They rolled up to his Beechcraft where it was tied down at the Springfield airport. He parked on the grass and began instructing her on how to undo the tie-down cords.
“I still don’t know why we’re here,” Jaime finally blurted when he opened the passenger door and they prepared for takeoff.
“We’re here because when I mentioned that I owned my own plane at youth group last week, it was the first time I saw any light in your eyes since I’ve known you,” he said simply.
Then he was on the radio to the tower, and they were taking off into the lazy blue of the sky, and somehow she did feel the slight warmth of her long-extinguished pilot light whooshing to life.
They flew over farms and streams and old cemeteries. They flew over horse farms and fields. “So why is that?” Asher finally asked. “What’s happened to the light behind your eyes?”
Jaime stared at him again. He’d been at their church for six months. Had he not heard she was a poor little orphan girl, whose parents had died tragically yet heroically bringing medical care to refugee camps in Pakistan? Everybody knew that. It was her identity, everywhere.
“My parents are dead,” she said.
“Yeah,” he answered. “So are mine. Do you suppose they raised you to be brittle and shatter when tragedy happened? Or did they raise you to be strong and vibrant and alive, to help the world after they’re gone? From what I’ve heard, they seem like the kind of folks who would have wanted to leave a positive legacy, not a trail of broken kids.”
All of Jaime’s rage boiled to the surface. It was obvious he’d planned this, even thought out things to say. “What’s next? You’re going to tell me that God needed another brilliant doctor for all the refugees in heaven, so he took my dad? And he needed a beautiful flower, so he cut my mom down in the bloom of health? Or that I must be able to handle it or God wouldn’t have let it happen? Well, maybe I can’t. Maybe I can’t fucking handle it!”
Asher shot a look over at her. Instead of chiding her for her anger, her attitude, or her language, he said, “Who’s been feeding you that bullshit?”
“Everybody,” she said, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Basically, everybody.” And to her own horror, she began to sob.
“Jaime,” Asher said, “do you remember in Matthew, when Jesus’ friend Lazarus dies? When Jesus arrives, he doesn’t say to Lazarus’ sisters, ‘God needed the most handsome ficus tree, so he shattered your lives to take yours,’ or, ‘You’ll see him again one day,’ or even, ‘Give me a minute; I can fix this.’ No. What Jesus did, in the face of Mary and Martha’s grief, and of his own, was… he cried. Jesus wept. And that’s exactly what he’s doing with you, right now.”
Well, that was some sort of small help. That her pastor wasn’t calling her an idiot for still grieving after a year and a half.
“Here’s something I’ve heard, usually from Christian parents who have lost a child, but I bet it might be true for a child who has lost her parents, as well. You are given a rare and precious gift, which is this: You never again fear your own death. While most of the rest of us live day to day fearing our own death. Or at least struggling to ‘store up our treasure in heaven’ instead of loving the things of this world. But I’d guess your treasure is already there. It’s no longer an issue for you. Do you fear your own death, Jaime?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I wish I could die, now!”
“That would stop the pain,” he said. “But it would also stop the beauty.” As if to underline his statement, he made a swooping turn with the plane and headed over a winding river below.
“See, here’s the thing,” he said. “If you come to a time that you choose to let go of your pain, God will turn it inside out. Inside-out pain becomes empathy, and it becomes the greatest gift in the world for you to give to others.”
“And you know this…”
“Because, as I said, both my parents are dead. My dad died of cancer, and my mom was killed in a convenience store robbery in Los Angeles. She had run in for a cup of coffee while getting gas. I can’t think of anything that is more the height of senseless evil than that.
“What I’m saying, Jaime, is that your pain is shattering, and deep, and real. But if you can trust that God mourns with you in this, instead of being the cause of it, the transformation can begin. It’s not something you do. It’s something you hand over.”
She was quiet. She was thinking.
“Here. Take the controls,” he said. “I’ll show you how.”
Together they’d flown for another twenty minutes. It wasn’t exactly busy airspace, and he let Jaime fly over her house and her school and her favorite park. And then they flew over the cemetery where her parents’ ashes were interred.
“Look, Mom and Dad!” she said. “I’m flying!”
Asher grinned, too. And he said, “So, I also hear you’re the only one in youth group who’s not going to Glendale’s Junior-Senior Prom.”
Deflation.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Just not.”
“Don’t have a date?”
“Don’t want a date.” She had liked this guy, begun to even think that pastors might be human, and now this.
“’Cause boys are idiots?” he asked. “Because, frankly, at your age, we mostly are.”
“Because I had a boyfriend in Pakistan and that’s why I got sent home from the refugee camp two weeks before my parents died!” she hissed. Man, she was speaking her mind today. “My boyfriend was Muslim, and my dad said it could cause an incident, but I refused to stop seeing him, and my father got mad and sent me home!”
“Whoa,” said Asher. “How do we even begin to start unpacking that one?”
“Oh, I’ve already done it,” said Jaime. “The last time I saw my parents, we had a fight. If I had backed down, or hadn’t ever met this guy, I would have stayed with them. Likely my mom would have stayed in the camp with me instead of going on the trip with my dad, and she’d be alive. Or I would have gone along and died with them. And then I’d be a hero, too, and the school would have had an assembly and hired grief counselors, to help everyone who was freaked out that I died. Wow. I missed my chance.”
