by Janette Oke
Abigail hid her relief that he would remain for the present as best she could. She turned to Martha and asked, “And when will you return to your family?”
“When our God tells me to.”
“But they – ”
“They are fine, I am sure. They are sheltered among friends. They are doing God’s will also.” Martha reached over and took Abigail’s hand. “As am I, dear one. I shall not leave you alone.”
A comfortable silence held them for a time. Then Alban said, “I have been thinking over what Philip told me that first day upon the road. How Samaritans are considered by the religious Judeans to be the lowest of the low. In the eyes of many Pharisees, they hold a position below even that of the Gentiles and Roman soldiers.”
“And yet we are here,” Martha said. “Just as our Lord was while he was on earth.”
“And they come,” Abigail said.
“How they come,” Alban said. “Their yearning for salvation is a joy. To me and to our Lord.”
They left Ginae at midmorning under scuttling clouds. Once more it seemed as though the entire village saw them off. Philip spoke to the audience a final time. He laid hands on and prayed over many, then baptized a few more. When they departed, the woman originally from Sychar continued along with them. Helzebah had family in Nain, the village where the Megiddo traders lived. She had taken it upon herself to travel with them, ensuring they were greeted properly in their new home.
Alban knew the hills of Galilee were divided into two distinct segments. The southern range split the Samaritan Plain from the Megiddo Plains, or Armageddon, as it was sometimes known. The northeastern hills wove around Tiberias and stretched up to meet the Golan highlands. Between the two, some twenty Roman miles west of the Jordan River, stretched a broad flat region. All the main arteries connecting the northern and southern realms, except for the one Roman road that skirted the western shore of Galilee, met at this point.
Alban rode straight in the saddle this day, his coloring nearly back to normal. His voice was much stronger as he explained the terrain ahead to Abigail. “There before you is perhaps the most important juncture in all the eastern empire.” He slid down from his mount to point out one road after the other, naming the destinations. “The port of Joppa lies three days to the southwest, and beyond that the road continues on to Egypt. The southern road there leads to Jerusalem. Along the eastern route lies Tiberias, and beyond that Damascus and the province of Syria. That road leading north and west goes to Tyre, Sidon, and on to Tarsus.”
They stood upon a gentle rise, perhaps two hundred feet above the Megiddo Plains. Ahead of her, Abigail could see three caravans traveling the various roads. A faint cry carried upon the wind. “What is that I hear?” she asked.
Alban smiled. “Traders offering their wares. Your new neighbors.”
They sounded like gulls crying in the distance. The clouds hung low and turned the plains the color of wet slate. All the verdant growth had been left behind them to the south. Up ahead, the roads dissected what looked like a vast wasteland. Far in the distance rose a lone hill, upon which a Roman fortress held its place like a stone buzzard. The desert plain seemed to go on forever. And over it all, the wind moaned.
Helzebah walked over to them with Martha. The two women had discovered they shared a common characteristic of straight talking and direct opinions. Helzebah pointed to a village perched upon the slopes to her left. “There is your new home. Nain.”
The village was the one welcoming spot in the entire vista. The lime-washed homes gleamed like pearls in the gloomy afternoon. The road that climbed up from the plains was steep in places, and at several points seemed barely connected to the ridge. “Is it safe?” Abigail wondered.
“What, the road?” Helzebah huffed a laugh. “Safe enough, when you’ve walked it a hundred times or so.”
Abigail felt a shiver run through her body, and she put her arm around little Dorcas on the donkey beside her.
Helzebah went on, “Nain is perhaps the safest village in all Judea. There is only the one road in and out. Brigands steer a wide berth around this region, you must believe me.”
Martha said, her satisfaction evident, “Here is a haven in which we can be secure.”
Abigail wanted to agree. But the wind seemed to catch her words and pluck them away, unformed. She held on to her daughter tightly, more for herself than for the little girl.
