by Janette Oke
In the rush of these new impressions, Julia had known this was the answer. Not just for her but for her mother, the dear troubled woman who bore such heavy, painful burdens.
Now she had awakened to a new day, her thoughts still on the wonder of her newfound faith. But filling her heart was the desire that her mother also experience this deep sense of peace.
Yet how would she get her mother to see and accept this wonderful gift? Would she be willing to meet with the group of believers? Julia knew she would be concerned about whether they would accept a Samaritan woman who was nothing more than the unwed chattel of a godless Gentile. The Jewish leaders considered that enough to bar such a woman from all religious functions. Would these Christ-followers also shun her as unclean, unworthy?
Julia suddenly remembered the story Zoe had told about the other Samaritan woman, the one Jesus had talked with at the Sychar well some years ago. He had accepted her, changed her life, and given her living water. That’s just what Mother needs, “living water” to wash away the darkness in her soul. . . .
Tomorrow night was to be another meeting of the Way. Julia’s deepest desire was that her mother would be introduced to the man who had that water. But how was she to convince her to go and listen?
There was a shuffling at her door, and Julia knew Zoe had arrived with her first meal of the day. The smiles the two women exchanged spoke far more than words could express. We are truly like family, Julia thought as she led Zoe with the tray over to the small table.
The two began removing the plates of fruit and flatbread. “It is a new day,” breathed Julia. “A day of hope.”
Zoe nodded and handed Julia her mug of tea. “You feel it too.”
“Oh, yes. Have you seen Mother yet?”
“She has stirred. But she has not dressed nor eaten.”
“I cannot wait to tell her. But . . . do you think she will understand?” Zoe smiled but shook her head. “Likely not. It is very difficult to understand – to accept – when it is all new. One needs the light of the Spirit to shine the way.”
“So you mean I must wait?” Julia felt shock and alarm. “But I will surely erupt with the desire to share this with her.”
For the first time in many years Julia heard Zoe chuckle, the laughter crackling strangely, as though she had forgotten how to express mirth. “We can pray now, and if you feel it is right, you can visit your mother as soon as you have finished here.”
They bowed together in fervent prayer, certainly a new experience for Julia. Sharing a prayer time with a servant, even though she had known Zoe all her life, was most unusual. Yet it did not feel at all awkward or out of place. There was an even stronger bond now drawing them together.
Julia turned her attention to the meal before her. “Will you continue to pray with me each day?” she asked around a bite of bread and cheese.
“Of course. And I will continue to pray for your mother as I have been doing since I became a believer.”
Julia stared at Zoe over her mug. “Did you also pray for me?”
Zoe nodded. “Many times each day.”
“And God answered your prayer.”
“He did.”
“Do you think he will answer our prayers for Mother?”
“It is not presumptuous of me to believe he would love to do so.”
Julia pushed the food back and rose to her feet. She still needed to dress, and time was passing. “We need to pray often, Zoe. That Mother will listen and understand. That the Spirit will illuminate her heart. That she will be willing to go with us to the gathering tomorrow.”
Suddenly Julia remembered her own struggles. She had been told the Good News many times – yet it had taken her many months to accept it. Now that she believed, she wondered why it had required so long to understand. Yet everything was very new. There were countless questions begging for answers. Though she had a sense of peace, she also was very aware that the same peace was not shared by her mother. And there also was her father . . . how could she make them see? It left her unsettled. Anxious.
“What if Mother won’t – how do we make her understand?”
“Foolish child,” soothed Zoe, and she reached out to brush Julia’s tangled hair. It had been a long time since Zoe had addressed or touched Julia in the familiar way she had often done when she was a child, but Julia was comforted by both now. “My foolish child,” Zoe repeated. “We have prayed, and our Lord has heard us. We must trust him to do the work.”
She patted Julia’s shoulder and turned to gather up the tray, then gave Julia one more smile. “Dress, child. Dress and go see your mother, and I will spend the time praying.”
Julia tapped on the door a short while later but heard no response. As silently as she could, she pushed it open a crack. From where she stood she could see her mother’s bed, its covers in total disarray, as though Helena had battled them for an entire sleepless night. But Helena’s head was no longer resting on the rumpled pillow.
Julia found her mother sitting in the secluded alcove in the courtyard outside her bedroom suite. Protected from the wind by high stone walls, its flooring designed with patterns of multicolored tiles, the spot offered solitude and a degree of warmth even on a cool morning. The bench tucked up against the southern side held soft cushions, placed by servants early each morning and taken in each night. At the center of the small enclosure an ornate Grecian marble fountain that Jamal had brought back from one of his many journeys danced with colored prisms, creating its own shimmer of rainbows in this world of stone. Helena loved the spot and had claimed it as her own.
She was idly picking at some straws that nesting birds had dropped on the bench. Her hair was loose and framed a pale, expressionless face. One foot was tucked up under her much as a child would sit, while the other swung its sandal back and forth as though in time to some silent inner song.
“Mother?” Julia began hesitantly as she approached.
