A.D. 33 (4 page)

“There cannot be two rulers in this desert.” He paused, lost in thought. “We will march tomorrow.”

TWO THOUSAND black tents covered the rolling slopes of sand beyond my tent. I watched tendrils of smoke rise to the sky as women tended fires fueled by camel dung. Beneath a layer of coals and sand they would bake unleavened breads to be spiced, buttered, and rolled with dates. Few men were in sight; they were behind a partition in those same tents, doing what Bedu men did when not hunting or raiding: exchanging embellished news of their past exploits and fearlessly proclaiming the imminent defeat of the Thamud.

I had to find Saba now. Saba, my tower of strength, who was with my son Talya, now eight. I'd adopted Talya after coming upon him abandoned among the Banu Abysm tribe, the same tribe of my mother, who was now dead.

If Saba wasn't by my side, he could be found in the hills alone or with Talya, who had become like a son to him. Politics and conflict offered him no intrigue.

I descended a sandy slope and approached the small, spring-fed pool that brought life to the reeds and green palms and bushes. The camels were bunched around the drinking trough just south of the spring, or strewn across the sands, searching for stubborn tufts of grass, or sleeping in the sun.

During the last month, we had slaughtered more than a hundred of the male camels, each drawn by lot. The owner was awarded the most prized meats—liver and head—and the rest was divided among that family's clan.

My own she-camel, whom I'd named Zahwah, as white as the brightest sand, would be near my tent, for she loved me and never strayed far. If she was selected for slaughter I would weep, then gratefully give her life to save the children.

The moment the little ones saw me, they ran to me, leaping with arms swinging high. “Maviah, Maviah, Maviah!” There was Sayd and Salim and Mona and others—I knew them well, most younger than my Talya and so perhaps even more trusting of those who cared for them.

“Leave her!” Jalilah cried. The old woman's stained dress was ragged, made of finely woven camel hair worn thin by years of use. Her feet were bare, soles thickened by a life on the sands. With one hand, she steadied a heavy skin of water on her back; with the other she waved at the children, scolding. “Maviah isn't a goat to be played with!”

“Let them come, Jalilah.” I smiled and her scowl softened, but I had countered her authority and immediately sought to repair her pride. “Only a moment before you chase them away,” I said, lowering myself to one knee to receive the children.

Mona reached me first and flung herself into my arms. I kissed her dirty cheek, wondering how many days since she'd washed herself.

“How beautiful you are, Mona!” I said, kissing her filthy hair. “You are like the morning sun.”

Then the other children reached me, clambering for as much love and affection.

“Salim is killing his goat tomorrow,” little Mona said, eyes bright. “We're having a great feast because Salim is slaughtering the goat!”

“Oh?” I grinned at Salim, who wore his age with pride, for he was the eldest here, perhaps seven—already a warrior in the making. “Salim has a goat to slaughter?”

The young boy shrugged, knowing he'd spoken more than he could deliver. “It's my uncle's last goat. He says we will eat it soon. And I will kill it with my knife.”

“Well, won't that be the day! I will feast with you, Salim. We all will.”

“Now leave her!” Jalilah scolded, shooing them with her free arm. “You're children and know nothing! Leave, leave!”

I gave Salim a nod.

They scampered away, knowing not to test Jalilah. I felt the full weight of so many lives upon my shoulders.

I found Saba alone with Talya beyond the spring amid five staggered boulders, arms crossed, shaded by a date palm stripped of its fruit.

Saba had long ago traded his battle dress for a loose tunic and pants, which looked whiter than they were next to his black skin. His bald head towered over the frame of a small boy with dark curls, dressed nearly identically to his teacher.

My heart leaped at the sight of Talya. The new name I had chosen for him meant both “child” and “lamb” in Aramaic, the language of Yeshua, because he was small, even for an eight-year-old. And precious.

I pulled up short on the slope, realizing they hadn't yet seen me.

“And what do we call it?” Saba asked in his soft, rumbling tone.

“The kingdom,” Talya said.

