“No. I’m gone. Listen to me.”
“There’s more?”
“The general mistook Brunon for you.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes. He thinks you’re dead.”
“Poor Brunon. Alastor, listen. Was it General Decimus Calidius Balbus?”
He nodded, gasping, looking incredulous. “You know him?”
“I know of him.”
His death rattle had begun. “Inside tunic. Under my arm.”
“What, brother? Which arm? Alastor? Rabbi?”
I pressed my ear to his chest, felt his neck, then his wrist. My dear friend was no more.
I held my cheek against his.
Curious as I was, I would not defile him by searching him as he hung there. I reversed the order I had used to detach Zuriel from the wood and found Alastor much more manageable than the bigger man. I carried him gingerly over my shoulder and gently laid him on the ground near where we had spent so many afternoons together.
I found the small spade I had used to dig the hole for my parchments and took nearly half an hour carving a space in the ground for him. I whispered, “Forgive me, friend” and reached up under his sleeve until I found a torn fragment of parchment that had been rolled and folded.
Hands shaking, I opened it.
Forgiven and loved.
Taryn
I hung my head and wept.
And the Lord spoke to me.
Bury your friend and make your way to the trade route.
But Lord, all the others . . .
Precious in My sight are the deaths of My saints. Leave them to me.
I laid Alastor’s body in the ground and covered it, overwhelmed at the simple truth God had tried to teach me just three days previous. The ministry I am entrusting to you will be birthed soon, not in joy but in pain. I thought He meant I would face anger, opposition, hunger, poverty, hardship. But by “pain” He meant pain.
Every time He asked whether I was truly willing to become His bondservant, I had assured Him I was. Fortunately, He had not revealed the full measure of the cost.
I walked tentatively through the rubble of Alastor’s tent, the meager furniture but ashes now, pottery shards scattered. Charred hardwood ends of the cherished scrolls were all that was left of the sacred Scriptures.
The covering I had created for the hole in my sleeping area had largely disintegrated, but my hide satchel lay unscathed. I slipped the treasured note from Taryn inside, pulled it over my shoulder by the newly attached strap, and remembered I was to take nothing else—neither money nor provisions. The Romans had rendered that instruction moot.
I was to leave to the Lord the saints who had been ambushed. It didn’t feel right, but if I couldn’t trust Him with that, with what could I trust Him?
I stepped out front of where I had first seen Taryn just shy of three years before, peeking warily at me over the top of her veil with a protective arm around her son. I had won her, lost her, won her, and now lost her again. With every fiber of my being I longed to search for her to the ends of the earth and exact revenge for the lives of my brothers and sisters from General Balbus—not to mention the betrayer from our midst.
But God reminded me that my course had been set. I was a bondservant, sworn to obey my Master.
Vengeance is Mine, and recompense; his foot shall slip in due time. I will avenge the blood of My servants and render vengeance to My adversaries. I will provide atonement for My land and My people.
Bone-weary and oily with sweat, streaked with soot and empty of tears, I labored up to where Theo had delivered me after the miraculous chase across Arabia three years before. Then I had gazed from the overlook upon the gathering of threadbare tents that comprised Yanbu before being startled by the voice of Alastor. Now I looked out upon the smoking ruins of a putrid necropolis.
I felt the stark tension of knowing I was to leave, to begin the next season of my life, and yet I could barely move. I loved God, trusted Him, believed Him sovereign. It warred against everything in me to question Him, and yet I had to wonder at His purpose for allowing so thorough an annihilation of my previous existence. Why did all these people have to die?
You hate the man who betrayed his friends and neighbors.
Forgive me, I do, Lord. I know I am to pray for my enemies, but it is not within me to pray for Nadav or Anna today.
You hate the man who led this attack.
I do, and I know his name.
Such were you.
I never—
Such were you.
—slaughtered women and children. Crucified men. Torched villages.
Such were you. You persecuted Me. You terrorized the people called by My name. You had them arrested, imprisoned, put to death. You stole husbands and fathers from wives and children. You were looked upon the way you look upon your enemy today. You held the cloaks of those who stoned to death an innocent man. Such were you.
Such was I. Forgive me.
Your sins and iniquities I will remember no more.
Forgive me, Lord.
Your sins and iniquities I will remember no more.
I am unworthy.
As far as the east is from the west, so far has My Father removed your transgressions from you. Now observe as He proves He has surely seen the oppression of His people. And now I command you, as I commanded Moses of old, take your sandals off your feet, for the place where you stand is holy ground.
I pulled the bag over my head and off my shoulder and stepped out of my sandals. The cloudless sky that had been sullied by grimy smoke suddenly darkened and lightning flashed. I went from being as hot as I’d been since arriving in the desert to as cold as I’d ever been and gathered my mantle around my neck, hunching my shoulders.
A single lightning bolt struck the middle of the ravaged camp with such power that the earth shook, and the resounding thunderclap came so quickly it deafened me and a heavy downpour began. It had been so long since I’d seen rain, it startled me as much as the lightning and thunder had, and as I stood there it washed me head to toe, black residue collecting at my feet and floating away.
