She prayed Jesus and his followers would not offend Simon’s friends. Not only for her sake but for Jesus’. Simon might not bring the Temple guards to Bethany, but she wasn’t so sure about Abel or Tobias. She bustled back to the courtyard. If she could keep them all eating, they wouldn’t be able to question Jesus or be angered by his unorthodox teachings.
A shout sounded from outside the courtyard. What now? She went to the door, where Simon’s guards held a tired-looking man by both his arms. Beyond him, a woman sat on a skinny donkey. Their clothes were threadbare and foreign, northerners perhaps, coming to Jerusalem on pilgrimage. “What is this?”
One of the guards scowled at her. “Beggars.”
Micah jerked a thumb at the guard. “Get rid of them.”
Martha turned on him. “Surely not.” They couldn’t refuse a traveler welcome.
Micah’s hard expression didn’t alter.
“At least give them some food.” She motioned to the Egyptian girl. “Get some bread. And meat.”
The girl looked at her with wide eyes, then at Micah.
“No, you don’t.” Micah shook his head. “The master won’t like it.”
Martha blew out a breath. “That’s ridiculous. It’s Purim.”
Micah raised his chin in defiance, and a hint of fear showed in his eyes. “No.”
What was he afraid of? Whatever it was, she wasn’t about to turn away hungry pilgrims on Purim. “Go ahead and ask him.”
Micah pivoted and marched into the house. She followed. Simon would clear this up. If she was going to be mistress of this house, the servants must respect her.
In the dining room, Simon straightened as they approached him, his eyes narrowing. Micah bent and whispered to him. Simon’s gaze went to Martha. “Foreigners?” Simon asked.
Micah nodded.
“We’ve already given to the poor, the ones who deserve it.” Simon scowled and waved his hand.
Surely he didn’t mean it. Abba would never deny food to hungry travelers. “But, Simon—”
The shocked look on Simon’s face stopped her. She couldn’t speak to him, not here in front of the men. She pressed her lips together and caught Lazarus’s eye. The disciples shifted uncomfortably. Jesus watched Simon, his face unreadable.
Simon lifted his wine cup. “He who touches pitch blackens his hands.” Abel and Tobias murmured in agreement. Simon nodded to Martha. “Bring the food for my guests.”
She followed Micah out of the house and watched helplessly as he shut the door against the tired couple.
Martha turned back to her work. This was Simon’s home; he could deny food to a wanderer if he chose. But if he could deny food when he had so much, was he really as upright and merciful as Lazarus thought?
She brought in the bread. Penina carried a wide bowl of the roasted lamb, anointed with cumin sauce and sprinkled with sesame seeds. After Simon said the blessing over the bread, Penina set the meat in the center of the table. The men tore the bread in hunks, dipping and scooping meat into their mouths. Simon closed his eyes as he chewed, then looked at Martha and nodded, but his approval failed to ease her worried mind.
She brought in the next dish, setting it close to Jesus. She’d made it especially for him. A trio of vegetables—onions, artichoke hearts, and fennel—roasted in the best olive oil and sprinkled with briny olives. When he tasted a bite and smiled at her, her heart lightened for a moment.
Simon announced loudly that he had gone to the Temple earlier in the day. There, he had seen a tax collector. “He could do nothing but beat his breast and say, ‘Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.’ ” Simon shook his head sadly. “I thanked the Lord that I was not like that man,” he said, looking pointedly at Matthew, sitting at the foot of the table. Matthew’s cheeks reddened, and Martha felt a surge of sympathy for the disciple everyone knew had been a tax collector before he began to follow Jesus.
One by one, she presented the rest of the dishes. Spiced peahen eggs on a bed of fresh greens and chopped herbs. Dates stuffed with ground almonds and honey. Asparagus drizzled with aged vinegar and sprinkled with Simon’s precious pepper.
Jesus ate only small portions of the food she set before him and drank sparingly of the wine. He talked in a low voice to Lazarus and complimented Simon, as was appropriate. Abel and Tobias said nothing, their mouths full and their chins dripping.