Helena’s head came up and a smile brought life to her face. She moved ever so slightly, indicating that Julia was welcome to join her.
“Zoe says you once more have not been well.”
Helena lifted a hand with a small wave, indicating things were up and down with her.
“Mother, I am very concerned about you. You seem to be far from healthy lately. Do you need a physician? I’m sure – ”
“Oh my, no.” The words were emphatic, and Helena straightened up from her reverie. She shook her head for emphasis. Then her gaze turned back to the straw in her fingers.
“When I am here, things seem right, unbroken,” she said softly, slowly, as though speaking to herself. She lifted her eyes to look at Julia. “The way a god would intend them to be. Can you understand what I am trying to say?”
Julia nodded. “There is a sense of peace here.”
Helena smiled in response. “That’s exactly what I wished to express.”
Julia felt she now had her mother’s full attention and must seize the moment. “Mother, I was talking with Zoe, and during her trip to Sychar a while ago she met an old acquaintance – a woman she had known previously. She told Zoe the most remarkable story, some very good news.”
“News? What possible good news from Sychar?”
“There is not just a god – but the God. This woman – she met him personally. He was visiting at the well and – ”
“The well in Sychar?” Her mother frowned. “What kind of god visits that town – and a well? Has he need of human refreshing?”
“He . . . he was not there to meet his need but to meet her needs.”
This seemed to puzzle her mother even further. “A god, interested in a human? A woman?”
“His name was Jesus. He was sent by the God of heaven. The creator God. The one true God who whispers to you about peace.”
Her mother was shaking her head. “You believe that? That we . . . that I was created? Made? I’m not simply here?” She waved her hand through the air as though to dismiss such a preposterous thought.
“I do.”
“If that were so, would not there need to be some reason for . . . for me to be here?”
“Yes, Mother. Yes, there is.”
“But I . . . Nothing in my life has allowed me to believe that anything is for a purpose. That it has any other meaning than to exist – and die.” Helena’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She reached out a trembling hand and stroked Julia’s cheek. “There is nothing, nothing, that has given me any purpose – any feeling of worth – except for you.”
Julia fought back her own tears. “Mother, I thank you for the life you have given me. But there is much more. Truly, there is. I want so much for you to experience this for yourself. Will you come with Zoe and me? A group of Jesus’ followers meet near Tiberias. Some of them knew him personally when he was here. They – ”
“He was here? In Tiberias? Why was this not known?” She wiped away the tears and turned her large, expressive eyes to Julia.
Julia quickly decided not to attempt any further explanation at the moment. “Perhaps not right here in Tiberias, but . . . but they will tell you all about him. At the meeting I mentioned. Will you come, Mother? Please?”
Helena lifted herself from the bench and moved over to the singing fountain. Her back was to Julia, but her very stance expressed her struggle. Julia saw her reach out a hand and let the splashing water run through her outstretched fingers. At length she turned back, her brow furrowed again. “I can do nothing without your father’s permission. He is not one for religions. I doubt . . .”
Julia felt a familiar urge to let her emotions, her questions, burst out with all that had echoed through her mind for weeks now. Why had she been permitted to live with this false conception all her life? Why had she not known the real reason her father was seldom with them? That his other household held the true right to his favor? Did she and Helena truly matter to Jamal at all? Though they already had discussed this and Helena had dismissed it, these thoughts still rankled Julia.
She stirred as she remembered the discussion of the followers about the Messiah’s teachings on forgiveness. On loving one’s enemies. Her father was certainly not that, but his actions, this deception, had put him on the other side of a great divide. . . .
Helena must have sensed the turmoil in her daughter’s heart, for she returned to the bench and gathered Julia in her arms. “Jamal does love us. That is much more than many can say. He is a good man. He has provided for us. He comes when he can. We do have to share him – yes, that is true. But don’t you see? That is far better than not having him at all.”
“You are not angry? Bitter?” Even as she voiced the question Julia was aware of something at work in herself, something on a deeper level. A soft yearning to forgive him. To feel like his cherished little girl again.
“I have no reason to be bitter. Without your father I might very well be slaving in a grain field gathering gleanings after the harvesters. I could be tramping grapes in a wine press or herding goats on rugged hills. Or begging. Or worse.” She shook her head. “Your father has cared for me. And for you. Can I call my lot hard when all I need do is be pleasing to him when he comes? That is no burden. He is kind to me, Julia. Gentle. He seeks my happiness. It is much more than many women have. And because of him I have you.”
Julia slid both her arms around her mother, burying her face on Helena’s shoulder.
“You think it is my own circumstances that disturb me? The time I spend with him?” Helena asked quietly.
“Is it not?”
“No, my dear. I think little about it at all. Life is not difficult when he is here. When he is with us at our home I know my purpose in life. Life has some meaning. But when he is gone . . .” She was silent for some time before she went on, her voice close to Julia’s ear. “When I was a girl in the village, I was raised in a home of market people. There was much to be done and too few hands to do it. We worked hard. Very hard. But I knew my role. I understood my family’s expectations. I had a place. I knew my way among the market stalls. I knew how to cook. How to clean. I think I would have made a very good servant girl.”
