She looked at Isa’s battered face. He hadn’t abandoned her; he’d been imprisoned for seven years. And he’d been willing to die for the man who had freed him. But how could she go against all Abba had believed in? How could she put Zakai and everyone she loved in danger and trust in a man who had left Lazarus to die?
He is the Messiah, Isa had said, even as he knew it might cost him his life.
He is the Messiah, Lazarus had said as he died.
She closed her eyes as a tiny spark flared in her. Could she really believe Jesus was the Messiah?
Isa had said that demons had known Jesus. Demons had obeyed him. With every breath, the tiny spark of faith grew into what she should have known all along. The Messiah. The Anointed One of God. Her legs weakened, and she covered her hands with her face. The one they waited for had come.
He is here. He is Jesus.
But what was she to do now?
A soft, wrinkled hand slipped into hers. She opened her eyes. Safta tugged at her, shuffling out of the house, leading her into the corner of the courtyard where the empty crates and baskets had once held Zakai’s animals. What was Safta up to now?
“Look, my girl.” Safta pointed, her voice tinged with triumph.
As Martha’s gaze followed Safta’s bent finger, she caught her breath.
The dark cocoon, the hardened sarcophagus that had held Zakai’s caterpillar, was split open and empty. Beside it, perched on a twig, sat a new and beautiful creature. Martha reached out a hand but didn’t touch the vibrant wings that trembled in the breeze—so fragile, so easily destroyed. A hungry bird, a sudden storm, and this new life would be cut short. It pumped its wings, letting the life flow into them, readying them to fly.
Safta squeezed her hand and turned bright eyes on her. “What will you do now, my girl? Will you crawl back inside that safe little cocoon of yours, or will you finally come out and live?”
Martha stared at her grandmother. “What do you mean?” But she knew. Could she do it? Even if choosing Jesus meant a death sentence for her and the ones she loved?
Choose to believe, Mary had said. Lazarus had believed in Jesus, and he had died. Isa had believed, and he lay beaten and broken, perhaps dying. Should she follow her heart or what her head told her was the safer path?
The butterfly fluttered its wings and lifted on the breeze, drifting up and over the courtyard wall. Safta watched it go, then turned to Martha. “What are you waiting for, girl? Make your choice.”
Make her choice? Between a caterpillar and a butterfly. Between Simon and Isa. Between death and new life.
Martha forced her feet to leave the courtyard, her mind still in turmoil, her body numb. The path to the Jordan stretched under her feet. Far in the distance, she saw movement. Emerging from the haze on the road, a group of at least ten people. A few more steps, and she could see Peter and Judas, James and John, a few women. And Jesus, watching her. He broke away from the group and walked toward her.
Her heart pounded, and her legs trembled.
Do not be afraid, Lazarus had said.
Do not be afraid, Isa had told her.
The Messiah had come. She had denied him, doubted him. She had hardened her heart to him, had closed her eyes when Lazarus and Mary had seen clearly. How could she face him? Her throat dried, her steps faltered. What would he say to her? What could she say to him?
Worry weighed on her like a mountain. Anxiety stole her very breath. With every step, her burden grew heavier, until she was sure she would be crushed beneath it. Just as she was certain she couldn’t take one more step, he was there, in front of her.
Jesus’ words whispered to her. You are worried and anxious about many things. There is need of only one thing, Martha.
She fell to her knees and bowed her head, unable to voice the words that she longed to say but that her fear and doubt and guilt had silenced. This time, she would choose the better part.
I believe, Lord.
His hands reached down, closing over her cold, trembling fingers. Warmth flowed over her—through her. She heard his voice like a whisper in her ear.
Give me your worries, Martha. Give me your pain.
Yes. She could carry them no more. But he could.
The burden of sin she’d carried for seven years lifted. Every shred of guilt over Abba’s death was washed away in the warmth of his touch. Her doubt, her shame for all the times she had denied him, swept away in the flood of his presence. Her breath eased in her chest. He raised her to her feet. Like a lily lifting its face to the sun or a bird soaring into the sky, she was free.