Asher surprised her again. “You know, you have great wisdom for being sixteen. I think you have a great future ahead of you. That you’ll help lots of people.”
Hadn’t he just heard what she said?
“So, let’s get this. You’re never going to date again because your dating either killed your parents or left you alive by mistake.”
“Something like that,” she mumbled.
“Well, teenage dating is certainly associated with strong emotions,” he said, “but I don’t think either one of us is going to sign off on it having the power to start monsoons or cause mud slides. Nope, sorry, you’re going to have to get past that one. You personally can claim neither the credit nor the blame for your parents’ death. You know that, right? In your head, at least, if not yet in your heart.”
She was quiet for a minute. This was one of her favorite torture devices. Was she willing to give it up?
“Yeah, I guess so,” she admitted, barely audibly.
“Good,” Asher said. “Then supposing there was a guy, kind of cute, kind of fun, no strings attached, who would like to take you to the prom. Would you go?”
“What?”
“Just supposing.”
“Who is it?”
“My son Luke.”
Luke didn’t have a date for the prom? Football player, drama guy, senior Luke? That seemed impossible.
Wait, was this a pity date his dad was forcing Luke on? How humiliating.
“Luke left a girlfriend back at his old school when we moved here. He’s been very faithful to her. Really liked her. She dumped him a couple months ago, and he’s having a hard time getting past it.”
“And he would ask me as a favor to you.”
“No, he would ask you because he thinks you’re cute.” Asher slid a glance sideways at her. “Not
that you heard it from me.”
So Jaime had gone to the prom with Luke, and he’d become a good friend. Well, a good friend who was a really good kisser. As much as anything, their relationship helped redefine Jaime to the other kids at school, and even helped redefine her to herself. She started spending as much time at the Kents’ as at her own house, which her grandmother and siblings seemed relieved to let her do. And when Luke went away to college in the fall, she kept coming to the Kents’, even without him there.
She and Luke had eventually gone their separate ways, but she’d always be grateful to him and to Asher, who had been a proud participant in Jaime’s own ordination to the ministry.
Back in the Gulfstream, which was much larger than Asher’s old Beechcraft, Jaime shot a glance at Yani. Maybe she’d remembered Luke for a reason. He had taught her that you can stay friends, be grateful to another person, even, without having to remain romantically involved.
But right now she and Yani didn’t need to be friends, they needed to be colleagues, and lives depended on that. Get past it, she told herself. And yeah, it was fun to be up in a plane again. She would definitely get her license when this was over. Absolutely.
February 25, 2006, 7:19 p.m.
Vagelis restaurant
Chora, Patmos
* * *
The sun had set while Geri and Brother Timothy visited the Cave of the Apocalypse, where, according to tradition, John had been given the vision that became the Book of Revelation. Now the air had a biting chill. Geri pulled her sweater coat more tightly around her and watched the colors of the paper lanterns that caught the breeze over the outdoor café in the central square of Chora near the foot of the monastery.
Brother Timothy had said they’d order tea, but when the waiter asked if they preferred red or white wine, their eyes had met over the menu, they’d shared a flicker of a smile, and Brother Timothy had responded, “Red.”
“Would you like to order dinner to go with the wine?” he asked her. “If so, I suggest the lamb casserole.”
Geri shook her head. “I’m dining with Nestor on the yacht before I bring him to our hotel. He’s finishing up some business—and our chef is both fantastic and underused.”
“Very well.”
The waiter had returned with their drinks. “Ah, Mykos, could you bring us a light sampling of hors d’oeuvres?” asked Brother Timothy. The waiter smiled and headed off with the order.
Geri raised her glass. The monk smiled and touched his to hers. “So you’re allowed to eat outside the monastery?” she asked.
“I’m only a seminarian,” he said. “I came here two years ago to help Father Chrysostomos catalogue the books and other antiquities in the monastery libraries, and, well, I’m afraid I became so involved that I haven’t yet made it back to school. But that’s all right—sometimes your calling in life isn’t quite what you expect.”
“So please,” said Geri. “What is this Patmos Project all about? What can you tell me?”
“Let’s go back a little bit,” he answered. “What do you know about Patmos and the monastery?”
Geri hesitated. She looked down across the layers upon layers of twinkling lights as the whitewashed houses on the slope to the sea were illuminated against the gathering dark. She had done research on the monastery, and on Patmos, before they came, but she was afraid Brother Timothy was seeking a specific answer she might or might not have.
“Could you tell me what you consider relevant?” she asked.
He smiled gently. “Spoken like someone who is used to conversing with those who are both intelligent and slightly full of themselves.”
She blushed.
“As you know, Patmos—indeed, all these Dodecanese islands—have been inhabited for well over three thousand years. The Aegean Sea is surrounded by countries with thousands of years of written history. Whatever happened in the earliest days, the island of Patmos itself was not deemed important by the Romans when they conquered it more than two thousand years ago. In fact, they used it as a place to send prisoners—the most famous of which, according to tradition, was the Apostle John, the man whom many believe was Jesus’ best friend.