That idea brought a smile to Julia’s face, and she lifted her head. Her mother? A servant? Helena smiled back, but she was shaking her head.
“Then I came here,” Helena continued, “where I cannot be a servant. I have a household of servants. I am to sit – and let them fuss over me. I long to work the ovens, slide in the bread I have kneaded and shaped, and watch the loaves turn golden. My loaves. Smell the aroma of my own fresh-baked bread. Feel the satisfaction of doing something. Making something. But no, I am expected to be a woman of leisure. Yet I am not accepted outside these walls as one. They know I am not of the proper class. So it turns out I have no purpose. I lounge . . . and feel unproductive. Bored. The days drag by with no meaning.” She hesitated and her arms around Julia’s shoulders tightened. “Except for you – and now . . .”
“Now?”
It was pure sorrow she saw in her mother’s eyes.
“I knew it would happen. It was bound to happen, but I . . . I kept telling myself, ‘Not yet. Not for a while more . . .’ ”
“What is it?” Julia could manage only a whisper.
Helena leaned back to look into her daughter’s face, then reached out and caressed her cheek. “Your . . . your father is working on marriage arrangements.”
“But that is good news, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you want to be married to – ?”
“Not arrangements for me, my dearest. For you. He is hoping for a profitable agreement with some man in some place of which I have never even heard.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
Jerusalem
Before the rest of the household went to sleep, the master carpenter’s wife and elder daughter prepared three pallets around the workshop oven. The long brick flange, where the wood was treated before drying, held a plate of bread, a bowl of dates, and tea. Abigail briefly brought her sleeping daughter downstairs, and Jacob touched her cheek and murmured he had never seen such a beautiful child. Alban watched them and noted how much he could see of Stephen in little Dorcas. Jacob feared the words might devastate Abigail, but she merely caressed the child’s face and softly agreed. “He is there in her every step, every look, every smile.”
Linux stood in the shadows observing the reunion with an inscrutable expression on his face. Jacob wasn’t sure how he felt about the man – someone who had been good to him when he needed it, but also someone who had denied him assistance into the Roman Legion . . . though Jacob supposed he should thank the officer for that sometime.
Abigail made them all agree not to speak further of Linux’s surprise arrival until she returned the young child to her bed. When Abigail appeared again, it was with Martha at her side. The woman said in her direct, no-nonsense way, “I hope you will allow me to join in.” All three men nodded their immediate agreement.
But then Abigail said, “Perhaps we should let Alban rest.”
“I sleep too much already,” Alban rasped out. “My heart is full, my soul content. I am surrounded by friends.” He gestured weakly to them all.
“It can do you little good to continue talking,” Jacob protested.
“I shall lie here and listen.” And he prepared to do just that, settling back upon his pallet, his gaze swiveling from one face to the other. To Jacob’s eye, the man looked at peace for the first time since they had departed Tiberias.
Linux had never appeared stronger. What was more, the man seemed to be utterly at ease, despite what he had already told them of the events surrounding his return to Jerusalem. He pulled a bench over close to Alban’s pallet and seated himself, locking his hands around a mug of tea that must have long since gone cold. He studied Jacob with an officer’s scrutiny, no doubt observing the evident strengths, seeking weaknesses. Jacob knew the process well. Alban used it in gauging the merit of any man who wished to join their band of guards.
Linux said, “You are a man now,
Jacob.”
“Yes,” Alban said, the hoarseness unable to mask his obvious pride. “He is my strong right arm.”
Jacob wanted to point out the irony that Alban was now seeking to place him in a merchant’s stall in Samaria. But he held his peace.
Linux turned to his old friend and said, “If you insist upon speaking, I shall say no more this night.”
Alban smiled and waved his hand, indicating he would obey.
Linux turned toward Abigail, seated near her brother and Martha on a bench near the oven. “Your little one rests well?”
Abigail’s lips curved in a smile. “She sleeps through thunder, lightning, shouts, and song.”
Martha added, “She scarcely ever cried, even as an infant. Unless there was good reason. Such as when her mother was late to feed her. Which she sometimes was, with all her other duties.”
“You are staying busy, then.”
“Stephen began a service for our Lord that is even more vital today,” Abigail replied, glancing away from Linux’s intent gaze. “Many who have remained here in Jerusalem are in desperate need.”
Martha stood and walked over to the kitchen, moving more stiffly than Jacob recalled. There were new lines etched into her features. But her smile came easily enough, and her eyes remained bright with genuine affection. She returned to pour Alban a fresh mug of tea, then asked, “Anyone else?”
Linux held out his mug. When Martha had settled back down on the bench, the soldier turned to Abigail and said, “Might I presume on friendship to observe that you carry the weight of your loss with God’s peace.”
“Stephen’s absence is a wound to my heart every day,” Abigail said. “And yet it also grows less painful with time. I feel God’s presence even in my loss.”