Part of me wanted to turn and run and never look back, but in another way I hardly wanted to blink. I gazed over the tiny outpost I never would have found, had God Himself not delivered me there. So much had happened in the camp that I found it hard to believe it had been real. As the cool, clear water cascaded down my face, I thought of all the friendships, the prayers, the meals, and the daily meetings with the Lord.
Slowly I sat and lowered my head, my tears mixing with the rain. When the downpour stopped, my body, my tunic, my mantle, even my sandals and parchment bag were clean. I checked the contents and found everything dry, but still I sat weeping until I sobbed.
Why, Lord? Help me understand.
Go.
Must I? I knew the answer, of course. Why did I ask? Would I never learn? But could I not have even a moment to grieve, to mourn what I had lost?
As quickly as the sky had darkened it cleared and the sun reappeared, and within minutes, I was dry, as were my clothes. I sat stunned. As usual, God would not repeat Himself. He had told me to go, and were I to wait much longer, I would be disobedient.
I reached for my sandals and they felt new on my feet, but as I steadied myself, the rock shifted as the entire site below me, the place of my abode for the last three years—crosses, rubble, bodies, everything—folded over and under itself as the earth split, rose, and covered it like a massive lump of dough kneaded by expert hands.
All I could do was sit and watch, mouth agape, as the earthquake came and vanished. Finally I stood, my sandals warm and supple from the sun, and took one last look at the barren plain below.
No one would be able to tell there had ever been anything there but desert sands.
Part Three
SENT
13
SETTING OFF
THE TRADE ROUTE
THE INSTANT I REACHED the Red Sea side of the trade rout
e a dot appeared on the southern horizon to my right. It gradually grew into a slow-moving caravan from India, flanked front, side, and back by black-clad, saber-wielding horsemen who nodded pleasantly at me. The man astride the lead camel did the same and held up a hand, a gesture mirrored by several consecutively behind him until the entire convoy slowly ground to a halt. Dozens of dark-complexioned men and women dismounted, stretched, checked wheels and axles, drank from cisterns, chatted, and studied me with what appeared friendly curiosity.
I realized how bizarre this was. I had seen many a cavalcade in my time and never did one stop at other than a way station. Neither had I seen one interact with a foreign stranger on the route without regarding him with utter suspicion. The normal course would have called for a fore-guard of security horsemen to sprint ahead and ensure the stranger was not a decoy or a distraction to allow renegades to attack the procession.
The guards would interrogate and intimidate the stranger, demanding to know his business, satisfying themselves that he was a legitimate local trader or that he was a trustworthy traveler who could pay his own way for transport. The natural questions they should have posed to me? What was I doing in the middle of nowhere with one small bag, and how was it that I showed no sign of wear from traveling? They had to assume I had just come from bathing in the sea, clothes and all.
But no advance party investigated me, and the rest acted as if they had been expecting me—no doubt because they had been. When God arranges one’s passage, He takes care of everything. No one even searched my bag.
I quickly deduced that no one in the entire party spoke any of the languages I knew, yet when the man in charge approached and said something in his own tongue, I immediately knew it meant “Greetings.”
I responded in Greek, “Greetings to you, sir. Thank you.”
He gestured to the back of the second wagon, piled high with bolts of silk, and spoke again in his own language. God allowed me to intuit that he said, “We have food, wine, water, and a place for you to sleep. Our destination is Anatolia, but we will reach Damascus in forty days. You are welcome.”
I bowed and thanked him, and it struck me that my compartment also offered privacy, concealment, and safety in the face of any danger. Well, almost any danger. I didn’t know what I would do if we faced a Roman checkpoint. But God had called me and assigned me and sent me. I would rest in Him. What else could I do?
While it was clear the Lord Himself had arranged all this for me, nothing dulled the burden of my heartache, which proved more wearying than I ever could have anticipated. I found myself so wounded by grief at the loss of my dear friends that I worried whether I would find my fervor for the undertaking before me. I had joined the caravan before midday, yet as soon as I secured my satchel and settled behind the tiny partition allotted me, my extremities felt weighed down with a burden so great it was as if I didn’t have the power to brush an insect from my face. I leaned against the rough wood of the jostling cart and allowed the squeaking, creaking rhythm of the passage to lull me to sleep.
As I dozed off I pledged I would not allow laziness to consume me, regardless how entitled I felt after a lifetime of industriousness. Though I had been dealt a blow I did not think I could endure, I determined not to allow it to defeat me. As soon as enough sleep restored me, I would begin a walking regimen—up to twenty-five miles day and night for as long as I could endure, until I was delivered to the great walled city from whence I had come. In just over a month’s time I would reunite with my brothers and sisters in Damascus as fit as when I had left them and with the color of the sun on my skin.
I awoke when the column of horses, camels, donkeys, and cargo carts and wagons rattled into a way station at what I estimated was ten hours later. Despite feeling refreshed, anguish still hung over me like a cloud, and I suspected it would for a long time. I was ravenous and grateful to see someone had laid beside me a meal while I slept, which, while bland, at least revived me. It also allowed me to make good on my promise not to succumb to sloth on my way to Damascus. I began my walking as soon as the company had finished its business and set out again.