Nain’s only road left them all breathless. The ascent had begun at a modest angle, but steadily grew steeper. At one point several of the donkeys balked when the road emerged from a tight bend and exposed a swooping drop. Alban slid from the animal he had been riding and tied strips of cloth around all the beasts’ eyes, speaking softly to them as he did so. “These animals were born and bred in the flatland. They will soon grow accustomed to the climb. After a few weeks they will carry you up at night without a worry.”
Abigail was about to say she would never make this journey after dark when Dorcas exclaimed, “Look, Mama. Ants?”
“No, my dear. Camels.”
“Little camels?”
Alban shared a smile with Martha. “Big camels,” he said. “They look little because we are so high up.”
Dorcas clapped her hands and bounced on the donkey’s back. “The roads are little too.”
Martha asked, “You like all this, don’t you, dear one?”
She waved her small hand in as large a circle as she could stretch. “I can see everything!”
Martha again smiled across the animal’s neck to Abigail. “We can see very far indeed.”
“It smells nice too,” Dorcas said, screwing up her face and grinning.
Philip came to stand alongside the little girl. “Those are the perfumes of northern Samaria. Desert sage and eucalyptus and cedar and sorrel. They all grow wild on these slopes.”
Abigail watched her daughter enchanting their little group, and thought upon the difference between them. She had been taken captive by thoughts as grey as the clouds, bleak as the dry hills far in the distance. Yet again she had lost sight of the day’s inherent beauty, the potential it held.
She stroked her daughter’s hair and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Why, Mama?”
“You are the sun in my life, little one.”
The village was far larger than its first impression. And much more appealing than Abigail would have expected for a hillside town far away from others of any size. Clearly the passing caravans shared some of their wealth with Nain’s inhabitants, for many of the homes they passed were freshly limed, their roofs newly thatched, the doors and corner posts fashioned from intricately carved olive wood. The town occupied a plateau perhaps a mile wide and half again as long. Fields of bleating sheep extended out in three directions, back to where vineyards and groves of fruit trees found purchase on the steep slopes.
The surrounding hills formed natural boundaries and blocked much of the wind. The plateau sloped down slightly from where they stood, like a natural amphitheater. Behind them, the view stretched to distant horizons and beyond.
Helzebah hailed an acquaintance who directed them to her family’s home. A local drink, pomegranate juice mixed with lemon and mint and water from a natural spring, was served to the group. Soon yet another throng of people began to gather, drawn by the swiftly spreading news that disciples of Jesus had arrived.
The visitors were led to the main square. Abigail studied the village with open curiosity, wondering what her new circumstances would be like. She found alien-looking touches everywhere as they passed, reminders that she was indeed to live and raise her child in Samaria, a distant cousin to her familiar Judean homeland.
“Look! Eyes?” Dorcas pointed to a nearby dwelling.
Helzebah offered, “Those are signs against the evil eye. People in this place believe it wards off bad fortune.”
Philip murmured, “I have heard of such things.”
Helzebah hesitated a long moment, then said, “There’s a w
izard who lives in this town. Very famous, he is. Simon is known through all Samaria. I doubt he’ll hold out much of a welcome.”
But Philip did not respond, for as they entered the main square, a woman hurried up to him. “Please, will you help me?” she cried.
“If I can, indeed I – ”
“It’s my husband. He’s been suffering from such pains for many years now. The wizard has not been able to offer any assistance.”
“Where is your husband?”
“Laid out there beneath the eaves, my good sir.” She moved alongside Philip, her hands anxiously kneading each other. “We have little to offer you, good sir, but we’ll pay you what we can.”
“I do not seek your money,” Philip assured her. “And I am not your ‘good sir,’ for we know that none are truly good save the Lord most high.”
“Yes, sir,” she said with a nod, though the woman seemed scarcely to fathom his words. She must have gathered courage enough to clutch at Philip’s sleeve. “There he is, sir.”
