The Messiah, the Holy One of God, had come. And it changed everything.
The people of Bethany trickled into the valley, filling it like spring floodwaters. Jael and Devorah near the front, behind them Elishiva and Silva and the other women. Josiah and Simcha stood close to Jesus and his disciples, while most of the other men crowded back against the wall of the valley, well away from the tomb, to avoid impurity.
A trio of sparrows dipped and soared, their brown feathers dull against the piercing blue of the sky. A dry wind eddied through the rocky valley and whispered in the leaves of the terebinth trees as the murmurs of the crowd grew to a hum of anticipation. One by one, the sparrows landed on the stone in front of the tomb.
Jesus wiped the tears from his face and stepped closer.
The murmurs ceased.
Jesus’ voice carried over the crowded valley like a commanding general. “Take away the stone.”
Martha frowned. It had been four days. “Lord, there will be a stench.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Hadn’t she just decided not to question Jesus?
When Jesus turned to her, his eyes were kind and his tone like that of a loving parent. “Did I not tell you that if you believe you will see God’s glory?”
Her face flushed with heat. He had told her that. And instead of trusting him, she had worried again. Still, it had taken three of Simon’s servants to push the stone in place. Who would move it away? Abel and Tobias frowned and stepped back. Josiah and Simcha hesitated.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and a voice called out, “Here I am, Lord. I’ll do it.”
Martha’s heart skipped a beat as Isa shouldered through the onlookers. He’s alive. But he was pale and his mouth was pinched as if every step was torture. In his arms he carried Safta, her thin legs dangling and her arms circling his neck. Zakai ducked past him, running to Martha’s side. Behind Isa’s wide shoulders came Penina. Martha held out her hands, and Penina ran to her.
Isa set Safta beside them, holding her steady until she had found her feet. Martha caught his gaze. His eyes held questions she couldn’t answer. Why were they here? What would happen now? Only Jesus knew. But they were here. Everyone she loved. Whatever happened, they would face it together.
With a scuffle, Simon pushed through the crowd, his burly guards making a path for him. His eyes narrowed on Isa, and his mouth flattened. But he turned to Jesus and barked out, “What is the meaning of this?”
The disciples snapped to attention. They gathered into a knot around Jesus.
Jael piped up. “He’s asked to take away the stone.”
Simon scowled. “That’s ridiculous. After four days?” He motioned to the guards. “Take him. We’ll see what the Sanhedrin has to say.”
Isa stepped in front of Jesus and leveled his gaze at Simon. “If you want him, you’ll have to get past me.” His arm cradled his bandaged ribs, but his voice was strong and he looked like a man ready to fight.
Martha pulled Zakai closer, her heart racing. Isa could barely stand upright; he couldn’t fight the guards alone.
Josiah stepped up beside Isa. “And me.”
“And me.” Simcha joined them.
The disciples fanned out beside them, their faces set like stone and their fists clenched.
The guards glanced warily at each other. Simon snorted. “He won’t be able to hide behind his friends for long.”
Jesus ignored Simon and nodded to Isa. “Take away the stone.”
Isa, limping and bent, approached the tomb. Martha’s heart twisted at his pain. Surely Isa couldn’t move that heavy stone without help, but she held her tongue. She’d questioned Jesus once already; this time she’d trust him.
Isa put his hands on the edge of the stone and set his feet firmly on the rocky ground. The muscles in his arms bunched and strained. His bare feet dug into the dirt as he pushed. The stone didn’t budge.
Peter stepped forward, pushing up the sleeves of his tunic, but Jesus laid a hand on Peter’s arm, stopping him without a word.
Isa pushed again, a low groan escaping his lips. Then he dropped his hands, his chest heaving with effort and his face shining with sweat.
Everything in Martha strained toward him, but she forced herself to wait. Jesus knew what he was doing.
Suddenly, Zakai darted from her side and scrambled to stand beside Isa.
Isa looked at the boy, who hardly reached up to his waist, and made room for him beside the towering stone.
