The Damascus Way

by Janette Oke

  Jacob had waved the animals into the largest cavern. They went with little hesitation, anxious to be out of the storm.

  Jacob then guided the women to the second cave. He led them as far into the back of the small enclosure as possible and settled them upon the rock floor. Once all three were safe, he had gone back to care for the animals and returned with bundles of provisions. It was too dark in the cave to prepare a meal. Not because of the time of day but simply because the storm hid all light from the afternoon sun. Jacob rummaged through the sacks and found water so each of them could have a drink. He even produced a few figs and some flatbread. Now the women huddled together, willing themselves to wait out the storm’s fury. He had left them to their privacy, with the promise that he would be in the cave next over, where the animals sheltered, and would be within calling distance if they needed him.

  From where she sat Julia could not see the storm. Nor did she wish to. The sound of the wind and the lashing sand was enough to make her quake with fear.

  This time of waiting was also a time of quiet introspection. Julia found herself slipping easily into recollections. In the days before their hasty departure, her mother had continually refused all invitations to join Julia and Zoe and the followers. Julia had grieved silently over her mother’s lack of faith. What if the Lord returns and she is not ready? She had prayed more fervently.

  But even in her concern and grief, Julia’s own faith grew. She prayed as she went about her activities, she sought counsel from Zoe, and she drank in every teaching, every word shared at the gatherings. Oh, if only I had known Jesus when he was here. Had heard him speak. Seen him heal.

  And then one day recently, a gentle quiet had filled her soul. Julia heard again his words as they were retold by one or another of the group. She had seen him heal by the laying on of hands or the supplication of earnest prayers. He was still with them. His very presence filled the room each time they met together. Julia felt that presence within as well. When she knelt to pray. When she sought direction. And surely one day very soon she would lift her face to the clouds of the sky and see his glorious return. That thought held her confident and strong. And increased her desire to follow him.

  If only her mother . . .

  And her father?

  Julia had grown up adoring her father. There was no one in her world that she had loved more. But the shocking truth she had learned from Zoe had brought such an enormous rift to that relationship. First, that her mother was not his legal wife. He had another family. Then, that Helena would not make a decision of which she feared Jamal would disapprove. And now, the latest news, that Jamal’s wife in Damascus had become a believer.

  That final news should have filled her heart with joy – and it did, in undeniable yet conflicting ways. It was a struggle she had never faced before, and now in their shelter, held captive by the raging storm, it brought her to tears. She knew such a battle of emotions contradicted her faith. One should not hold to love and anger warring within. Something was wrong. Something that with God’s help she needed to make right. But how?

  It seemed that prayer was the only answer. She would use the hours of their confinement to pray. To pray, and to shelter her mother.

  Julia drew the shawl from around her shoulders and settled it over her mother’s shivering body, keeping one corner of it to protect her own face from the sand and grit. She noted as she did so that Zoe’s coarse woolen wrap was already in place over Helena. Between the two of them, surely she would be safe.

  Julia could hear the roar beyond the mouth of the cave. She could feel the sand in the air. In her teeth. It stung her eyes and chafed at her cheeks. What must it be like out where it struck in its full fury?

  She felt Helena shift her position. “Mother?”

  Helena’s head came up. She stretched out a hand to find Julia’s in the darkness.

  “Are you well?” Julia’s voice was hushed. Her mother could not endure loud noise when one of her headaches was upon her. And Julia did not wish to awaken Zoe if she was able to sleep through the storm.

  In reply Helena squeezed her hand. “We are safe. A miracle. I have even managed to sleep some. Another miracle.”

  “God be praised,” Julia responded. There had been much to praise God for since she had come to faith, and the words were never more heartfelt than now.

  She felt more than saw her mother’s head lift. The phrase must have seemed strange. New to her. In the near darkness she studied Julia for a long moment and then said quietly, “You have changed, Julia.”

  The words held neither condemnation nor commendation. Only acknowledgment.

  Julia nodded. She knew she had changed. But she also realized there was more to be done. “That is . . . that is what I would like to talk to you about.”

  Helena stirred on the quilted pad Jacob had retrieved from the donkeys. She half-turned from Julia. “You wish to convince me again. To come to your meetings. To try to change me.”

  Julia was quick to reply. “No, Mother. I wish to ask your forgiveness.”

  Julia could feel Helena’s head turn toward her again and wished she could see her eyes. “Whatever have you done?”

  “Just what you have said. Tried to change you. Argued with you. I am sorry, Mother. I had no right to coax and cajole. It is only God who can change a person’s heart. It is his Spirit that will draw you to him. And it happens only when you desire it, Mother. God never forces himself on anyone. I was wrong to push – ”

  “Oh, my child,” said Helena, reaching out to draw Julia into her arms. “I have been so overwrought. For so long. If I thought for one moment that this . . .”

  Julia felt tears on her shawl, but she was unsure if they were from her own eyes or her mother’s. It was so hard for her to hold her tongue in check. There was so much she wished to say – but she had said it all before. Many times.

  “I need . . . I need your God. I have watched you and . . . and you have such joy. Such peace. Both you and Zoe. How I long for it. But, Julia, I cannot go to your meeting to find it. Your father would be very angry. He might disown both of us.”

  There it was again. Her father. The man whom at one time she had idolized. And now she saw as an opponent to all things eternal. Again she felt the anger rise within.

  Then a new feeling flooded her very soul and gentle words were whispered to her heart. Love. Forgive. As you forgive, you will be forgiven.

