by Debra Diaz
The slave turned quickly; the road was not as crowded as before but enough so that they had to step to the side. She made her request, and Simon listened sympathetically.
“I will relay your message,” he said, with a kind and sober expression. “Perhaps you had better tell the rest of your family now what has happened. Tell them you were on your way home from Jerusalem when you were stopped by the servant of the commander and informed that your husband had been captured. Never mind how this servant knew who you were…let them wonder. Tell them that you begged for the release of the body, but you do not know if it will be done. And I tell you truly, I don’t know what the legate will say.”
“Very well,” Alysia replied, struggling for composure. “Thank you, Simon.”
He nodded.
“You needn’t follow me back,” she said, and turned to walk home again. But he did follow her. He saw that she stopped at Lazarus’ house, a sad and dispirited figure, cloaked in black.
* * * *
She missed Nathan more than she thought possible. He had been kind to her...most of the time…and even his prolonged absences and his occasional impatience with her didn’t seem so important now. His body had been prepared and wrapped for burial by the leaders of the synagogue in Bethany, who had been summoned to Jerusalem by Paulus for that purpose. Obviously Paulus did not want Nathan’s family to see him, especially Alysia. The body was brought to Bethany on a bier and placed in the family tomb. There was no funeral, no official period of mourning. He had died as a rebel against Rome; people were afraid; no one really knew what to do.
Alysia stayed at Lazarus’ house, trying to reconcile herself to the fact that she would never see him again. Sometimes she seemed to be in a daze. Sometimes she couldn’t remember whether he was really dead, or if he was just away on one of his mysterious journeys. Sometimes she thought she was losing her mind.
But, even more, she missed Paulus. In a way it was as if he, too, were dead. She had made a promise to the Nazarene, though unspoken, and she intended to keep that promise. “Sin no more,” he had said. And she had looked into his eyes and felt her spirit say, “Yes, Lord.”
Her only consolation was that no one seemed to know what had happened to her at the Temple. Either no one who knew her had been there, or she had not been recognized. It seemed too good to be true, and she wondered if Jesus, in some supernatural way, had prevented her from being recognized. But no, she thought, even he couldn’t do that…And why should he? She deserved to be punished.
His disciple, John, had been there. The next time she saw him she would know…if he knew.
She tried to numb her feelings, but only became dejected and even physically ill, unable to eat, sleeping half the day. Alarmed by Alysia’s grief and what seemed to be self-reproach, Martha at last brought in a physician. The stout, elderly man questioned Alysia at length, gave her a quick examination, and turning to Martha announced, “This woman is not ill. She is with child!”
Martha unexpectedly burst into tears at this revelation. “Poor Nathan—he never knew!”
Stunned, Alysia stared at nothing, counting weeks, days. And knew Nathan was not the father of her child.
For the first time in weeks, her spirits lifted. As soon as the physician left she got out of bed, began to pack her things, and over Martha’s protestations returned to her own house. Her baby wasn’t going to come into the world hampered by a brooding, discontented mother. She would make a life for herself and her child, and it would be a happy life.
What would Paulus do if he knew? Would he claim the child, would he try to take it from her? No, no, surely he wouldn’t. But she would have to tell him eventually, wouldn’t she?
The months passed…but she didn’t send word to him. She busied herself by spinning yarn and making clothes for her baby, as Martha had taught her. Nathan had saved a fair amount of money but Alysia did not intend to be dependent upon Lazarus when it was gone. She would convince him to let her work in his vineyards; it didn’t matter if such work was “beneath” her. She didn’t care what people said. Martha convinced her to let one of her servants, Judith, (who was also a midwife) move into the extra room in Alysia’s house, so Alysia would not be alone.
Time seemed to race by at first, and then in her eighth month began to drag like a snail, and it seemed that her time would never come. But it came at last; one day in mid-summer her daughter was born, long of limb, olive-skinned, with a cloud of light brown hair. Martha said proudly, “She’s beautiful, Alysia. What is her name?”
“Her name,” Alysia murmured, gazing down at the swaddled infant, “is Rachel.”
“Rachel.” Martha nodded her approval. “It means ‘innocent as a lamb’.”
“Yes.” Alysia gave a weary smile. “She is innocent.”
* * * *
She recovered quickly from childbirth and grew strong again. She loved Rachel with all her heart and felt almost contented…even though every look at her daughter reminded her of Paulus. She still couldn’t bring herself to tell him that he had a child. She didn’t really fear that he would take Rachel away, but certainly he would be entitled to some claim upon the baby. And she didn’t know what the people of Bethany would do if they found out Rachel’s father was a Roman! Everyone had been sympathetic because they believed Nathan had died almost immediately after his child’s conception. It was so tragic, so bittersweet. How quickly their compassion would turn to contempt if they ever knew the truth!
She knew Paulus might be sending someone—probably Simon—to watch over her, to see how she was faring since her husband’s death. She had been careful not to appear in public when she was great with child. Judith was staying with her indefinitely, so whenever she went out she left Rachel with her…or if they all went out together, she had Judith hold the baby.