Martha’s legs trembled, and her bones felt like softened wax. Her son and his father. Together in front of all of Bethany. They both took a deep breath and set their jaws. Isa pushed, his back straining, his legs taut. Zakai pushed, his face red with effort.
The stone budged. Then—with a groan from Isa and a shout of victory from Zakai—it rolled, revealing the black mouth of the tomb. The people stepped back as one body. Some covered their faces with their sleeves, others turned away, but no stench of death came from the darkness. Isa took Zakai by the hand and retreated until they stood just an arm’s reach from Martha, but he didn’t look at her. Like everyone else, he watched Jesus.
Martha squeezed Mary’s hand on one side, Penina’s on the other. What would Jesus do now?
Jesus stepped forward, approaching the open tomb as if he were approaching the altar at the Temple. He raised his eyes to the blue sky. “Abba, thank you for hearing me. I know you always hear me, but because of the crowd I say this that they will believe you sent me.”
Jael gasped. Simon grunted like he’d been kicked by a donkey. Martha looked sideways at Mary, whose eyes were riveted on Jesus. Penina frowned, her brows pulled down.
The wind ceased and the trees stilled, as if all the valley held its breath.
Jesus’ voice rang out. “Lazarus, come out!”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Thus you may walk in the way of good men, and keep to the paths of the just.
—Proverbs 2:20
DARKNESS.
Silence.
No pain, no sadness, no fear. The void was like a blanket—comfortable, heavy.
Then words reached into the eternal emptiness. Something—someone—pulled at him. A tug out of the darkness. “Lazarus, come out!”
Slowly he understood the meaning of the words. The voice called to him, asked him to leave what he knew and go out, into the unknown. It was a choice. He knew that. He could stay here in the dark, where nothing could hurt him. Here, he would never again know suffering.
Or he could follow the voice. The voice promised joy. Life. Light. But also suffering. There would always be suffering outside, in the light.
The hour is coming when the dead will hear the voice of the son of God.
The hour was here. He knew that voice, and it was the voice of the one he loved. Jesus. The voice of the Messiah.
A pinprick of light penetrated the darkness, like a star in the night sky. He concentrated on the tiny speck of light.
The star brightened. It beckoned.
I’m coming. He tried to answer. I’m coming out.
Lazarus felt cold stone, smelled the heavy scent of myrrh, and tasted the coolness of the air. His eyes fluttered open, but he saw only muffled whiteness.
The voice echoed in his ears. Lazarus, come out!
His body jerked. Life surged through him like a river breaking loose from a dam. Breath filled his lungs, his heart swelled, blood pumped through his veins. A power, like a rushing fire, filled his limbs. Not his own, he knew. This was from Jesus.
Urgency welled within him. He struggled to rise. His arms were bound, his legs entangled. Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he see? He wrenched an arm free and lifted it to his face, pulling at the linen covering. He blinked. Bright light poured from the arched opening. Outside, an indistinct figure stood, the sun behind him, but he knew who it was.
Jesus.
He pushed himself up. The loose burial cloths still bound his legs, and one hand was still banded to his side.
His bare feet touching the cold ground. Air. Earth. Sunlight. Familiar, but also new.
Voices murmured outside, in the light.
He staggered to his feet. Martha, Mary. And Penina. Were they waiting for him? Zakai, was he out in the light? He shuffled across the smooth stone toward the light. His blood pumped; air filled his lungs. He was strong. Stronger than he’d ever been.
Voices drifted into the dark. “He’s a fraud.” A face came to his mind—gaunt, with large eyes. Simon.
“He’s a liar and blasphemer.” Who was that?
Lazarus stood in the cool shadows. Now they would know. The Messiah had come. When I step into the light, they will all believe. He ducked his head under the arched doorway and stepped outside. He blinked in the bright, hard light.
The murmurs ceased, replaced by utter silence.
Jesus stood before him. Tears shone on his cheeks. Jesus had wept for him, just as he had wept on the mountain when Lazarus had begged to be his follower.