The man lay upon a portable pallet of woven leather straps, covered by a blanket stained with sweat. His features were stretched taut over his skull, his breath tight and shallow against the pain.
Abigail watched Philip glance across the square, for at that moment a commanding figure appeared from the side lane. The man’s long hair was waxed and plaited so it hung across his left shoulder, a silver bell dangling at its end. He wore a fine robe covered in symbols, and more were inked into the skin of his hands and neck. His chin lifted at Philip’s open inspection.
Philip turned back to the man upon the pallet. He climbed up the steps onto the portico and knelt by the man’s head. “I have nothing to give you, save what has been granted me by the Lord our God. Do you understand my words?”
The man’s breathing seemed to become more labored still, but he managed, “Aye.”
“Tell me what you want, then.”
The man’s gaze was fastened upon Philip with a desperate intensity. “I wish to be free of this pain that binds me. . . .” He finished in a gasp.
“Well said, my brother.” Philip bowed his head.
Abigail felt a touch on her arm. Martha said quietly, “Come.”
Together they stepped forward to stand near Philip. Alban joined them, and they bowed their heads together and began their murmured prayers.
Abigail felt a familiar rush of spiritual winds, the gathering of forces that filled her entire being, until she was almost overwhelmed by the power of God’s love. She opened her eyes when Philip spoke.
“In the name of our Lord Jesus, the risen One, I command you, be healed!”
The man’s eyes were wide, and his breathing had gone as still as the crowd that surrounded them. “It is gone.” He whispered the words, then repeated them in a louder voice.
Philip said, “Rise up!” and reached out his hand. The man took it and stood in astonished stages as his wife sobbed her relief beside him. The crowd moved back, giving the man room to step down from the porch. He walked back and forth, staring at his own limbs, then lifted his arms to the heavens and shouted, “I am healed! Glory be to God!”
It seemed as though the entire village followed Philip out of the square. Ahead of the main group danced the man whom Philip had healed, skipping like a child, laughing at a day free of pain. Even the wizard Simon came along, though remaining slightly apart, isolated by more than his fancy robes with their complex designs.
The crowd crossed a pasture filled with sheep and came upon a stand of ancient fruit trees, the trunks gnarled and twisted by countless seasons. In their midst lay a spring, the water bubbling clear as glass from the rocky slopes beyond, feeding a stream which in turn supplied the village with fresh water.
Philip stepped into the water and gave the declaration that for Abigail remained both vivid and fresh. How the water was a sign of having received the risen Messiah and, through this, a transformation of one’s whole self. How inward sin was washed away by the blood of the crucified Lamb of God, just as water cleanses the outer person. How acceptance of this truth symbolized an eternal life with God. One by one Philip invited the villagers forward, challenging each with the same softly spoken words: “You may be baptized if you believe with all your heart and receive the Messiah.” And each responded, “I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God.”
Not all the villagers came forward, but Simon entered the water and repeated the words. As Philip lowered him into the waters, the designs on his robe formed a watery cloud that drifted away in the stream. All eyes save Philip’s had turned from the immersion, and they watched the dark stain flowing toward the village.
“Rise up,” Philip said, lifting Simon out of the water. “Now go, your sins are forgiven. Live to love and serve your Lord.”
The villagers went off to prepare a feast for their guests. –Helzebah and her relative accompanied Abigail and Dorcas to their new home, the one presented to Alban by his grateful employer, Jamal. Philip and Martha and Alban went along as well.
The small dwelling clearly had not been occupied for quite some time. But it was just as Jamal’s deed described. There was a front porch in the Samaritan style, almost as wide as the home’s main room. The plank flooring was raised, so the interior would remain dry even in the harshest rains. The door’s leather hinges had been eaten away by rats, and inside every surface was covered with a liberal coating of soot and grime. But the rooftop was sound, and the home was well lit by windows facing both east and south. Two smaller rooms occupied the upper level.