Deciding it was time to speak to Lazarus about working for him, she went to his house, accompanied by Judith and Rachel. Taking Rachel out of the servant’s arms, she asked Mary where she might find her brother.
“He isn’t well,” Mary said, a worried frown on her forehead. “He is resting on the rooftop. He gets so tired of his room.”
Alysia expressed her concern, settled Rachel on her hip, and climbed the stairs to the roof. The day was cloudy and cold, with a slight breeze stirring the canopy that stretched over the corner where her friend lay on a couch, covered with blankets.
“Lazarus, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”
He smiled. “I’m better now that you have come—and brought your beautiful daughter to see me.”
Alysia sat on a chair next to him, holding Rachel in her lap. “She is seven months old today.”
“Well, then, it is like a birthday,” he declared. “You must dine with us tonight.”
“Martha has already asked me,” she said, smiling, but then her smile faded. “They say you are not improving, Lazarus. You must let her send for a physician.”
“Physicians have never been able to help me,” he answered matter-of-factly. “And if the truth be known I have little confidence in their potions. Some say it is a malady of the heart. Some say a recurring fever due to the bite of an insect — or that I have drunk bad water. Few are honest enough to say they don’t know.”
Rachel clambered down to the floor, reaching up for her toys, and Alysia gave her a clay rattle and a doll made of cloth. Without looking at Lazarus she said, “I wonder—that is, could you not ask Jesus to heal you?”
“I never thought to,” Lazarus replied, with a look of faint surprise. “It seems too presumptive, somehow, to ask such a thing of a friend.”
“But surely he would be happy to.”
“I am sure he would do so if I asked him.”
“Tell me more about him,” Alysia urged, settling back in the chair. “What was he like as a child?”
“He was quite a normal child, playing games, helping Joseph in the shop, all the things children do. But the older he got—” Lazarus paused, looking thoughtful.
“The older he got, the more he was resented. By friends and by family.”
“What do you mean?”
“As he grew up and left childish things behind, he spent more time alone than others, more time in prayer. No one was more obedient or honored his parents more than he. He went to school, to synagogue, but was never mischievous, never quarreled, at least—not a serious quarrel. Oh, he loved a good laugh, but never at someone else’s expense. He always spoke the truth, but some people didn’t want to hear the truth! And though he tried not to show it, you couldn’t help but notice that he was…wiser than most people. Even as a child, he astonished the great teachers in Jerusalem with the things he knew.
“There was no doubt that his mother, Mary, favored him over her other children. How could she help it, though of course she loved her children. But his own brothers and sisters began to resent him. His was not always a happy home, I am sorry to say. Although he never behaved as though he thought himself special, his family and friends deserted him. Rejected him. Eventually the entire town rejected him, which is why he spent so much time in Capernaum with his cousins, James and young John.”
Alysia felt deeply moved. “How unfair! And what of his mother and father?”
“Mary is still close to him. She will never abandon him, you may be sure. Joseph died when Jesus was little more than a youth. Jesus took over the family business—he is a carpenter, as you know.” Lazarus paused for a long moment, looking at Alysia so intently that she almost asked him what was wrong. Then he said, “But Joseph was not Jesus’ father.”
Alysia lowered her eyes. “I had heard rumors that he was illegitimate. I didn’t believe them. Are you telling me that it’s true?”
“I only know what Mary’s mother told my own mother, years ago. She said that an angel appeared to Mary and told her she would have a son. She was betrothed to Joseph, and still a virgin. Mary asked the angel how it could possibly be, and was told the child would be miraculously conceived. And then, nine months later, Jesus was born.”
Alysia could only stare at him, speechless.
“People often said unkind things about Mary,” Lazarus went on. “And later, about Jesus as well. Even though Joseph himself fully believed Mary, and married her.”
Alysia was full of questions, but Lazarus had become pale and Rachel was pulling at Alysia’s skirt and beginning to fret. She lifted her daughter to her lap.
“I’ve tired you,” she said, in a tone of apology. “Please forgive me. I actually came to ask you something completely different.”
“And what was that, Alysia?”
“I would like to work in your vineyards this year. I want to earn my own living. But we can talk later.”
“Your place is with Rachel.”
“Of course, but Martha begs every day to take care of Rachel for a while. It will only be for a few hours a day. Lazarus, I must not depend on your charity.”
“Alysia, don’t you know—” Lazarus stopped whatever he had been about to say and finished, “You are one of the family. We will discuss it later, I promise.”
* * * *
But there was no opportunity to discuss it later. Alysia had little time to even ponder the extraordinary things he had told her, for a servant knocked on her door that night and summoned her back to Lazarus’ house.
“He’s worse,” Martha said, standing outside Lazarus’ bedroom and looking helpless. “He has had seizures.”
“He won’t let us send for a physician,” Mary whispered. “He has never been this sick before. What shall we do?”
She said the first thing that occurred to her. “Does anyone know where Jesus is?”
The sisters exchanged glances. Martha said, “I’ve heard he’s in Bethabara, or near there. But can we ask him to come? They say he made some of the priests in Jerusalem so angry they tried to kill him.”