Simon boasted to his captive audience, signaling to Martha when a wine cup needed refilling or a guest needed another portion. Before the last dish was served, everyone at the table knew he fasted twice a week, gave ten percent to the Temple, and owned all the wheat fields around Bethany.
Martha returned to the courtyard. It was time for the last dish. Then she could eat with the women and children. Thank the Most High, the dinner had been perfect. Simon would find no fault with her tonight.
Penina held a shallow platter as Martha poured out the warm compote of dried fruit steeped in the honeyed wine. Martha sprinkled handfuls of toasted pistachios over the fruits that glistened like jewels, then hefted the heavy platter. This would be the crowning glory of her perfect meal. It would take long into the night to clean all the pots and leave the courtyard spotless, but Simon would see that she did not shirk the duties of a good wife. And tomorrow, he would overlook her sins. She would be able to keep Penina and Zakai and Safta safe, and Lazarus could go with Jesus.
As she carried the platter carefully toward the house, the jangle of bracelets and a flash of color made her jerk to a stop. The fruits slid sideways, but she righted the platter just in time. Mary swept across the courtyard in her pink tunic and yellow belt, her every movement accompanied by the jingle of brass bangles. Late again.
The girls were dressed in their best tunics, their hair combed and faces washed. Josiah followed behind his wife, his head swiveling to take in the large courtyard and even larger house.
“Is he here?” Mary asked, heading toward the house. “I will greet him, then help you serve.”
Martha stepped in front of the door and jerked her head to Micah. “Take Josiah in.” There was room for him at the foot of the table.
Martha let Josiah and Micah pass by but blocked Mary with the platter. “You can see Jesus later, after dinner.” Mary couldn’t embarrass her this time. “I’ll finish the serving.”
Mary’s hand shifted behind her, but Martha caught sight of the jar of nard and irritation rose in her. “Mary. Not this again,” Martha snapped. She couldn’t have Mary traipsing in to anoint Jesus. It would ruin everything she’d worked for. “Go sit with the children and the other women.” She looked for help, but only her grandmother was there, sitting on a bench next to the wall. “Safta, tell her.”
But Safta raised her brows. “This is your fight, my girl. But don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s with your sister.”
She let out a breath. Couldn’t Safta take her side just once? Or even say something that made sense?
“Jesus will welcome me,” Mary said with conviction. “You know he will.”
“Mary, please,” Martha pleaded. Please don’t embarrass me. Not tonight, not with Simon. And they needed that nard if they were to eat this spring. But with her hands full, she couldn’t stop her sister from brushing past her and entering the dining room like Esther going before the king, but without the fear and trembling.
Martha followed to find Mary settled at the end of Jesus’ couch, a loving smile on her face. The scent of nard filled the room as she smoothed the oil over Jesus’ feet. Every man’s eye was fixed on Mary in shocked silence.
Abel recovered first. “What? Josiah, will you allow your wife to join us at the table?”
Josiah took a bite of bread, chewing thoughtfully and watching Jesus. Judas sputtered about the cost of the precious oil.
Martha sent Lazarus a pleading look. Please, send her away.
Mary bent her head and kissed Jesus’ feet.
Simon coughed as though he had choked on a mouthful of food. “Lazarus, tell your si
ster to leave us and join the women in the courtyard.”
Lazarus looked to Jesus. “What do you say, teacher?”
“Leave Mary alone,” Jesus said finally. “What she has done for me is good.”
Simon’s face turned red, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “This is no place for a woman.”
Jesus inclined his head to Simon. “You did not give me the kiss of peace when I entered your home, but she has not stopped kissing my feet since she came to me.”
Simon turned to Lazarus. “This is an outrage. Surely this proves my point about this . . . messiah of yours?”
Jesus went on as if Simon hadn’t spoken. “You did not anoint my head with oil, Simon, but she has anointed my feet and prepared me for my burial.”
The disciples looked at each other warily.
