When Jesus Wept (29 page)
I was barely conscious of the ongoing efforts of my sisters and the physician, Sosthenes, to save me. I had no sense of time moving at all. I lived in a kind of perpetual suspense, waiting for something without knowing what.
I no longer opened my eyes. If I swallowed water or broth, it was without my knowledge, or perhaps in spite of it.
Only a few moments registered with me as taking place outside my mind.
The doctor, belatedly called to my bedside, forced open my mouth. He jammed a device in place to hold my jaws apart. Holding an oil lamp so close to my face I writhed away from the heat, he painted my throat with something far more foul and gagging than phytolacca.
I heard or perhaps dreamed Mary pleading with Marcus
Longinus. “Go find Jesus!” she begged. “Tell him we need him to come. For the sake of one he loves, he must come! Beg him to intercede!”
Such urgency was no longer relevant to me or my life.
Like spiders aimlessly wandering, my fingers plucked at the covers or at my beard. I scratched my own arms in the torments of trying to draw in air, but I was mercifully unaware of the struggle.
D
arkness. Silence. The sudden absence of pain.
I heard my sister Mary weeping. Calling my name. “David! Oh, David! Don’t leave us! Don’t leave … ”
I stood above her as she bent over the ashen body of a man. Who was he, lying there? Why did she weep for the stranger? She threw herself upon the chest of his empty shell. Her shoulders trembled with sobs.
I tried to speak to her. Reached out, but my hand could not touch solid flesh. I floated above the scene as others charged into the room. Martha shrieked and clapped her hands over her mouth.
I floated just above them. I studied the face of the dead man. I knew he had once been me. Strange that I did not recognize the face that had been my face in life. The thought came to me that I had gone through the days of my existence without seeing myself as I appeared to others on earth. My eyes had looked out upon others, but I had not seen myself as I was. I had smiled, and my sisters had returned smiles. I had frowned, and their faces reflected my unhappiness. But as I looked at my empty self, I did not recognize what I had been.
Martha rocked and beat her breast. “Oh, my brother! My brother! You have flown away.”
I wanted to tell her that I had not yet flown. I still hovered in the room.
Mary picked up my dead self’s hand and kissed it. I leaned close to look at it. Ah yes. I recognized the hand. It was familiar to me. I knew the scarred knuckles of old wounds won over the years working in the vines. I had used those fingers for everything. The hand was useless now. Limp and white. My body was now a dried cane, past its season, cut off and lying on the earth.
Mary’s hair fell across the chest of the corpse.
“Mary, why do you weep? I’m here, Mary! I love you! All is well.” But she could not hear me. There was no comfort in my silent testimony.
I heard the rustle of wings. I felt myself, my true self, hovering like a hawk, motionless on the wind.
A deep resonant voice said,
“Lazarus, you cannot help them now. ”
I glanced up to see the angel. Tall, strong, wings folded at his sides, he was perfect in feature and form. Radiant white garments with the glow of a rainbow around him. I thought that he resembled me, only perfect.
“They grieve,” I said.
“They loved you.”
Mary cried, “If only Jesus had come! If only he had been here! Our brother would not have died!”
I said to my angel, “Poor Mary. Look at her. She has only just found me, and now I am lost to her.”
The angel said, “Remember when Eliza left you. And the baby. Your sisters will go on. Life will go on.”
“Well, then,” I said, looking at my old self. “It was a good life.”
My angel asked, “Are you ready?”
One last time I reached out to stroke Mary’s hair. This time I felt it, soft beneath my fingers. She raised her head as though she felt my farewell.
“Well.” She laid the hand across my old self’s chest and patted it. “
Shalom
, dear brother.” Not taking her gaze from the beloved face so familiar to her, she wiped tears with the back of her hand. “Look. He seems to smile. He was a good man. He’ll be with Eliza and the baby now.”
I felt the stirring of joy in me, like when music begins, calling one to dance.
“I’m ready,” I said to the angel.
He reached out to me. Spreading his great silver wings over me, he clasped my hands. “Come on, then. They’re all waiting for you.”
“Who?” I asked.