“He is not afraid of them,” Mary said firmly. “He will come.”
A horse was packed with provisions and the largest and strongest of the servants was selected to ride for the town of Bethabara, near the Jordan River. He would have to travel on the Jericho Road, and they pledged to pray for his safety.
The servant returned two days later—without Jesus, but vowing that he had delivered the message. By then, however, it was too late, for the day after the servant left, Lazarus died.
* * * *
Weeping neighbors and relatives filled the house, having come to comfort the bereaved sisters, but Alysia, sitting alone in a corner with Rachel asleep in her arms, felt little consolation. It almost seemed like losing Nathan again.
It was little more than a day’s journey to Bethabara, but Jesus had not come. He couldn’t have known that Lazarus had died…but he had not even sent a message. Martha’s own grief was deep, but she fared better than her sister. Mary seemed to feel betrayed by the man she so admired. She wept incessantly and would speak to no one, refusing to be comforted.
Lazarus’ body had been washed, anointed with aromatic spices and wrapped in the most costly of linens. The hands, feet and chin were bound first, and a separate cloth was placed over his head. It was the custom for the women of the family to do this task, and Alysia helped the sisters, and wept with them. Accompanied by hired mourners and musicians, the family and friends had made their way to the large tomb hewn out of rock at the bottom of a hill. All of Bethany had attended the funeral, as did many from Jerusalem and nearby villages.
A loud knock sounded on the door. Quickly Alysia rose, with Rachel in her arms, to answer it. A small boy looked up at her excitedly. “Jesus is on his way here!” he cried. “He is almost to the gate!”
She heard Martha’s voice behind her. “I will go and meet him. Alysia, will you come with me?”
Alysia put the sleeping Rachel down on a pallet beside other small children. The two women slipped out of the house and walked in silence to the gate. It was early afternoon and the wind was brisk, almost cold. Alysia’s gown and the mantle that covered her hair fluttered out behind her as she hurried to keep up with Martha’s determined pace. She wondered what Martha was going to say to him.
She saw the group of men approaching and Martha began to hang back until she stopped altogether. Because she did so, Jesus met Alysia first, taking her hands in greeting and looking soberly into her face. Feeling embarrassed and awkward, she had to force herself to look at him, but there was nothing except warmth and kindness in his eyes, as if he had completely forgotten the spectacle in the Temple. She glanced at John. Yes, he knew. She could tell by his own awkward expression, but he gave her a friendly nod.
Martha came toward them, her lips pressed together, her hand at her heart. “If you had been here,” she said, her voice soft but faintly reproachful, “Lazarus would not have died.”
Jesus held her gaze steadily. “Lazarus will rise again.”
“I know that he will rise again—in the resurrection, when we shall all rise!”
He said slowly, with deliberation, “I am the resurrection, and the life. Whoever lives and believes in me shall never die.”
Alysia almost forgot to breathe. What was he saying? What did he mean?
But Martha seemed to understand. He asked, “Do you believe this?”
Martha returned his probing look and answered, “I believe that you are the anointed one, the son of God.”
He asked softly, “Where is Mary?”
“I will call her.” Martha turned and left so quickly that Alysia was left standing uncertainly by the roadside. The men began walking slowly forward. There was something strangely compelling about the Nazarene, even more so than usual; he spoke to no one else and had a more somber expression than she had ever seen on his face. To her surprise John came to her side and spoke.
“I must tell you, Alysia, we tried to stop him from coming. He told us Lazarus was dead, somehow he knew, and we didn’t see why we should all risk our lives by coming here. You know they tried to kill him
the last time he was in Jerusalem. But…here we are. I’m very sorry. I wish we had been in time.”
“But why did he delay?”
John shrugged and shook his head. “He said that it was for the glory of God.”
Their attention was caught by a large crowd coming toward them from the house, with Martha and Mary leading them. Alysia knew that Martha had meant to summon her sister secretly, but it was obvious the mourners had seen them both leave and followed them, perhaps thinking they were going to the grave to mourn. An excited murmuring erupted as the crowd spied the group of men. Mary halted the moment she saw Jesus, then her feet flew along the path as she passed her sister. When she reached him she threw herself to the ground at his feet, her slender body shaking with sobs.
“Lord,” she cried, “if you had come when we asked, my brother would not have died!”
They were almost the same words that Martha had spoken, but were uttered with such brokenness and pathos that Alysia felt tears in her eyes; many in the crowd wept openly.
Jesus, too, seemed deeply moved and troubled. He pulled Mary to her feet and gently raised her chin. “Where have you buried him?”
Incoherent, Mary could only put her hands over her face and shake her head. Jesus’ eyes filled with tears and a sound like a groan came from his throat. Martha wiped her own face with the hem of her mantle and whispered, “Come and see.”
She led the way in the opposite direction, and the crowd fell in behind them. Alysia tucked her arm in Mary’s and walked beside her, half supporting her.
“Look how he weeps,” she heard one woman say to her husband. “See how much he loved Lazarus!”
The man muttered, “If this man has indeed opened the eyes of the blind, why could he not save the life of his friend?”