Eli

by Bill Myers

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  “This earthly kingdom has one way of doing things, but it’s all backwards, it’s all upside down.”

  Conrad focused his attention upon the speaker. He was a young man, just under six foot, late twenties, maybe early thirties, Mediterranean look, possibly Jewish, and not a bad build. In fact, his features were much like those of the youth who had been baptized back at the river, whenever that had been. He stood on the rear bumper of a beat-up, gray and white RV, speaking pleasantly but loud enough for everyone to hear. The audience of a hundred or so were dressed casually—cutoffs, shorts, tank tops, mostly families, moms, dads, kids. Several of the men and children carried gloves, making it clear that an informal softball game was soon to begin.

  “In this kingdom, if you want, you take. If you want to be great, you conquer people. But in the Kingdom of Heaven, it’s just the opposite. If you want, you give; if you want to rule, you serve.”

  “So how do we enter this other Kingdom?” a heavyset, middle-aged man shouted, then added with humor, “I mean without dying?”

  The group chuckled. So did the young man. It was interesting that he wasn’t haranguing the crowd or preaching at them, as the man back at the river had. Instead, he appeared to be enjoying the easy, give-and-take banter. “That’s a good question, and you may not like my answer.” He grew more earnest, carefully looking over the audience. “You do have to die.”

  The crowd began to react, but he continued. “Not physically, no, I’m not saying that. But in order to enter the Kingdom of God you have to die spiritually. You have to die to yourself and come alive in me.”

  The stirring increased, and he held out his hands good-naturedly.

  “I know, I know, to most of you that sounds incredibly egotistical and arrogant. And I’m sorry, I can’t do much about that. But what I can do is tell you the truth, and this is truth: hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 39

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  I am the way to that Kingdom. I am the door.” More folks shifted and exchanged glances. But he continued. “There’s no other entrance, there’s absolutely no other way to reach God and His Kingdom, but through me.”

  The restlessness grew. A few began to murmur.

  “I know,” the young man nodded in agreement. “I told you you wouldn’t like the answer. But if you stay open, if you drop your pride and humble your hearts, I guarantee you my words will take root inside you and bear fruit.” He paused a moment, looking at the ballfield, then lifted his eyes and seemed to be gazing beyond, at the distant tractor kicking up dust. When he turned back to the group, he had a mischievous smile. “I think I feel another story coming on.”

  “Oh, no,” the middle-aged man teased, “another one.”

  A few chuckled. An old-timer called out, “Tell us your story, son, tell your story.”

  The young man grinned and prepared to start. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the crowd, and Conrad could tell that, despite his off-the-wall claims, they enjoyed him.

  Conrad glanced at Ned, who was looking back at him with his free eye. Unsure what to do or even where he was, Conrad nodded to him, indicating that he should continue tap-ing. Ned repositioned himself, relayed the nod to Horton, and zoomed in.

  The young man began. “A farmer went out to plant seed.

  When he was near the road, some of that seed blew onto the pavement. What do you suppose happened to it?”

  “It got squished by a semi!” a boy volunteered.

  The group chuckled quietly.

  “All right,” the young man smiled, “that’s one possibility.

  Any others?”

  “Maybe some animals ate it,” the child’s father offered.

  “Or the birds got it,” another added.

  The young man nodded. “Good. Now other seed fell, but it landed off to the side where the soil was thin and rocky.

  What would happen to it?”

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  The group gave no response.

  “Come on,” the young man encouraged, “one or two of you are farmers—what happens when seed lands in thin soil?”

  “It still germinates,” a heavy woman ventured. “It still grows.”

  The young man nodded. “At first, yes. But what happens when the days get hot, when August rolls around and the sun begins beating down on it?”

  The old-timer spoke up. “The plant shrivels and dies.”

  “It has no roots,” the woman agreed.

  “Exactly.” The young man stooped down closer to the audience, growing more intimate. He seemed to enjoy prodding and urging them to think. “Other seed fell along the roadside where the weeds and thistles grew. What do you suppose—”

  “You can kiss them goodbye,” a good-looking father in his thirties called from the back.

  “Why?” The young man rose to his feet to better see him.

  “The weeds are going to steal the nutrients. They’re going to choke out the seeds before they ever get started.”

  The young man slowly nodded as he surveyed the crowd.

  “Yes . . .” And then, for the first time, his eyes connected with Conrad’s. They seemed to sparkle, yet were filled with compassion. Though the two of them were nearly fifty feet apart, the experience left Conrad a little disarmed. It was as if he was an old friend who knew exactly what Conrad was thinking.

  “What about the good seed?” someone shouted.

  The young man turned from him to face the question, and Conrad felt a slight wave of relief. “That, my friend,” the young man grinned, “is the good news. Unlike the seed that lands on hearts of hard pavement where the enemy quickly snatches it away, or on the thin soil where it sprouts until the hot sun of hard times dries it up, or in the weeds of riches and worries that choke it with concern . . . the seed that lands in soft, fertile hearts will yield an incredible harvest, a crop a hundred times greater than what was originally planted.”