Martha’s hands clenched the tray of fruit as anxiety clamped her chest in a vise. Why did Mary have to be so disgraceful? Lazarus would never go against Jesus, and Simon would lose face in front of his friends. Then what would happen tomorrow when she confessed her own disgrace? She had to do something.
Martha set the tray down next to Jesus. “Lord.” Could Jesus hear the plea in her voice? “Do you not care that my sister has left me by myself to do the serving?”
Mary gasped and looked up at her, hurt in her eyes.
I’m sorry, Mary. Martha didn’t want to humiliate her sister, and a rebuke from Jesus would wound her, but she had no choice. Jesus would help her; surely he understood. “Please, cousin. Tell her to help me.”
Jesus looked at Martha for a long moment. His gaze slipped to Lazarus, waiting for his response, and then to Simon, whose lips were pulled down in a scowl.
Jesus laid a hand on her arm. “Martha, Martha.” His voice was soft, but the words hit her like blows from a hammer. “You are anxious and worried about many things.” He nodded to Mary. “But there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, and it will not be taken from her.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
She fears not the snow for her household; all her charges are doubly clothed.
—Proverbs 31:21
MARTHA FELT AS though a jar of cold water had been thrown in her face.
Mary had chosen the better part? The silence in the room pressed down on her. Jesus’ eyes were filled with sadness and sympathy, as though he knew how much pain his words had caused.
Martha pulled away from Jesus, the burn of humiliation replacing her icy shock. She turned and ran from the room, desperate to get away from Jesus, Mary—all of them.
She rushed through the house blinking back tears, barely seeing the servants scattering before her. In the courtyard, she brushed past Penina, who made a small sound and turned as though to follow her, but Martha shook her head and pushed through the heavy door.
She ran—past the garden, across the stream—and kicked through the carpet of brittle leaves to the center of the orchard. There, next to the ancient tree, she sank down, leaned her face on the rough bark, and let her tears flow.
You are worried about many things. Yes, Jesus was right about that. She had many things to worry about. Her betrothal to Simon. Penina and Zakai. Even about Jesus’ own safety and what would happen to Lazarus as his disciple.
Who would worry about all these things if not her?
Jesus didn’t know all she had weighing on her. The anxiety that woke her early every morning, the heavy weight of her responsibilities. He didn’t know her secret and how, above all else, she must please Simon tonight. Yes, she was worried about many things.
Martha leaned against the thick trunk, as rough and solid as it had been the night she and Isa had lain beside it. That night had been warm, the fragrant breeze drifting over their bodies like a soft blanket. Tonight, the wind punished her, whipping her hair against her face and clawing at her tunic.
Mary has chosen the better part? Mary, who rarely had bread baked? Who said “the Lord will provide” and then thanked the Lord when it was Martha who brought food for her family and clothes for her children? Mary, ridiculed by all the women of Bethany? How could Mary have chosen the better part when Martha tried so hard to do everything right?
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Jesus hadn’t wanted to humiliate her; she knew that from the love in his face. But he had. In front of everyone. There is need of only one thing, he’d said. What? What was the one thing?
She picked up a fallen twig and began to strip off its curling bark, sniffling. Abba would say the law was the one thing. But Mary didn’t follow the laws, not like she should, and neither did Jesus. Mary didn’t worry about what the women of Bethany—or the men, she’d proven tonight—thought of her. Just as Jesus didn’t seem to care when he angered the powerful Pharisees.
Mary cared only for showing her love for Jesus, for welcoming him and believing that he was the Chosen One. How does she know? How could she know without a doubt that Jesus was the Messiah?
It was simple, she’d said last time. But it wasn’t simple. Not for Martha.
Martha threw down the stick, now stripped of its outer bark and as smooth and naked as a newborn baby. Her devotion to the law, her hard work and the respect that it bought her in Bethany, those things she knew. Those things protected her and Zakai and Penina. As much as she loved Jesus—she couldn’t believe he was the Messiah. Not like Mary and Lazarus did.
If that’s the better part Jesus speaks of, I can’t choose it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
For the Lord gives wisdom, from his mouth come knowledge and understanding.
