The Weeping Chamber

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Ithnan was inside the burning warehouse.

  I ran toward the great, roaring monster that held my firstborn son in its jaws. Just inside the door, swirling dense smoke drove me, choking, to my knees. I could see nothing.

  I yelled in desperation, crawling and sweeping with my hands, hoping to clutch the tiny ankles of my son.

  A narrow beam of burning wood fell, striking me on the left side of my face, searing through my beard and skin. I didn’t even feel the pain.

  My son was somewhere in the fire. A fire of my doing.

  Another beam struck my head. In my last moments of consciousness, I hoped for my own death.

  I had fallen so near the entrance that those who fought the fire doused me and the flames with their first buckets of water. I was pulled from the wreckage of my business, close to death, hours from reviving but alive.

  Not so my firstborn son.

  After the last of the fire had been tamed, someone discovered his body curled in a corner, spared from flame. But smoke had sucked the life from his lungs.

  His body in death was as it had been in life. Perfect.

  **

  During the hours I had been unconscious, Vashti had shrieked over and over again that the fire had been her fault. In my first waking moments—unaware of Vashti’s claim of responsibility and deeply ashamed—I had pretended confusion, determined to tell Jaala when the time was right.

  Coward that I was, I delayed the truth again and again. The longer I let the lie continue and the more people heard it with grave sympathy, the more difficult it became to confess. Finally I could not turn back and take off the mantle of determined hero that had fallen upon me.

  My torment had just begun.

  My undivulged knowledge became a millstone of self-hatred, and as I closed myself off from Jaala, it destroyed what little love remained in our marriage.

  Only a parent can truly comprehend the depths of my remorse, anguish, and self-loathing in the months that followed. Although I had not deliberately hurt my daughter, I was responsible. If, somehow, I could have blocked that responsibility from my mind and heart, her agony was there daily to remind me, not only in her cries of pain but also in the expression her eyes held and in how she recoiled from me when I tried to hug her.

  I had burned her legs; I had seared her soul. I had once been her adored father, the man who could do anything and fix anything. Then in one horrible moment, I had betrayed her trust, destroyed her life, and killed my firstborn son.

  Yet the world saw me as a valiant, heroic man for saving my daughter, for my struggle against the fire.

  My remorse and anguish and self-loathing became the despair I had carried into Jerusalem.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  As I waited on the ship during the first day in Cyrene, not ten minutes went by that I did not strain my eyes toward my villa on the nearby hillside.

  My pleas to Jaala had been simple. If she could take me back after hearing my letters and confession, she should hang a dark blanket from a window, easily visible to my hoping eyes.

  I had intended to be noble and romantic in my efforts to win back her heart, refusing to shame her with my unworthy presence.

  The hours of bright sunshine and blue sky passed to mock my despair. Instead of nobility, I was a fool. I had to restrain myself from rushing up the streets to beg at the door for a glimpse of her face.

  The entire day passed.

  As I waited, I tried to imagine her reaction. I did not even know if she had decided to allow someone to read the letters to her. The messenger had been greeted at the door by a servant, who would only confirm that the mistress of the household would accept them.

  I tried to remain in seclusion on the ship; if Jaala would not have me back, I did not want to shame myself further by making her rejection public knowledge. Because of the seclusion, however, I did not dare make inquiries of my household. I did not even know if my daughter still lived.

  Night fell. I settled into the bowels of the ship, hoping that every creak and every sway would signal Jaala stepping on board to throw herself into my arms. I did not sleep.

  Dawn arrived.

  Jaala did not.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  After another day, I could no longer fool myself. Enough time had passed. Jaala had made her decision. I could wait years and the blanket would not appear at a window of our villa.

  Still, I did not order the boat to set sail.

  This near, I could not leave. I imagined Jaala’s every move in the villa. In my mind, I listened as she hummed, watched as she brushed her hair, stood beside her as she looked down on my ship in the harbor.