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  He said no more but watched in silence as the audience slowly digested the story, several beginning to nod in understanding. Conrad looked on, marveling at the man’s ability to weave a story so simple, yet so full of meaning that it held everyone’s attention. And his style—Conrad could think of no other description except casual dignity. He obviously had the crowd’s respect, but at the same time he was totally accessible.

  “Now I don’t know about you folks”—the young man grinned—“but I came to watch a ball game.” The group voiced their approval, and he hopped down from the vehicle’s dented bumper. “Jake?” he shouted.

  A burly moose of a man who had already started for the ballfield turned. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for the use of the RV.”

  “No prob,” he replied, then turned and continued toward the field.

  Those who weren’t playing started toward their cars or walked to the shaded picnic tables or the bleachers. Unsure what to do next, Conrad glanced back to his cameraman. “Uh, Ned . . .”

  “I know, I know,” Ned sighed. “Get cutaways of him interacting with the crowd.”

  It sounded like a good idea and Conrad nodded. “Go to it.”

  The man shrugged, nodded to Horton, and the two moved into the group.

  “Connie? Connie, is that you?”

  Conrad turned to see Suzanne approaching through the crowd. As always, she was all grace and smiles. Granted, there were a few more lines around the mouth than he had remembered and her eyes looked a touch sadder, but it was still the same smile that had captured his heart so many years earlier. The same smile that he had turned to tears more times than he cared to remember.

  “Suzanne . . .”

  They embraced. She felt warm and good. Most important, she felt real. He held her longer than he should, but he needed to. She’d always been an anchor for him, even after the hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 42

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whatever he was going through, he needed to feel her support, he needed to feel the familiarity of her presence.

  When they finally separated, the words tumbled out before he could stop them. It was one thing to exercise restraint around Ned and Horton, but this was Suzanne.

  Despite the years, there was still a connection. There would always be some part of them that others could not share.

  “Where are we?” he blurted. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  She tilted her head at him quizzically. “What?”

  “All of this . . . it all seems so . . . real!”

  She continued looking at him, still not understanding.

  He swallowed and regrouped, trying to explain. “What about the hospital? What about my accident?”

  Her expression clouded. “You were in an accident?”

  “Well, yeah . . . I mean . . .”

  “Were you hurt?”

  “I, uh . . .” His hand shot self-consciously to his face, feeling for wounds, for stitches, for some evidence of the exploding windshield, the rock, the crushing metal. But of course there was nothing. At least not in this whatever or wherever he was.

  Suzanne continued searching him. “Connie . . . are you all right?”

  He took a deep breath. How could he explain it, what he suspected? How could he explain to someone that they may be only his hallucination? Or that he really wasn’t a part of their world? How could he explain that he was just dropping in from one of a million different realities that were almost like theirs but not quite?

  “If there are eyewitnesses to such universes they would be locked up in insane asylums . . .”

  He opened his mouth, but there were no words. He looked at her, seeing her concern. How could he tell her? What could he tell her? How could he explain something he didn’t understand? He couldn’t. No, right now, he needed the reality of hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 43

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  who she was. Hallucination or not. Parallel world or not. He needed the simple assurance of her presence.

  “Connie?”

  It took more effort than he anticipated, but somehow he managed to force a smile, then give a shrugging answer. “It’s a long story.”

  She didn’t buy it, not entirely. She continued searching his face. “But you’re okay now?”

  He nodded and turned up the smile. “Yeah, better than ever.” And it wasn’t a lie. Because whatever reality he was experiencing, for however long he would experience it, whether it was real or not, had to be better than the one he’d left behind.

  Suzanne’s expression relaxed, but only slightly. “You sure?”

  He nodded.

  She seemed a bit more convinced as she pushed the graying hair behind her ears. The woman was in her late forties now, but underneath, she was still that same sensitive and compassionate eighteen-year-old he’d run off with so many lifetimes before.

  He did his best to change the subject, to try for small talk.

  “You look . . . you look good,” he said.

  “You too.”

  He shrugged. “A little grayer and thinner on top.”

  “It gives you that wise, distinguished look.”

  “Yeah, well, we both know better than that, don’t we?”

  Her smile broadened.

  Refusing to let the uneasiness between them return and intrigued at how real everything appeared, he continued to play along. “So, how’s Julia? And Cody—he’s almost four now, right?”

  “Five,” she corrected. “And the perfect angel . . . when he’s not being the devil. You knew she and Ken separated, didn’t you?”

  Conrad frowned. “No, I didn’t know that.”

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  “Almost six months now.”

  A familiar sorrow crept in. Even in this world, Julia was having her problems. And with his sorrow came the guilt. Not because he hadn’t known of the separation. How could he?

  He’d not spoken to his daughter in years, had never even seen his grandson. No, it was from something much deeper. “You think they’ll work it out?” he asked.

  “With our bullheaded daughter?” Suzanne almost laughed. “I’ve got my doubts. If there’s any working out, I’m afraid it will all have to be at Ken’s end. But I’m praying.”