Before he replied, I heard the rushing of a great wind as we moved through a tunnel of light at unimaginable speed. And yet I did not feel the motion of our journey. Earthly time was stripped away as we were immersed into eternal timelessness. I glimpsed my old life falling away like old work clothes.
I saw myself as a child playing among the green leaves of my father’s vineyard. Then, as a young man, harvesting the grapes. Then, as a grown man, with a heaping basket on my shoulder carrying the fruit toward the crusher. Then I saw myself, the bridegroom, drinking the wine. Eliza smiled up at me. And I lay beside her, feeling the movement of our baby in her belly. Then there was Jesus and the blind boy at the Temple. I felt the eyes of my friend, Jesus, close upon me.
The light grew brighter and brighter before us.
I laughed. We emerged into a vast, beautiful vineyard that
swept across rolling hills crowned by a golden sky. In the far distance blue mountains reared up, taller than any earthly mountain. A great city crowned the peak. Light and music flowed from within it. My angel stood beside me as my feet touched solid ground. His wing was over me. A melody surrounded me. When I moved my hand, I heard the tinkling of bells, like the water of a brook. I inhaled the sweet perfume of flowers.
In the far distance I heard voices calling my name, as my mother had done when I was a boy staying out too long after dark.
“What is this place?” I asked my angel.
“You have seen it in your dreams. The Father’s vineyard.”
To my right and left, clusters of red, purple, and gold berries hung from different branches of the same vine. Ripe and unripe fruit, blossoms and new growth sprouted together.
The ripest bunches hung from eye level all the way to the ground. They appeared to be so heavy with fruit, so plump with juice, I imagined it would take two strong men to carry them on a pole.
“I admire this vineyard,” I said to the angel as I placed my nose against the cluster and breathed in deeply. “Were there ever such grapes as these?”
I recognized the aroma of the fruit was like that of the wine Jesus had made for the wedding in Cana. Heavenly wine. I said to my angel, “So this is the soil that fed the Lord’s wine.”
“You have a good nose, David,” the angel said.
I paused. “But … where is everyone? You told me they were waiting for me.”
My angel raised his chin. “Look!” He lifted his hand and pointed down the long row.
I saw a group of people coming toward us through the vineyard.
They wore white robes trimmed in gold with gold sashes embroidered with words I could not read. They were laughing and singing.
My mother and father walked at the front of the procession. My grandparents. Porthos. Judah ben Perez. His sister and mother and others I had known. The others stopped and sang as Mother and Father continued steadily toward me with their arms outstretched.
“My son,” Mother called to me. “Oh, my boy!”
My mother. Young. Beautiful. Skin perfect and smooth, without a wrinkle. Teeth white and straight. Long auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders.
My father cried, “David! My son! Welcome! Welcome home!”
My father. A young man again. Strong. Handsome. Bronzed face aglow with delight. His shoulders were broad. Arms muscled. Black curls fell across his forehead. His dark eyes shone with happiness at the sight of me.
“Papa!” I called. “Mama!”
I ran toward them and they toward me. The ground beneath my feet was firm and solid. I glimpsed my hands as I reached out. Yes. My own familiar hands. But there were no scars. I fell into their arms and embraced them.
Burying my face in my mother’s neck, I remembered the sound of her heartbeat against my back when she carried me in her womb. “It’s been a long journey,” she said, stroking my hair. “But you’re home now.”
“You’ve run the race well,” Papa said.
I raised my face and asked, “Eliza and the baby? When will I see them?”
Papa answered, “My son,
when
is not a word we know here.
There is no time—no when, no before or after—there is only a perfect order to all things. So you say, ‘This is first, and this is next, and this is after …’ You will see Eliza in the perfect order of all things.”
“I am content,” I said, sensing no urgency in anything.
Mama took my arm, and we three walked back to the place where I had first stood with my angel.
I saw now that the entry point was a tall arched gate reaching up to a misty height. The gate was adorned with a mosaic of palm-sized, multicolored stones. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds shimmered, refracting light as rainbows. Each color and its variant shades emanated a distinctive musical note. Music and color melded together in perfect harmony.
I hummed the color blue.