Keeping an eye on the distance markers, I began a log that showed I had walked fifteen miles that first night. And that exertion, along with my sorrow, allowed me to slumber the rest of the night, despite having slept so long earlier.
The next day I added a mile and continued thus until I was walking more than twenty miles a day and feeling better—at least physically.
Also, I was mistaken if I thought God had finished teaching me merely because I had left the wilderness. This rugged passage had a wilderness quality to it, and the Lord chose to speak to me often along the way.
Make known that the gospel you preach is not according to man, for you neither received it from man nor were you taught it, but I revealed it to you.
When I send you back to where you persecuted My Father’s church and tried to destroy it, even if many of My own distrust you and refuse to meet with you, I will grant you freedom to speak boldly in My name before you face fierce persecution. But for a fortnight and a day you will also find fellowship with the brethren, including My brother and also the one who denied Me.
I was excited beyond words at the prospect of returning to Jerusalem but couldn’t imagine being safe there. Yet if the Lord was telling me I would be there fifteen days, I would go with boldness. And to meet James and Peter! I was eager to tell them what had happened to me, but even more I wanted to hear every detail they could remember about their time with Jesus.
It will be many years before I will again send you to Jerusalem, but then I will send you brothers to help and encourage you in the work.
I had not expected that, fearing that sacrificing Taryn relegated me to a lonely ministry for the rest of my life. I was willing to carry out my assignment as the Lord willed, but how heartening to know of this prospect!
When the caravan was about ten days outside Damascus I found myself more eager than ever to get there. I did not know what the Lord had in store for me, but I longed to reunite with Ananias, Judas, and the others. God had not indicated how long I was to be there before He sent me to Jerusalem, but He had indicated that Gentiles were in Damascus, so I could only assume my ministry would begin there in some form.
On the road late one evening I was praying for Taryn and Corydon, pleading that the Lord give them peace, somehow impress upon them that I loved them, cared about them, and would exhaust every effort to find them. Had General Balbus forced Taryn to marry him? Did she worry I could not forgive that? How could I withhold such forgiveness when she had forgiven so great an offense from me? I was just grateful their lives had been spared.
The Lord was strangely silent with me on this. I knew He had protected them, and I also knew His priority for me. I could not abandon my calling to search for them, but when and where I was able, I wanted to learn as much as I could about their abductor and also try to somehow get word to Taryn that she was not alone in this world.
The Lord made it clear to me where He wanted my focus.
You have been crucified with Me. You no longer live, but I live in you, and the life you now live in the flesh you live by faith in Me. I loved you and gave Myself for you.
Yes. Yes. Thank you, Lord.
The caravan leader hurried back to me that evening as I walked, and he spoke to me in his own tongue, and again God gave me understanding. The man said his scouts had determined that a contingent of Roman cavalrymen had encamped near the next way station, which the caravan was due to reach at dawn. How he even knew I needed to be warned, I do not know.
“Should I hide under the cargo?” I said.
He shrugged.
I walked till I was exhausted, then stretched out atop the bales of silk. When we finally rolled up to the way station at dawn, I was nearly dozing, yet God had still provided no leading about what I was to do. The enormous caravan was delayed more than an hour as the officious guards questioned every person in the vast party,
searching them and picking through the carefully stacked and packed cargo.
The slaves appeared to try to mask their frustration at having to reassemble the mess the Romans made.
Lord, what would You have me say? How will I answer? Do I tell the truth about who I am and where I’m from, where I’ve been, where I’m going? Unless You tell me otherwise, I have no other plan.
Three Romans reached the great wagon upon which I sat and set about questioning the six slaves assigned to it. Each was asked to show his professio, consisting of two small, hinged wooden diptychs bearing his inscribed identification, proving he had been approved by the Empire to traverse this route in an official service capacity. The men had these secured around their necks and carefully guarded. I’d had nothing of the sort since I had fled Damascus. I was curious what the consequences would be when my interlocutor discovered this lack.
But when they finished with the slaves, the guards turned to the cargo—in the case of this wagon the stacks of bolts of silks, upon many of which I sat. The Romans seemed to look through me as if I weren’t there. I didn’t move. How was this possible? Even the slaves looked wide-eyed. One nudged another and pointed.
The guards spent another ten minutes rummaging through the silk, and when they finished and moved on, I helped the slaves restack it, causing them to shake their heads and laugh. This had not been the first miracle I had witnessed, and I couldn’t imagine it would be my last. But it was certainly the strangest.
I found it most interesting that the caravan had no business in Damascus. It had stopped at a way station about six miles south of the city, and as it rolled near the first gate in the middle of the morning, it merely slowed to a stop. No one dismounted. I just grabbed my bag, waved to the leader and to the security horsemen, who barely acknowledged me, and they began their trek again. They had simply been used of God and were now on their way.
Crowds bustled in and out of the city. I hesitated as I approached the gate. Would I be searched, asked for identification or what my business was, whom I was coming to see? Would I be recognized, turned away, arrested?
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