How sweet was Talya's young voice. I slipped between two boulders and watched, unseen, treasuring these gifts of mine to love.

“Which kingdom?” Saba settled back against one of the boulders, arms still folded.

Talya answered without pause, having learned Saba's teachings well. “The kingdom of heaven. There are two—the realm of heaven and the realm of earth. But only the realm of heaven is eternal, with no beginning or end.”

“And where is this eternal realm called heaven?”

“Everywhere,” Talya answered, using his little arms to demonstrate. “Inside, outside, high and low and wide and deep.”

“Even among the Thamud?”

“Yes, but they cannot see it. They are blind.”

“Why are they blind?”

“Because they see only with the little eyes in their skulls. They are blind like Hamil.”

“Hamil is blinded only by old age and too much sun. Perhaps he sees the kingdom of heaven better than any of us. But blind, yes. Excellent!”

Saba clapped once, straightened, and tossed Talya a date from his pocket.

“And how sweet is this gift of earth, for which we are eternally grateful.”

Talya stuffed the date in his mouth, then clapped as well. “How sweet it is!”

Saba chuckled. “But not nearly as wonderful as Talya, who has opened the eyes of his heart so he may see more than the realm of earth.”

A lump gathered in my throat.

Saba had become a new man in the two years since we'd left Petra to gather the oppressed in Arabia. While I tended my place as mother to all, Saba often retreated to the sands to quiet his mind in prayer and contemplation. In this way he exchanged his own understanding of the world for a deep intimacy with the Father. This was his process of repentance, the way of attaining
metanoia
, which is a changed mind—a mind transformed and made greater.

He was obsessed with the path to truly
know
the Father and his realm. This, Saba believed, is what Yeshua meant when he spoke of entering the eternal realm of heaven.

He often called this path the forgotten Way of Yeshua, because that Way into the realm, so opposite the ways of the world, was difficult to keep in mind, even for those who had once seen.

Saba paced, hands on his hips, gazing at the horizon, wearing a track in the sand.

“As I have often said, to follow in the Way is to find salvation from the storms that rise to crush us. So this demands a question. How?”

“How?”

“Yes, how does one now walk in the eternal kingdom of heaven, which sets us free from anxiety?”

“By believing in Yeshua,” my son said.

“Yes. But what does this mean? Tell me.”

Talya absently mirrored Saba's pacing, though with far shorter strides. The sight of them together in this way melted my heart.

“To believe in is to trust,” Talya said most seriously. “To have faith.”

“To have faith
in
,” Saba said, accentuating
in
with a raised finger.

“Yes, to believe
in
,” Talya returned, finger also raised.

Saba flattened his hand, palm down, and swept it to one side. “Not merely to believe
about
. Even the demons believe that Yeshua is the Son of the Father, for surely they have ears.” He spat to one side.

“To believe only about Yeshua is nothing,” Talya said, spitting.

“A small first step in the right direction, perhaps,” Saba said.

“But this is not the Way.”

“To believe
in
Yeshua gives one the power to find peace in the storms of this life. This is the work of the Father, to believe
in
the one he has sent. This is eternal life, to
know
the Father. This is what Yeshua taught. Now tell me, how does one know if or when they are believing
in
Yeshua as opposed to just
about
Yeshua?”

“We know we are believing in him when we are in peace, without worry or grievance.”

“Yes, peace. If you have a grievance against any threat, such as a storm or an illness or a brother or even an enemy, it is only because we are putting our faith in the power of the storm, rather than in Yeshua and the realm of the Father.”

“But putting our faith in Yeshua makes us the greatest of all warriors, able to move mountains and calm the storm,” Talya said.

“Indeed.”

Saba stopped his pacing and tossed another date to Talya, who deftly caught it and threw it into his mouth.

“And how sweet it is.”

“How sweet it is.”

I almost walked out then, so strong was my longing to sweep Talya from his feet and embrace him. But Saba spoke.