My angel was seated on a knoll where red flowers sang. A man sat beside him, watching our reunion with pleasure. “David ben Lazarus!” He called to me, “Come up!”
M
y mother and father remained at the foot of the hill. I approached the angel and the handsome young man I guessed to be in his midtwenties. The young man seemed familiar to me. I remembered on earth seeing my reflection as I drew water from a well. It was like that. My features, the set of my eyes, the curve of the mouth and shape of the face, only not myself.
The young man and my angel stood when I drew near. The young man put out his arms and enfolded me in an embrace. “My father,” he said to me. “I am your son. Your heart named me Samuel the morning of my birth. And when I returned here, you wept for the baby named Samuel.”
I said, “But my only son was a newborn when he died.”
The chimes rang. The angel spoke: “There is only one age here. It is the age of perfection.”
Samuel smiled. “I am the baby who lies buried in the garden beside my mother, your wife.”
I gazed at him in wonder. We sat together on the knoll and held one another’s hands and spoke of his brief journey into the world of man. “I was not sorry to return home … here. But I told my mother I would be glad when you joined us.”
I studied the vineyards. “Where is she? Where? Your mother? My wife. Eliza.”
“I am second in the order of those who have come to welcome you. It is proscribed: First, your mother and father—you are flesh of their flesh. I am your son, blood of your blood. It is right that I follow my grandparents in welcoming you. My mother will come to you after we have made our journey.”
I nodded, comprehending the order of things. I felt no anxiety about when I would see Eliza. I was certain she would come when it was right. I was aware of the absence of time. The wonder of the meaning of
eternal
.
I told him about Bethany and all that I had done since I was a youth. I remembered the color of sunsets and described details of days and nights perfectly. He hugged his knees and drank in all the stories of my life as if it had been his life.
Samuel’s face was radiant as he recalled his three days on earth. “My father, I only lived in the world such a short time. But I remember well how you held me close in your arms and whispered and called me your ‘little man.’ I recognized your face perfectly when you entered Everlasting. When we saw you, I said to Mother, ‘Well, here he is!’ Oh, my father! I remember your breath on my cheek and your fingertips brushing my forehead as you rocked me and prayed for me to stay on earth with you … prayed for me to live and take up your mantle when you were old. And so … look here! Here I am beside you! Alive as you asked. But it wasn’t meant to be that I stay behind. Mother flew away home to heaven, and I was so small. I could not stay without her.”
My true self was filled with joy at the beauty and wisdom of my son. Love for him engulfed me. I could no longer summon a memory of my grief at his loss.
I spoke to him of the majesty of Jesus now on earth among men. Samuel knew the Lord Jesus well and said all the angels and saints would be glad when he returned to his rightful place.
How much time on earth had passed since I met my grown son and recounted all the days of my life? Time was nothing, after all. I had no way to judge Forever. I guessed that many, many years had flown by on earth. Surely others of my loved ones would be joining us.
The rustling of feathers caused my son and me to raise our faces in unison. My angel stood before us.
“Lazarus “—my name floated to me like a song—”now you know your son. How do you feel?”
“Overwhelmed by love.” I put my arm around Samuel. “I know what it means to be a father.”
My angel nodded once, pleased by my answer. “As your father loves you, you love your son.” The being closed his eyes.
The melody of many colors swirled around our knoll. Samuel gripped my forearm. “Look, Father! Look there! Joseph the Dreamer, Revealer of Secrets, comes!”
Suddenly a man dressed in a multicolored coat stepped out of a rainbow of refracted light. He was tall with dark hair and a braided beard. His teeth were white and straight, his lips curved in welcome. I recognized him at once.
He was Joseph, one of the twelve sons of Jacob the patriarch. His story had been my favorite in Torah school. Joseph had been the firstborn son of Jacob’s beloved wife Rachel. He was the most beloved by his father. Because of this, Joseph was hated by his jealous half brothers. When Joseph was seventeen, they sold him into slavery, covered his multicolored coat with the blood of a slain goat, then told old Jacob that Joseph had been torn to pieces by wild beasts. But the Lord had raised Joseph
from slavery to become the Prince of Egypt. He had saved the brothers who had betrayed him.