  All the while, I knew a final good-bye was approaching. Once the ship left the harbor, I would not return. I planned to revisit Jerusalem. I could manage my business affairs from there and see to it that Jaala lived a good life without me. It would not be a hopeless existence for me. Keen as I would miss her, despair no longer overwhelmed my soul. Pascal would welcome me in Jerusalem, as would some of the followers of Yeshua, for I had turned to them in the days after the crucifixion, seeking answers about the man on the cross and the final events of that Friday.

  **

  I remained at the cross as the soldiers gambled for the rights to keep Yeshua’s seamless clothing. I remained in the afternoon as a darkness covered the land—caused, perhaps, by a rare but not unheard of dust storm swirling above us or by an event astronomers could have predicted from the way stars moved in the sky. I remained until Yeshua cried out that it was finished, as the roar of an earthquake punctuated His last words, as the centurion was forced to exclaim that surely the man on the cross was the Son of God.

  I watched the soldiers thrust a spear into Yeshua’s motionless body to make sure He was dead. I saw watery blood spill from the hole in His side. I was there when the soldiers broke the legs of the two thieves to hasten their deaths before sundown, still there as the thieves rattled their last breaths, suffocating because their legs supported them no longer.

  When Yeshua’s body was taken from the cross, I finally returned to Pascal and Seraphine. Pascal had found my note to him along with the document and the sealed letters. He gave them all back to me without asking why I had intended to take my life and without asking why I had changed my mind. He was a good friend.

  After, I searched out as many of Yeshua’s followers as I could, asking questions about the man of miracles. My brief contact with Him as I carried the cross had further compelled me to learn about Him.

  Judas, I discovered, had died hours before the man he had betrayed. After hearing the verdict against Yeshua, he had flung the silver back at the high priests, and remorse drove him to the act I could not do. He was discovered days later hanging from a branch by the same girdle he’d once used to store his thirty pieces of silver.

  I am convinced, however, that Yeshua would have forgiven Judas. For I had watched as Yeshua died in agony on the cross, yet He was concerned not about Himself, but about others. To the thief beside Him, Yeshua had promised that heaven waited. Upon seeing His mother weeping, Yeshua had pledged her into a disciple’s care. For the jeering crowd, He had prayed that God would forgive them.

  Many times I have wondered about this request. What I have decided is this: Yeshua had a heart that saw much more than any other man. On the cross, looking down at the crowd, He felt and understood the pain and the burdens each person carried. A Pharisee, perhaps, had worries about a son who preferred wine and harlots to religious instruction. Maybe a woman was racked with the grief of losing a child. Or another man sleepless with the agony that accompanies doubts about his wife’s faithfulness. Each of them—as with all of us—would have kept those fears private, unknown to the rest of the world. Each of them—as with all of us—had the heartaches, hurts, and sorrows that come with lives lived apart from God.

  As Yeshua saw their pain, He saw, too, that most of the people in the crowd were so intent upon their own lives, so apart from God’s presen
ce that they failed even to look to God for help. He saw them as the poor, pitiable, weak creatures that they were.

  Yet He knew what would heal them and give them peace: God’s love, given freely. And so the plea from the man condemned to die because of His love for those in need: “Father, forgive these people, because they don’t know what they are doing.”

  This is why I believe Yeshua would have embraced Judas, had Judas truly wished it.

  All of this I believe to be true, even if Yeshua were only man.

  But if He were only man, His forgiveness would not have erased my guilt as it did.

  During my time in Jerusalem after His crucifixion, as I learned more about Yeshua and what He did and taught, I began to understand that He was the Passover lamb who had stood in my place. This Lamb, unlike any other lamb, had gone to His death willingly and aware. No other altar sacrifice was needed for me to be able to approach God, to have the mask of my selfishness removed so that I could see the warmth of the light that had always been there.

  If Yeshua were only man, I would not have found the joy in the peace that had sent me home to Cyrene with hope.