Jesus came to him; he pulled him close. Lazarus understood now. Jesus, his friend—the Messiah—had kept his promise. You will understand when the time comes. The dead will hear the voice of the son of God. The power of the Most High ignited him like a flame. He could run over mountains, jump to the heavens, lift the heaviest stone. He had died. And Jesus had brought him back to life. A new life as a new man.
Jesus drew back without speaking and stepped aside.
Behind him, Martha and Mary, their hands linked together, their eyes wide and their mouths agape.
Jesus spoke to them. “Untie him and let him go.”
They stared at Lazarus like he was a spirit. No one in the crowd behind them spoke or even moved. Finally, slowly, Martha loosed her hand from Mary’s. She took one step toward him. Then another. She reached out with trembling hands and pulled the shroud from his shoulders.
Mary, her face white as the burial cloths, bent down before him and untied the bindings at his ankles, her eyes never leaving his face. The winding cloths fell from his legs like loosed chains. The wind tugged at his tunic as if to cleanse him of the clinging scent of myrrh. Martha and Mary held his burial cloths to their breasts like shields.
Don’t be afraid. But the words froze in his throat as they backed away, and his gaze fell on Penina.
Penina.
Her eyes were wide, her mouth trembling. She looked from Jesus to Lazarus and back to Jesus. Then, before he could move—before he could even speak—she stumbled forward and was in his arms, pressed close to his pounding heart.
Nina, I came back to you. The surge of power—the healing that had brought him from death into life—flooded through him in a torrent. He felt the power leave him, and, at the same moment, Penina cried out as if in pain.
He caught her weight as her body went limp in his arms. What had he done? “Nina!” Her eyes opened. Her face tipped toward his, and her lips parted. A voice, as sweet and soft as a dove, came from her lips. “You’re alive.” Her hand flew to cover her mouth, and her eyes stretched wide. “I can—”
Lazarus crushed her to him. She could speak!
Martha dropped the shroud and flew at him. Mary followed. He gathered his sisters close. They babbled and laughed—Mary, Martha, and Nina—his family. Jesus had brought him back to his family.
Small arms clamped around his legs. He looked down. Zakai grinned up at him. Lazarus leaned down and threw his arms around the boy, lifting him into the tight huddle.
“She can talk!” Zakai shouted. Penina’s laugh rang out like the tinkling of bells.
Penina could speak, and she was in his arms. He would never let her go again.
Safta shuffled close, her bright eyes filled with tears. Lazarus made room for her in the cluster of bodies. She clutched his hand, brought it to her face, and pressed her lips against it. “God is good, my boy.”
Mary was the first to break away. She ran to Jesus and threw herself at his feet. “The Messiah has come!”
The crowd surged to crowd around Jesus. Touching his cloak, asking him questions. He disappeared behind the throng, and even the disciples were swallowed by the mob.
“He has power over death. Alleluia! Alleluia!”
“Praise to the Lord, blessed be his name!”
Lazarus lifted his head to look out at the crowd. Now they would know. They would all know that Jesus was the Messiah. Simcha, on his knees, raising his eyes to heaven. Simon, standing alone before the tomb, his face slack with shock. John and Peter looking at each other in amazement. And next to Peter—
Lazarus stiffened. There was a face he knew from another lifetime. He set Zakai down and untangled himself from the huddle of his family, staring at the man before him. The man he’d despised since he was a child.
He was older, and bigger. And he looked like he’d been in a fight. But it was him. The pagan who had defiled his sister, then abandoned her. Now Lazarus was strong enough to make him atone for his sin. Old enough to see him punished for what he had done to Martha.
He took two great strides until he was face-to-face with Isa. They were the same in height, but what Isa had gained in muscle, Lazarus made up for in righteous anger.
Isa didn’t flinch. And he didn’t look afraid. He should be afraid.
Lazarus squared his shoulders and leaned close to the vermin who had broken his sister’s heart. “What is this man doing back in Bethany, Martha?”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Give her a reward of her labors, and let her works praise her at the city gates.
—Proverbs 31:31
MARTHA COULDN’T BELIEVE what she was seeing.