“After Jesus’ resurrection and his ascension to heaven, his disciples were scattered by persecution. In many ways, this helped spread the good news, the message of love. As you know, many of these once-fearful men were greatly empowered to repeat the words of Jesus. Many were killed for doing so.
“Tradition has it that the final time John was arrested he was one of the few apostles who had survived to old age. Since he wouldn’t shut up, Roman Emperor Titus Flavius Domitianus exiled him here, to this forgotten chip of land. He was meant to live out his final days in silence and obscurity.”
“Didn’t quite happen that way.” Geri smiled.
“No,” Brother Timothy agreed. “It certainly didn’t. According to tradition, John converted the other inhabitants of the island to Christianity, and then had the vision which would become the final book of the Christian Scriptures, the Book of Revelation.
“Since that time, Patmos became a holy island, the destination of many pilgrimages. When the Roman Empire was divided two hundred years later, the Byzantine Empire recognized Christianity. A fantastic basilica was built here to honor John and his vision. How I would have loved to see that basilica!”
Brother Timothy sat for a moment, his eyes far away, envisioning the grand and holy building of which he spoke. “But during the sixth to the ninth centuries, the island was often raided and the Grand Basilica of St. John was destroyed.
“However, there were those who felt called to rebuild. One of those was a monk named Arsenios Skinouris. In 1085, he was visiting the newly founded monastery on Kos, and there he shared his vision with the Reverend Father Christodoulos. Christodoulos immediately understood the importance of building the Monastery of St. John here on Patmos.
“Within fifteen years, the current Byzantine emperor had given control of Patmos to Christodoulos, and he and Skinouris began the monastery here where we sit.”
Geri couldn’t help but steal a glance up at the towering structure, black against the sky, that rose behind her. “I do know that by the end of the twelfth century the monastery was famous. The island was a monastic state. The monks even had trading vessels. The monastery has stood since then, although control of the island has changed hands. The island was even taken by Germany during the Second World War, wasn’t it? Then it was autonomous until 1948, when all of the Dodecanese Islands chose to unite with Greece.”
“You are quite right,” the seminarian said. “Very good!” He poured himself another glass of wine from the decanter that had been left on their table. He took a sip and closed his eyes. “Here’s where it gets interesting.”
Geri leaned forward, her forearms on the small table. Brother Timothy crossed himself, an action that appeared as natural as breathing. But his next question wasn’t quite what she expected.
“Tell me what your church—what Pastor Roy Raeburn—believes the Book of Revelation talks about.”
“Why—just what it says,” she said, almost in a whisper. “That time is so short. We’re living in the end times! There are wars and rumors of war. Israel is a sovereign state. Earthquakes, famine, the euro—it’s all happening! Reverend Roy believes that those of us who are true believers will be taken up, raptured, at any second! Then the final war here on earth will begin.”
He had touched a chord with her. Rather than excitement, though, her face was clouded with concern.
“This frightens you?”
“I’m just… I’m just afraid that Nestor may not… that he may be left behind to suffer through the Tribulation. I’ve tried… I’ve tried to talk to him, to convince him not to support some of the things he supports, but… he doesn’t listen. And I do love him. Honestly, I do!”
Brother Timothy did not respond. Instead, he drained his goblet and poured yet another glass of wine. Geri’s own hand was trembling when she rea
ched for the decanter, but he poured for her, his own hands steady, resting on hers, the strength in his hand calming hers.
“Geri,” he said, “suppose I told you that you don’t need to worry. Suppose I told you that you and your husband were safe. In fact, could be untouchable.”
“What?” She looked confused.
“Suppose I told you that Reverend Raeburn’s interpretation of Revelation is well-meaning but incorrect?”
Now she looked completely nonplussed. “I don’t understand. You mean you’re post-Trib instead of pre-Trib?”
Brother Timothy chuckled gently. “There’s the genius. You keep people arguing about the merits of apples over oranges—and you can pretty well keep the entire grape vineyard for yourself.”
“Brother Timothy, please. I don’t understand. What vineyard are you talking about? Where is this vineyard?”
“This vineyard is the most important secret that John encrypted in his book of prophecy. But it’s as plain as day if you know what you’re looking for—and where to look. It’s a vineyard that is only meters from where you now sit.”
She grasped his hands. “Please don’t speak in riddles. I need to understand what you’re talking about!”
He leaned in closer to her. “I don’t mean to speak in riddles. I know it’s time you must return to your husband. But you’re staying here, on Patmos, tonight, are you not?”
“Yes, of course, at the hotel where you met me.”
“Then I’ll meet you there in the morning. And please, don’t worry. What I’m about to share with you is not some strange theological hiccup; it’s something tangible and real, something you can see and touch. It’s a message of great joy.”
“You can’t tell me—even a little?”
“The time is close. The mysteries of which John wrote—they are tangible, and they are here. They hold the answers you seek—and the answers your husband seeks as well.”
“How early can you come tomorrow morning?”
“I must attend Orthros—in English, the service called Matins—but that is before sunup. When will you be up?”
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