  **

  When finally I gave reluctant orders for the ship to prepare to sail, I remained on deck, staring at the white of my villa so hard and long that my eyes ached from the brightness of the sun.

  I still wanted to believe Jaala would take me back. Perhaps the activity on the ship—if she was watching—would show her I would act upon my word. Perhaps, with my departure looming, she would have a change of heart.

  In those minutes before departure, I resigned myself to life without her. But I was not without a certain joy. In Jerusalem, I had found redemption. I knew I could begin to live life looking forward, not backward.

  As two of the crew began to untie the heavy ropes that held the ship to the wharf, I heard a cry that was almost lost among the shrieking of the gulls overhead.

  I saw a girl running toward the ship.

  Vashti? Yes! Unless my eyes and my hope had deceived me.

  I stopped the men and jumped from the ship.

  The child continued to run toward me.

  My daughter was running!

  Her face was bright with joy as she jumped into my arms. Her body felt so tiny and vulnerable that it almost broke my heart to think I had to leave.

  I set her down and squatted so I could look into her beautiful face.

  “Mama wanted you to see that I can walk,” she said proudly. “My legs are not pretty, but they don’t hurt and I can walk and run.”

  I spoke slowly, afraid my voice would break and in so doing, alarm her. “I am so very glad,” I said. For the healing. And that Jaala had sent her. As a gift, it would console me over the lonely years ahead. That the scars remained would always remind me of my own journey from desperation to healing.

  I repeated myself. “I am so very glad to see you walking and running, my love.”

  “It was in a dream,” she said. “An angel talked to me in a dream.”

  “Tell me about your dream,” I said softly.

  Her eyelids dropped.

  “It’s important to me,” I said.

  Vashti began shyly. “I felt silver light that was like a bright star alone in a dark sky. It turned brighter and warm until it filled the sky. An angel spoke to me from the light. He told me he wanted me to walk. When I woke up in the morning, I was happier and my legs started to get better.”

  “Was that yesterday?” I asked, teasing her with a smile. I was ready to believe her if she said yes.

  “No, Papa. Since Passover.”

  Since Passover.

  Miracle or coincidence?

  Some, I am sure, will say that deep in her mind, my little girl needed to overcome her own guilt before allowing herself to heal, and that her mind brought forth the vision of an angel to do it. Some will say that the act of the Passover sacrifice sparked some form of self-forgiveness inside her. Some will say that she healed in the weeks since Passover as part of a natural process.

  Yet her words echoed the description of what the once-blind beggar had told me in Jerusalem, the sensation of a silver light and the warmth. Passover was when I’d pleaded with Yeshua in Jerusalem to heal my daughter.

  Others may scoff at miracles. I knew what I believed, however, and I closed my eyes in a prayer of gratitude.

  When I opened my eyes, Vashti was looking at me gravely. With innocence. God must be thanked that our children love us without condition, that Vashti was too young to see me as the driven man who had disappointed her mother so badly. God must be thanked that the scars on her soul had begun to heal.

  “Will you tell Mama that I love her very much?” I asked. “If she changes her mind, she can send word to Jerusalem. I will be there . . .” I lost my voice. It took several seconds to compose myself. “I will be there because of work.”

  An easy escape to give Vashti. She’d heard it often enough before.

  “Don’t you want to tell her yourself?” Vashti asked. She took my hand. “Mama sent me running down here to reach you before your ship left. She wants you to come home.”

  Epilogue

  Away from the weeping chamber of my own tomb, I now sit in the shade of my villa. I occasionally stir, moving into the sun like a wrinkled lizard, warming the loose, leathered skin that wraps my old bones. Beyond my courtyard are the masts of ships in the harbor. The breathtaking blue expanse of the Mediterranean spreads beyond to meet a cloudless azure sky.

  Forty years have passed since my firstborn son died. My thoughts return to the weeping chamber where I stood so recently to mourn him. I am saddened as much by my memories of him as by the knowledge that too soon I will return to the weeping chamber.