  Conrad nodded. “Good . . . good.” Looking for another change in subject he motioned toward the young man. “So you found another guru, I see.”

  Suzanne took the barb graciously and turned to the group of people encircling the man. “Not another one, Connie. This one’s the real thing.” There was no missing the quiet admira-tion in her voice. “What Eli has been doing these past several months, his teachings, the miracles . . . I think we’ve finally found him, Connie. I think we’ve finally found the Messiah we’ve been waiting so long for.”

  Her words surprised him. After all, she’d been a devout Christian since her twenties. “What about Jesus?” he asked.

  “Don’t tell me you’re throwing all that away?”

  Her response was an even greater surprise. “Who?” she asked.

  “You know,” he repeated, “Jesus?”

  She frowned as if not recognizing the name. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure who you—”

  She was interrupted by a loud commotion. They turned to see excitement rippling through the crowd surrounding the young man.

  “What’s going on?” Conrad asked.

  Suzanne’s face brightened. “Probably another healing.”

  Before he could respond, she took his hand. “Come and see.”

  As she led him through the group, Conrad instinctively searched for Ned and Horton. Just as he suspected, his crew was right where the action was, capturing it all on tape.

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  The young man was speaking to an older, scruffy-looking fellow in a plaid shirt and slightly dirty jeans. His face was leathery and his neck was crosshatched from years of work in the sun. His right arm was covered in shiny, uneven scar tissue. Below it, his right hand hung shriveled and useless.

  “That’s Brian Tuffts,” Suzanne half-whispered. “A farmer from here in Oregon. Lost the use of his arm in some sort of fire.”

  The crowd had grown very quiet as the young man—what had Suzanne called him? Eli—wrapped both of his hands around the old-timer’s elbow. He was smiling at Tuffts, encouraging him not to be afraid. But it did little good. The man’s eyes were as big as saucers.

  “It’s okay,” Eli said. “The heat you’re feeling is only natural.”

  Tuffts tried to nod. But what was not natural was seeing the healed muscle and new pink skin appearing directly under Eli’s hand. The old man began to tremble. Sweat appeared on his forehead. But Eli continued speaking words of encouragement while slowly moving his hand along the arm. As he did, more and more new skin appeared . . . everything, down to the tiniest detail, down to the bulging blue veins and new hair follicles.

  The crowd watched in silent awe.

  Conrad glanced over to Ned. Good, he was getting it all. If this was some sort of parlor trick they’d be able to examine it more closely in the editing.

  Eli was down to the hand now, holding it in both of his own. After several seconds he slowly released it. The crowd gasped. Like his arm, Tuffts’s hand was perfect . . . though as pink as a newborn’s. Eli finally looked up to the man with a grin.

  Tuffts could only stare, speechless, his eyes brimming with tears. He looked from his hand to Eli, then back to his hand, then to Eli again.

  “Sorry about the color.” Eli shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to work on the tan yourself.”

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  The group chuckled, both at the comment and as a way of releasing tension. Then, suddenly, the man came to life. He threw his arms around Eli and hoarsely cried, “Thank you!

  “Thank you, thank you!”

  Eli smiled, doing his best to endure th
e fierce bear hug, and trying to return it.

  Suzanne turned to Conrad and asked quietly, “So what do you think?” Her voice was thick with compassion, her own eyes glistening with emotion.

  “Amazing.” Conrad cleared his throat. “I mean if that’s real, it’s incredible.”

  Suzanne smiled. “Oh, it’s real,” she said. “He does this sort of thing three, four times a day. Sometimes it’s the blind, sometimes the deaf. Yesterday he healed a quadriplegic.”

  Conrad looked on, his reporter’s instincts telling him to reserve judgment.

  “And it’s not just physical healings,” Suzanne said. “See that guy over there?” She motioned to a huge man—a biker type complete with shaved head, black leather vest, and chains. A large gold swastika dangled from his neck. Tattoos covered his forearms and shoulders, so dense that it was impossible to see any detail, except a paisley print of blues, greens, and an occasional red. “Will Patton,” she said. “Member of the Aryan Brotherhood. He followed us down from Tacoma. Sweetest man you’ll ever meet.”

  “I bet.”

  “He is.”

  “As long as you’re not black or gay or Jewish.”

  “Oh, really?” She smiled that smile of hers and motioned to the crowd. “They don’t exactly look like your blond, blue-eyed Germans to me.”

  Conrad looked out across the ball field. He had to agree.

  There seemed to be a fair number of blacks, Hispanics, and other minorities. For the most part everyone appeared to be middle to lower middle class. He turned back to Suzanne.

  “And Eli?” he asked. “I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s Jewish, right?”

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  Suzanne’s smile brightened. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  “Hey.” A pleasant voice spoke from behind. Conrad turned to see Eli approaching—his coal-black eyes sparkling with pleasure, while at the same time gently probing. “My name’s Eli,” he said. “You’re a friend of Suzanne’s?”