Her brother was alive. Alive! Jesus—the Messiah—had raised him from the dead after he had lain in the tomb for four days. Jesus had freed her brother, and now from the look on Lazarus’s face, she saw he might use his new life to end Isa’s.
The nearest villagers—Elishiva, Simcha, Simon, and Jael—pushed closer. Voices rose in a buzz of excitement.
“Who is it?”
“Does Lazarus know him?”
Jael’s voice rang out. “Martha, who is this man?” Her voice turned heads, and villagers left the throng around Jesus to peer at Lazarus and Isa. Silva and Devorah, their husbands, and a few men came closer.
Martha pushed herself between the two men. She looked at her brother, who loved her enough to take her secret to his grave. “You’ve kept my secret long enough, Lazarus. It’s time for us both to be free.” It might be a death sentence. It would surely change her life. But she could not lie anymore.
Martha took Isa’s hand in hers. Isa, the man she loved, the man Jesus had found and sent back to her. He looked at her, a question in his eyes. She reached for Zakai with her other hand and drew them together.
Mary broke from the crowd around Jesus to stand beside her. Penina edged in on her other side. Even Safta came closer, her wrinkled face unreadable. Martha’s heart fluttered, but the peace she’d felt on the road—the peace Jesus had given her—filled her again. She was strong now.
She faced the people she’d known all her life. The men who knew Abba, who had been told they weren’t good enough for her. The women who believed her to be the holiest woman in Bethany. She would tell them all. But first, she would tell Zakai.
She crouched down in front of Zakai. His face was full of questions. She kissed his small brown hand. “Zakai, my sweet. You have always called Penina your mother. And she loves you as much as a mother could. But you must know now that you are my son, my child.”
A gasp hissed through the crowd, but Martha kept her eyes on Zakai. His brows came down. He looked at Martha. “You’re my mama?”
She nodded.
His gaze went to Penina. “Not you?”
Penina bent down beside him and whispered in her new voice, “I love you, Zakai. And I always will, but Martha is your mama and always has been.”
Zakai’s forehead puckered. “But you won’t leave us, will you?”
She shook her head. “Never.” She
looked up at Lazarus, and he moved closer, his face reflecting her certainty. “This is my family.”
Martha looked at Isa before she went on. He nodded, his jaw firm. The time for secrets was over. It was time to bring everything out into the light.
“Zakai.” Martha made herself look only at her son. Not at the gathering crowd around them, the people who could sentence her and Isa to death. “This man.” She swallowed hard. Isa’s hand, strong and calloused, tightened around hers, and she found the strength to finish. “This good man that I have loved all my life—is your father.”
Zakai took a step back. He looked at Penina, who nodded. He blinked hard and long at Isa. His voice rang out in disbelief, carrying over the gathered crowd and echoing against the stones. “You are my abba?”
• • •
ISA LOOKED AT the beautiful boy who was his son and the strong woman who was everything to him and always had been.
Yes, he was poor, beaten, and didn’t have a shekel to his name. Lazarus despised him, and these people gathering around him would either stone him or drive him out of town before the end of the day.
But Martha loved him. She’d said it in front of all of Bethany.
He wanted to shout it to the heavens. He was this beautiful boy’s abba, and Martha loved him. He looked into his son’s face. “Yes, I’m your abba.”
Zakai’s slate-gray eyes widened. He let out a yell, dropped his mother’s hand, and launched himself at Isa, barreling into his legs with a force that almost knocked him to the ground. Small arms clamped around him, and a muffled sob of pure joy came from his son.
Isa crouched down and circled the boy in his arms, laying his head on his shaggy hair. His throat clogged with tears, and gratitude filled his chest until he thought he might burst. Thank you, son of the Most High God, for bringing me back to Bethany.
Martha fell to her knees beside Isa. He wrapped his arms around them both, pulling them close. He’d thought Martha was the only good thing that had ever happened to him, but this . . . this was more than he had ever dared to hope for. Something beautiful and new swelled in his chest, threatening to burst from him in a great flood. He was no longer alone. He had a family. And with the help of the God of Abraham, he would do whatever he must to protect them, for as much time as he had left.
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