She dared a look at his face. The face of her Messiah. Tears wet his cheeks. Tears of sorrow that she knew were for her pain. Tears of joy for her newfound faith. He loved her—not because she could cook a feast and keep her household clothed, not because she immersed the vessels and kept the law. He had always loved her . . . because she was Martha.
She brought his hand to her cheek, then turned and kissed it, washing it with her tears. She didn’t try to hide the pain—the confusion—in her voice. She wouldn’t hide anything from him again. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” But she also knew that he came for a reason, a reason she didn’t understand. “Even now I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you.”
Jesus’ voice was broken, as if his heart hurt for her. “Your brother Lazarus will rise.”
Yes, she knew that. Lazarus was not gone forever, only sleeping until the end of days. “I know he will rise on the last day.” But she missed him so much right now. Her grief welled up again, as sharp as when Lazarus had drawn his last breath.
Jesus pulled her to his chest. He was warm and smelled of dirt and sweat. His voice rumbled in her ears, so familiar, but his words were unfathomable. “I am the resurrection. I am the life. Whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live.” His soft beard brushed her cheek. “And everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”
She closed her eyes. She didn’t understand. It was a circle without end. Lazarus was dead, but he would live? When? How?
Jesus leaned back and looked at her, as if he needed more from her. “Do you believe this, Martha?”
She looked into the face of her cousin, her friend. The tears spilled from her eyes, and her throat ached. There is need of only one thing, Martha. She would trust him with her life and the lives of all those she loved.
She took a deep breath. “Yes, Lord. I believe.” She gulped a breath of air, strength she hadn’t known she possessed surging in her veins. “I have come to believe you are the Messiah who is coming into the world, the son of God.”
Jesus looked down at her, his eyes as kind as a father’s—a brother’s—the touch of his hands warm and solid. He smiled through the tears still on his cheeks. “Go then, Martha, and get your sister.”
Chapter Fifty
Charm is deceptive and beauty fleeting; the woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
—Proverbs 31:30
MARTHA SPRINTED TO Mary’s house.
The brilliant blue sky arched over her, and the sun warmed her shoulders. The scent of lilies floated on the breeze. Sparrows darted and swooped in the sky, their song lifting her heart. Had their calls and trills always been so sweet?
Whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live. Everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. What did it mean?
She passed by Simon’s house. He would soon know that she had defied him, but worry failed to slow her flying feet. She came to her own imposing gate. Was Isa alive? Would he recover only to be brought in front of the judges? She passed by. Isa wouldn’t want fear for him to keep her from doing what Jesus had commanded.
Whatever you ask of God, God will give you. She hadn’t known the words that would come out of her mouth. But when she heard them, she knew them to be true. What would Jesus ask of the one who was his Father?
She burst into Mary’s courtyard, careened into the house, and found her sister c
rumpled in the corner, Natanel in her arms. A few of the mourning women followed Martha from the courtyard and clustered in the doorway.
Martha whispered in Mary’s ear. “Mary.” She didn’t need all the women of the village to follow them. “Come quickly. The teacher is asking for you.”
Mary’s head jerked up, and her voice was hardly more than a croak. “Did he tell you why he didn’t come?”
Martha shook her head and pulled at Mary’s shoulders. There was too much to explain. “Come. He is on the road, waiting for us.”
Mary curled around the baby and shut her eyes. “I can’t go to him.”
“You must, Mary. You told me he was the Messiah. You told me to choose to believe in him. Now I have chosen. And you must do the same.”
Mary looked at her, her eyes showing a spark of life, of hope.
“Come, my sister. Be strong. The Messiah is at our door and is asking for you.” Martha pulled her sister to her feet and put her arm around her waist. She urged her through the house, past the curious women.
“Are you going to weep at the tomb?” Elishiva asked.
“It’s Jesus,” Martha whispered. But Chana was hovering close enough to hear.