“So then—and now we are almost finished—if this
kingdom
is our only obsession, like a treasure in a field or a pearl of great price, and if faith is the
path
into such a place of great beauty and power, what is the means to this path? How will you find such a narrow path called faith?”

He was explaining it all in terms a child could understand, and I was filled yet again with wonder, though I already knew the answer to Saba's question.

“By seeing with new eyes.”

“Perception! Perception is the means to true belief. Because the eye is your lamp. If your eye is clear you will see light. If not clear—if it is blocked with a plank of offense and judgment—you will remain blind. You will be trapped in the darkness of grievance, offense, and judgment.”

I heard the voice of Yeshua in my heart.
Do you still believe in me, Maviah? Are you saved from darkness?

Yes, I thought, because right now I trusted in Yeshua and felt no anxiety.

“Listen to me, Talya.” Saba lowered himself to one knee. “All grievances are as destructive to you as murder, and they arise only from fear. Fear will render you blind. Yes?”

“I want to see.”

Saba nodded once, satisfied. “And so you will. Do you understand what I have told you?”

“Yes, Saba.”

“Of course you do.”

He stood and spread his arms. “Of course you do!” he said with more volume, gazing at the sky. “You understand because you are a child, and unless you become like a child you cannot follow the Way of Yeshua!”

Saba then lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes. “You too will calm the storms that rise against you in this life!”

He was speaking as a sage, I thought, and my heart pounded like a drum.

“As a child you, Talya, will lead them. With faith you will move the mountain. They will know you for your love and for the peace that passes all understanding. You too will walk upon the troubled waters of this life and help the blind to see. The captives will be set free and all of heaven will invade earth as no army can, for you will bring light, not darkness, and you will show them the Way of Yeshua!”

A heron chirped in the bushes behind me. The air felt thick. My heart had gone quiet.

My son finally spoke in a soft voice, full of wonder.

“If I will move the mountain later, can I move a stone now, Saba?” A beat passed. “Can
you
move a stone?”

Saba lowered his arms, hesitating. “Not yet,” Saba said. “But I am less of a child than you. To begin, think of moving the stones that block true sight into the realm of Yeshua.”

“And how can I remove the stones that blind me?”

Now Saba was even slower to respond. This was the question that had often bothered Saba. If clear vision was required to see the path of faith into the kingdom, by what means could one's sight be restored? We would one day return to Yeshua to uncover the mystery of this question.

“You can only see this path by taking your eyes off of all other paths,” Saba said.

Talya thought about this for a moment. “How?” he asked.

“When the time comes, you will know how,” Saba answered, but I didn't think the response particularly helpful.

I could not contain myself a moment longer. I stepped out from between the rocks and hurried toward them.

Saba turned his eyes toward me, then lowered his arms. Seeing Saba's gaze, Talya twisted back, saw me, and raced for me, face lit like the stars.

I stooped down, flung my arms around him, and swept him into the air, twirling.

“What a big boy you are!” I said, kissing his neck and his cheek. “I love you more than life itself.”

“Saba is teaching me, Mother! I will move the mountain. The Thamud cannot stand against me.”

I set him down and I pushed my fingers through his tossed curls, wiped the dust from his cheeks. “Of course you will move the mountain, my dear. With a single word!”

His eyes were the color of almonds beneath long lashes. Not a mark scarred his tender, smooth skin. He'd come from my mother's tribe—scavengers who were the lowest in standing among all of the Bedu. Compared to the first five years of his life in the sands, our paltry existence was, for him, like living in a grand palace.

How little it took to give an orphan a new life. Surely, this was Yeshua's Way.

Saba watched us with approval. “You must only follow everything Saba teaches you, and you will be the mightiest stallion in all the desert.”

“A stallion who can fly,” Talya said.

I laughed, setting him down. “A stallion who can fly through the heavens.”

Talya skipped away, arms stretched like wings, then scrambled up the nearest boulder.

Saba dipped his head. “My queen.”

I returned his greeting with my own. “My strength.” I walked up to him, smiling. “You are taking your student far, I see.”