  **

  And forty years after the events of that Friday, I am able to see more clearly why an innocent man died.

  The crowd before Pilate had no notion how prophetic their call for Yeshua’s blood to be upon them and their children would be. Word has recently reached me that Jerusalem has fallen. After a six-month siege, the Romans—efficient, determined, ruthless—ended what was at the beginning plainly inevitable to all but the foolish rebel Jews who expected God to rescue them as He had patiently aided Moses, Joshua, David, and all the other heroes whom descending generations of Jews so proudly wear as cloaks of armor. Yet, despite the self-righteous, unceasing, directive prayers that surely rose from Jerusalem, no sea was parted, no pestilence destroyed the enemy, no trumpet calls brought them down, no angel of death visited the Roman army camps. Instead, the mighty city walls were finally broken, the Jewish rebels crucified, and, in the haze of the fire of destruction that drifted across the city, with the background yells of soldiers joyfully pursuing women in the rubble of torn streets, the temple stones were pushed off the plateau to tumble onto the tombs below.

  Jerusalem—as Yeshua had predicted—is no more.

  Some might say it is fanciful to assert that Jerusalem fell because a small minority of Jews slaughtered an innocent man, but I believe there is some truth in the statement.

  Rome would have been content to coexist with Jerusalem for centuries—the mighty empire only fights back when prodded. Jerusalem fell because in the end Rome could no longer tolerate the unchanged blind selfishness, hypocrisy, and fanaticism that had killed Yeshua those four decades earlier.

  **

  Jerusalem is no more.

  I am grateful that Pascal and Seraphine did not behold the siege. Pascal died gently in his sleep a dozen years ago, and the rich widow Seraphine married a silk trader in Alexandria.

  Pilate is gone, recalled to Rome a few years after Yeshua’s crucifixion for putting down a Samaritan riot with too much force. Some rumors have it that he killed himself as his career faded. Others say that his wife, Procula, became a follower and led Pilate to the same hope and belief in a man he had ordered crucified.

  Peter is gone, too, martyred on a cross for refusing to deny Yeshua one more time. I have heard he declined the h
onor of dying the same way as his beloved master, however, and the executioners granted his request to be crucified upside down.

  I do not know the fate of Caiaphas. Violent or peaceful, whatever end Caiaphas reached is one he deserved. Hatred is its own punishment. The riches his schemes continued to accumulate would not have been worth the last moments of consciousness and the sudden awareness of how utterly cold and lonely it will be for his soul’s travel beyond.

  **

  My servant has appeared on the villa balcony to interrupt my thoughts. His hands are empty of the cooled juice I had expected. Instead, he has brought a message.

  “She calls for you.”

  I don’t ask why. The expression on my servant’s face tells me enough.

  Slowly, I push myself to my feet. I lean on his arm as he takes me inside. We enter a room in the upper corner; then the servant departs.

  I smile at Vashti, who sits beside the bed where she has spent many hours away from her husband and family over the past weeks. Her face is barely composed. While I see in her grief the young girl who clung to me during the sorrows of her innocence, I also see strength and dark-haired beauty, much like Jaala’s face in our early years together.

  Vashti’s younger brothers—our sons Alexander and Rufus, whom Jaala bore in the happier days that followed my return—would be here, too, but they are helping to establish the Word in other parts of the empire. It is impossible for them to return in time.

  Vashti rises and steps away from the bed, allowing me to move closer.

  It is hot, but the woman I love shivers beneath her blankets.

  Jaala. My wife. God’s gift to me. Twice.

  My chest is tight with grief. I go to her, blinking away tears.

  Although, like me, she is old, and others might see wrinkles in her face, I see only the beauty that entranced me during the songs she softly sang throughout the years. Her body has become so tiny. Her once-dark hair is as white as mine. The delightful strong hands that stroked my face in our youth are now withered, knotted into fists as she fights occasional spasms of pain.