“Jesus? He’s here?” Chana’s shrill voice carried over the room as she took the baby from Mary’s arms.
“Jesus?” Jael shoved her way into the little courtyard. “What are you going to do?”
Martha didn’t answer. Jael would see soon enough. She quickened her steps out the door, not looking behind. She heard the low murmurs of the women. They were following, surely to see what she and Mary would say to Jesus.
Silva’s whine reached her ears. “He’s come so late. Why bother at all?”
Elishiva answered her. “He loved Lazarus. Perhaps he’s come to mourn for him.”
They neared the spot on the road where Jesus and his disciples still waited.
Jael’s piercing voice carried on the breeze. “He opened the eyes of a man born blind yet didn’t even save his friend from death.”
Martha wished she could shut the mouths of the women behind her, but Jesus had already heard. He let out a short burst of breath, like she so often had when Zakai had failed to listen to her for the hundredth time. Then he held out his hands to Mary.
Mary threw herself at his feet. She bowed her head and kissed the hem of his tunic. “Lord.” Her voice was filled with sorrow and a note of reproach. “If you had been here, Lazarus would not have died.”
Martha heard her own words from her sister’s mouth. Why had he waited?
Jesus pulled Mary to her feet and wrapped his arms around her as she wept. Jael gasped. The women huddled together and whispered.
After a long moment, Jesus pulled away from Mary and looked to Martha. “Where have you laid him?”
Martha held out her hand. “Come and see.”
He took her hand, and with Mary clinging to his other side, they started toward the mountain. She took comfort in Jesus’ warm hand holding hers. Whatever came next, she would trust him. Simon had demanded that she choose between him and Isa. But this time, she’d chosen the better part . . . she’d chosen Jesus.
As they passed the walls of Bethany, Abel left his post at the gate. Tobias wasn’t far behind. Simcha and his brother, on their way to the well to water their sheep, left their flock and joined in.
By the time they reached the serpentine path up the hill, they’d been joined by workers from Simon’s fields, Micah, even old Yonah and his wife, the beautiful Eliana. They climbed halfway up the mountain, then down the sharp decline into the valley that held the tombs.
Jesus stopped in front of the massive stone covering the entrance to the tomb. He released his hold on her and stepped forward. Martha closed the gap between her and her sister and grasped Mary’s hand.
Jesus lifted his eyes to the sky, a sharp, clear blue with only a few wisps of clouds.
Was he praying? Mourning? Martha’s grip on Mary’s hand tightened.
Silence fell over the valley. All of Bethany waited to see what Jesus would do now that he had finally come.
• • •
ISA PRIED HIS eyes open. Arrows of light pierced his throbbing head, his ribs burned with every breath, and his face felt like an overfilled wineskin. Even in his pain, relief and something else—a feeling he didn’t know—filled him. He’d done it. He hadn’t run; he hadn’t even fought back. He’d fulfilled what Jesus had commanded. It was peace, what he felt. Instead of the shame and disgrace he’d lived with all his life, he felt at peace.
Where was he? He was propped up on a bed. A high square window lit a cozy room, and a delicious aroma drifted in on the breeze. If not for the pain in his head, he’d think he was in the afterlife. An old woman stared at him from the corner. She looked familiar. Martha’s old grandmother was still alive after all these years? “Martha,” he rasped out of his dry throat.
She leaned forward and croaked, “Thank the Holy One, he’s alive.”
He tried to rise, but the walls of the room spun around him. A face appeared above him. Not Martha. This must be the woman called Penina. She leaned over him. A cup touched his lips, and he drank. Cool water, sweetened with honey and flavored with mint. It soothed his throat and cleared his muddled thoughts.
He gripped the soft hand that held the cup. “Did she go to him? Did she go to Jesus?” Please say yes.
She set down the cup and made a motion with her hand, then looked at him expectantly.
What was she trying to say?
Zakai popped up beside her. “Everyone is going to the tomb with Jesus. The whole village.” He turned to Penina. “Can we go, please? Can I go to see?”