Philip climbed the steps to the upstairs chambers and returned wearing a dry robe. By then Martha had laid a fire and made tea. She gave the weary teacher one of the two unbroken mugs they had found, and carried the other to Alban, sitting on a bench on the porch. The men’s soft voices formed a backdrop to the women’s activities.
Helzebah’s cousin had slipped away, only to return with several women carrying one household implement or another. Abigail was moved by their generosity, but did not feel she should accept items they surely needed. But Martha murmured, “They wish to make you welcome in your new home. Besides, they want to reward Philip for his services. I had already explained that he wouldn’t take payment. So they are giving the gifts to you, their new neighbor.”
Abigail nodded slowly, her eyes filling with tears.
A dozen more hands were now helping. Three men carried a container of lime. They swept the walls of each room, then whitewashed them. Another two had set to work restoring the leather hinges for the door. Dorcas skipped in and out, carrying a cleaning rag in one hand and her doll in the other. Her excited chatter could be heard above it all.
By the time the sun began its descent, the house looked like new, and each room held at least one piece of furniture. The fireplace was sound, its rock-lined opening drawing well, and it all truly began to feel like a home.
The communal meal that evening was eaten in the main square, for no single house was large enough to hold them all. The clouds had moved on, and the mountains, sheltering the village from the night’s chill wind, carved tall shadows between the stars. Philip taught them once more, and then led the group in prayer. Abigail listened silently, a sense of peace slowly stealing over her while Dorcas fell asleep in her lap.
Helzebah’s cousin accompanied them home, lighting their way with a torch. The excitement and work of the day left them weary. Abigail did her best to thank them all for their kindness as Dorcas slept in her arms. Alban and Philip settled themselves on pallets in the main room near the fireplace. Abigail carried Dorcas upstairs into one of the chambers, and Martha took the other.
In spite of being as tired as she could ever recall, Abigail found herself filled with restless energy. She positioned the room’s only bit of furniture, a three-legged stool, by the window and sank onto it.
In the starlight she could make out an overgrown garden rimmed by a stone wall reduced to little more than rubble. Next were four other houses, all the same flat-r
oofed construction as her own. My own . . . She mulled the words over silently. Thank you, Lord, for this gift, she whispered. She looked over her shoulder at the precious little bundle in the corner. I’m so grateful we have a home and neighbors who care. . . .
But a sigh emerged from someplace deep inside. Abigail struggled to sort through the tangle of feelings that nearly overwhelmed her. Her thankfulness was conflicted by all the unfamiliar that surrounded her. And the unknown future stretched before her like a road with no destination.
She leaned forward, her arms crossed on the window’s ledge. Beyond the village, the scene just dropped away. Fires flickered along the valley floor, with a rich silver sea of stars overhead. Here must be the haven from all the dangers she had so feared in Jerusalem. . . .
If only I can find joy once again. If only I can find my place here to give, to serve. . . .
She sat, chin resting on her hand, and stared out through the darkness until her mind began to quiet. She finally slipped under the blanket beside Dorcas. Strange noises and quiet whispers seemed to float about her. The child murmured in her sleep and fitted herself in close. Her daughter’s warmth and fragrance gradually gentled Abigail into slumber.
She had no idea how long she slept before the dream. In it, Abigail heard a long-ago sound, her beloved husband whispering her name.
In the dream she opened her eyes to find Stephen lying on Dorcas’s other side, the child not separating them so much as binding them together. The small body’s presence was a testimony to their love’s union.
Abigail wanted to speak, but she could not. And in a way, she was glad of it. For the communion they were sharing was somehow strengthened by the silence.
A faint glow surrounded Stephen, the light just strong enough for her to see him clearly. He was just as she remembered, yet utterly changed. The weariness and stress that had marked their final days together had been wiped away. He looked at her with a love so intense, so complete, she felt as though she were flowing away into nothingness, leaving herself totally exposed, totally open to receiving his love in return.