—Proverbs 2:6
LAZARUS RAN UP the path toward the Mount of Olives, his breath wheezing hard and fast in his chest. The moon was barely a sliver and the sky almost without stars. A cold wind whipped his cloak and rustled the leaves in the shadows of the olive grove. Jesus and the disciples couldn’t be much farther. He could catch them before they crested the mountain and started down to Jerusalem.
He didn’t blame Jesus for leaving so soon. Simon had treated the Galileans more like unwelcome relatives than honored guests. After Martha left, Simon had gone from impolite to rude, quizzing Jesus on his knowledge of the law, scowling deeper with each answer Jesus gave.
After dinner, Jesus and his disciples excused themselves to go pray, but Simon had pulled Lazarus aside. “Your friend,” he’d said, “is dangerous. I won’t be able to protect him if he continues with this outrageous talk.”
Lazarus stumbled to a stop and bent double, the pain in his side intensifying. It is a test, and I won’t let it stop me.
Simon had been rude, but he would see that he was wrong. Soon, Jesus would dispel all doubt. Even Simon would believe, as would Martha and Penina.
Poor Martha. He’d seen the pain on her face at Jesus’ rebuke and felt her humiliation. But Mary had been the only one giving Jesus the honor he was due. Surely Martha could see that. He pushed his feet up the path. He’d find Martha, talk to her, after he spoke to Jesus.
Around a bend in the path, he sighted an indistinct shape and called out with the last of his breath. A few more steps brought him to Peter at the rear of the group. The rest of the disciples and Jesus stopped farther ahead on the path.
“Why are you leaving?” he gasped out.
Peter answered, “He wants to pray in the garden, on the other side of the mountain.”
“So late?” Only brigands and thieves traveled in the night. “Why not wait until morning? You can stay with me tonight.”
Peter shrugged. “We go with him. We’ll sleep there.” He pulled his cloak tighter around him, looking as though sleeping in the cold night air wasn’t his idea. “Perhaps it’s not safe in Bethany.”
Lazarus felt a tingle of alarm. Peter might be right about that. He wouldn’t be surprised if Simon or one of his Pharisee friends had sent messengers to the Sanhedrin as soon as they’d left the table. He looked past Peter, up the rocky path to where Jesus stood. “Jesus, can I speak to you?” He didn’t need the other d
isciples listening. What would they think of him? Would they want him as one of their number?
Jesus nodded for Peter and the rest to go on and came down the hill to stand in front of Lazarus.
Lazarus’s mouth went dry. He’d known this man since he was a child. He’d worked with him, eaten with him, laughed with him. Why was he so nervous to ask a simple question? He looked at Jesus, his worn cloak so familiar, his dark hair and beard the same as any other Jewish man’s.
But he was different. This man, this son of Mary and Joseph, was the Messiah. The one they’d hoped for, prayed for, waited for. He knew Jesus was the Anointed One like he knew that the stars still shone beyond the lowering clouds, like he knew the moon would return to a full circle in a few days’ time. And he needed to follow this man more than he needed to draw his next breath.
“Jesus, please.” He raised his eyes to his friend’s face. “I believe you are the One who has come. The Messiah. Let me follow you and be one of your disciples.”
Jesus didn’t answer for a long moment. Finally, he spoke, his voice gentle. “Lazarus, my friend. Where I am going, you cannot follow.”
Lazarus reached out and grasped Jesus’ arm. “Lord, please. I can. I can go anywhere you go.” He sounded like a child, but he didn’t care.
Jesus shook his head, his voice firm. “You cannot come after me.”
Lazarus dropped his hand as if he’d been burned. “I beg you, Lord.” He heard the desperation in his own voice. He was willing to give up anything—his home, his sisters, Penina. “Let me be part of the coming of the Kingdom.”
Jesus wrapped his arms around Lazarus and pulled him to his chest. Lazarus felt Jesus take a deep breath. He closed his eyes. This was where he needed to be. With this man, his friend and his Messiah. Surely Jesus knew that.
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