fix your famous … lamb and rice. See how … fast I get … strength back. But not today,” I added. “Soup, today, please. Only Mary and Tavita should … come near me, Martha. They … had this illness … got well, but you … never had it.”

“Neither have you,” Martha murmured, alarm barely hidden behind a carefully neutral visage.

That night Martha prepared a savory broth. The steaming tureen of chicken soup filled the freshly scrubbed cottage with the aromas of cardamom and ginger.

As soon as I smelled it I felt my throat constrict. “Just put it … down,” I managed to rasp to Mary. “Sleep a bit. Eat later.”

I did sleep then, but fitfully. My dreams were filled with images of a snake coiled around my neck, strangling me. When, in my dream, I struggled to free myself from its coils, it turned into a black cord knotted about my throat being tugged ever tighter by Lord Caiaphas and his scribe Ra’nabel.

Mary’s touch on my forehead woke me. “So sorry, brother. You were making terrible noises, writhing on the bed. It sounded like you were calling for help.”

“Just …” My throat hurt so badly I had to pause before adding, “. dreaming.”

Her arms under my shoulders helped me prop upright. My head felt as if it weighed far too much for my neck to support. The least jostling filled my head with the sense a grinding stone was rolling around inside it.

She gave me a sip of water, for which I was grateful, but when she held the mug to my lips a second time I waved it away. Mary prayed for me then. In Jesus’ name, she asked the Almighty to recognize how diligently I had worked to save the Sparrows and requested I be shown the same miracle of restoration as they.

When I opened my eyes in the morning, bright sunshine streamed in. Outside the cottage’s window an almond tree displayed its exuberant rebirth in showy pink blossoms.

A trio of caregivers surrounded my bed. Mary, Tavita, and Peniel formed a knot of silent witnesses. Had they been standing over me all night? Was I so ill that they thought I was going to die? Or was I dreaming now?

Mary spoke: “Good to see you awake, brother. Martha sends her love and a pot of stew.” She nodded toward Peniel, who raised the lid of the kettle he carried and inhaled appreciatively. “Smells wonderful, Master David,” he observed. His stomach growled.

I had no appetite. My coughing was not as violent, but only because I had no strength left in my exhausted frame.

By what I knew to be a feeble gesture, I waved away the soup. With fragments of words I vowed to have some later.

“You must eat to recover your strength,” Mary insisted.

Speaking required too much effort. I shook my head gingerly. I saw Mary exchange a worried glance with Tavita. When Tavita volunteered to coax me to eat, as she had successfully done with my boys, I allowed her to try.

I could not find any aroma or any taste in the broth, but that was of no concern to me. The liquid seemed to get stuck halfway down my throat. A pain built in my chest, as if I had swallowed a stone, and it was blocking the passage to my stomach. Each drop required a supreme effort of will to force down.

I could only manage a few swallows before I shook my head again. Between the soreness of my throat and the bouts of coughing, I feared I would choke. In any case I was not hungry.

The three of them left then, but I overheard their conference through the thin walls of the cabin.

Mary insisted I was getting better.

Tavita replied that Mary had not seen my throat or tongue. “We should send for Jesus. Now. At once. Send Peniel today.”

I would have shouted and told them no, but I had no breath or strength for shouting. Feebly I called, but no one heard me.

Then I heard Mary complete my refusal for me: “My brother would never agree to call Jesus back into danger. We pulled all the boys through this. We’ll pull David through as well. You’ll see.”

I lay back on the pillow then, as tired as if I had fought a great battle.

Outside the window a flotilla of clouds drifted past, like an armada of galleys coasting down the wind. I admired the lack of effort, the ease with which they floated. Of course they
could not stop nor turn against the wind. All they could do is run before it until they piled up against a mountain peak or dissolved above the hot sands of the desert.

At the moment either choice was preferable to where I lay and how I felt.

Chapter 27

W
as it morning or evening? Dawn or twilight? I could not tell. The light in the cottage was dim, but it seemed to neither increase nor decrease. I tried to lift my head to look around; failed. I tried to raise my hand to hold it in front of my face; failed again.

A dearly beloved countenance, almost as familiar as my own, bent over me. What was her name? Part of my mind wrestled with the problem. I knew I should know her name. Why couldn’t I remember it?

A cloth dipped in warm water appeared. Gentle motions scrubbed my eyes, nose, and mouth. When it was lifted away from me, I saw it was stained red. Was I bleeding? It did not seem to matter.

“Poor, poor dear,” a tender voice crooned.

Mary!
That was the name. I vowed to remember it.

A spoon was inserted between my lips, and some liquid dribbled in. Where did she think the fluid would go? I could not recognize much, but I knew my tongue was now swollen until it completely filled the cavity of my mouth and throat.

No room!
I wanted to shout.
You’re going to choke me!

“Come on, lamb, just a little more.”

I clamped my lips shut. The wooden spoon clunked against my teeth. Some broth or soup or water dribbled on my chest.

Mary tried again to insert the spoon between my teeth.

By rolling my shoulders and flinging my emaciated frame to the left I managed to knock the spoon from her hand.
Leave me alone
, I felt like screaming.

Even thinking about screaming made my head ache.

“David? Brother? We must … must … send for Jesus. Now. Today.”

A burst of coughing shook me from my head to my toes. Summoning all my reserve of breath and strength, I managed to croak: “No! Not safe! Don’t!”

Then, like a crushed grape skin after the juice has been pressed, I folded back into the bed, lying flatter and stiller than I had before. “Promise!” I demanded.