Isa’s head pounded, and he rubbed his temple. Jesus was going to the tomb? Lazarus’s tomb? Jesus. The man—the Messiah—who had saved him. He’d done what Jesus had commanded; now he could go to him without shame. He sat up slowly, waiting for the room to settle.
His tunic had been pulled down and tied at his waist, his scarred chest naked but for a linen wrapping around his ribs. He pulled in a shallow breath, and a sharp pain pierced his chest. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and set his feet on the floor. “Yes,” he answered Zakai. “We’re going to the tomb.”
Penina’s mouth turned down.
Zakai frowned. “Mama won’t go.” His brow furrowed. “And Safta, she can’t walk that far.”
Isa tested the strength of his legs. They wobbled under his weight, and he sat down again. I hope I can walk that far.
Penina shook her head and put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him. She was a tiny thing, this woman Zakai still called Mama. But stubborn, he could see from the set of her mouth and the determination in her eyes.
A door slammed, sending a new dart of pain through his head. With a clatter and a gust of wind, Chana careened around the door and into the room, baby Natanel clutched to her side. Her breathing was hard and fast. “Quick. Where are they? Jesus and Martha and Mary?”
Penina took the baby and settled Chana on a stool to catch her breath.
Safta hobbled from the corner. “Not here. They went to the tomb, we heard.”
“The tomb?” Chana’s face crumpled. “Oh no. Oh my. There isn’t much time.” She wrung her hands frantically and looked from one face to another.
“What is it?” Isa demanded. Had something happened to Martha?
“Simon came with his guards. He’s furious.” Chana choked on her words, as if she were holding back tears. “He said something about Martha—that she would pay for her betrayal—and about bringing Jesus to the Sanhedrin.”
Urgency surged in Isa’s pain-filled body. Martha—and Jesus—were in danger, and he needed to protect them both.
Safta snorted. “Since when do you worry about Jesus?”
Chana stiffened, her face showing hurt. “I’ve known Jesus since he was a baby in his mother’s arms. I wouldn’t see him hurt, and my Josiah wouldn’t want it.” She turned to Isa. “And Martha . . . Simon was so ang
ry.”
Isa clutched his ribs and stood, the room swaying around him. “What did you tell him?”
Chana looked at her hands, guilt written on her brow. “He was coming here next. I thought I could warn Martha, so I told him . . . I told him they went to the synagogue to hear Jesus teach.”
Safta grunted. “Good. Then we have some time.” She leveled sharp eyes on Isa. “You and Penina, take Zakai and go to the tomb.”
Penina glared at the old woman and her hands fluttered, but Safta interrupted. “Do you love Martha, my girl?”
Penina’s face lost its stubborn bent, and she nodded.
Safta frowned, her face creasing. “You heard what Simon said to her, what he’d do to her. Martha will need her family before this day is over. And so will Jesus.”
Tears brightened Penina’s eyes as she pointed to the old woman.
“I can’t make it.” Safta’s face wrinkled more deeply. She turned to Isa. “Well, boy, what are you waiting for?”
Isa breathed slowly, trying to gather his strength. He took a good look at Zakai, Penina, and the twig of an old woman. They were family—Martha’s family. Whatever was going to happen at the tomb, she needed them beside her. And he needed to get them there. Even the grandmother, who looked like she might break in a harsh breeze.
He set his feet firmly on the floor and scooped the old woman into his arms. She let out a surprised chirp, but her arms went around his neck. He swallowed a groan as pain ripped through his ribs. She might look like a bird, but she weighed more than one.
Isa adjusted his hold on Safta, then nodded to Zakai. “Bring us to Jesus.”
Chapter Fifty-One
MARTHA STOOD IN front of the tomb. Jesus remained silent, his face raised in prayer, his cheeks wet with tears.
Her grief lay heavy on her heart, as heavy as the day Lazarus died. But now, with Jesus beside her, she could bear it with more strength, with a sense of peace that she didn’t have before. Martha squeezed Mary’s hand. How she wished she could tell Lazarus he was right.
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