  Julia nestled close to her mother. That was her answer. The one she had been seeking through prayer. Of course. She must forgive. If she was ever to have peace in its fullness, she must forgive.

  She slowly pushed back in hopes she might see her mother’s face in the gloom. She lifted one hand to wipe the tears from Helena’s cheek, but her hand encountered gritty sand.

  “Mother,” she began slowly. “You are correct. God has indeed changed me. I know it. I feel it. But there is one thing I have not let him do for me. Not until now. But he has just whispered to my heart the words that I needed to hear. Words of peace. Of forgiveness. He has forgiven me. Now I must forgive.”

  Helena seemed puzzled. “Who . . . ?”

  “Father.”

  “Your father? What has he – ”

  “Not a thing. Nothing but care for me.”

  “Then . . . ? I do not understand.”

  “What he has done to you, Mother. I have felt angry that he has treated you with such injustice. Leaving you with no legal status. No security as a wife would enjoy. I have been so angry. And you don’t even dare accept a faith because of his . . . his ownership. I . . . ”

  But Julia dared say no more lest she stir up the bitterness once again. She swallowed, said a brief prayer, and managed a smile, even though she knew it could not be seen.

  “I cannot keep holding such feelings against my own father. Against anyone. Jesus teaches us that we are to love. To forgive.”

  Helena sat quite still. She finally reached for one of Julia’s hands and clasped it in her own. “My de
ar,” she said, her voice so soft that Julia needed to strain to be sure she heard aright. “You have just convinced me the faith you have found is what I need. What I have longed for. There is nothing further you could have said that would have convinced me. But this? This need to forgive. That is real, Julia. Genuine. I know it cannot come from within – except by the help of your God. Would you tell me how I might receive this ability to forgive from the God you have claimed as your own?”

  Julia’s arms tightened around her mother while her tears flowed unchecked. Never had she heard such beautiful words in all her young life. Outside the storm might still rage on, but inside, in the darkness and safety of the wind-lashed cave, peace flooded two hearts that reached out to their Lord.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Megiddo Plains

  Alban and the village elder both sensed the storm’s approach at almost the exact moment. Yelban immediately shouted orders for the market’s evacuation. Whether or not the tempest actually struck, there would be no trade until it passed.

  Abigail had little in the way of wares yet. She had made arrangements with a few villagers for their weavings, but her shelves were less than a third full. She and Martha and Alban made swift work of stowing the articles and dismantling the shop, then went to help others who were shorthanded.

  For safety’s sake, Yelban ordered all the stalls dismantled and the corralled animals herded up the steep road to Nain and into the village pens. It was a hard trek, one made rougher by the required haste. Yet no one argued. Especially not with Alban constantly urging them to ever greater speed. All the villagers had survived such storms before. They could taste the friction on their tongues, feel the hair standing away from their bodies, as if the earth were quarreling with the sky.

  The storm lasted two and a half days. Below them in the valley, the sand boiled and rushed, like a nightmare river. The Valley of Megiddo was filled from one end to the other, north to south, east to west. The sand was the color of old rust, and the noise was fierce. A howling dominated the world and did not stop, not to draw breath nor to let them sleep. Sand rattled against the doors, fistfuls of grit tossed upward like froth from a crashing wave. The dust settled everywhere. Abigail bathed Dorcas, and before the child was dressed again she would be covered with sand as fine as milled flour. It was in their food and in their water. It clogged their nostrils and filled their ears. They took to wearing their shawls wrapped around their faces even when indoors.

  During the second afternoon, Yelban brought word that a young woman with a newborn had taken ill. He carefully led Abigail and Martha back through the howling wind and sand to the home, shawls wrapped tightly around their faces, and they spent all that day caring for the baby and praying over the mother. There was no sudden healing, but their presence seemed to ease the young woman’s suffering and calmed her anxious husband. When they returned to Alban and Dorcas during the sullen dusk, the mother and child were both resting and seemed to be recovering.

  Before dawn on the third morning, Abigail was awakened and could not find the reason. Then she realized the noise had stopped. She wanted to rise and see if indeed the storm was passed. But her limbs would not obey her. Dorcas stumbled over to her pallet, whimpering half-formed words, and snuggled down beside her. Abigail wrapped one arm around her daughter and both returned to slumber.

  Abigail awoke to the heat of the sun’s full light. She could not recall the last time she had slept so long. Even so, she heard nothing from the others. Abigail dressed and went onto the front porch. The entire village was silent. Not even the dogs were about. No rooster crowed. The lack of noise seemed deafening – eerie.

  Slowly the village came to life, and they spent the day clearing away the sand. Every surface was swept, scrubbed, and left to dry, then scrubbed again. Helzebah and Alban worked upstairs, Martha and Abigail downstairs. They rarely spoke, for the dust had left every throat raw. They drank tea sweetened with honey and pomegranate, mug after mug. They walked back and forth to the nearest well so often they created a furrow in the sandy lane.

  Dorcas played on the front porch with the little bird the drover had given to her. During the storm, Alban had fashioned a tether from a length of supple leather cord. He had shown Dorcas how to slip a noose about one of the bird’s legs, then tie the other end around one of her fingers. Abigail had feared the bird would peck her child’s hand during the process, but the bird had seemed to understand, or at least accept the situation. By the storm’s end, it would hop onto Dorcas’s finger and wait patiently for the child to fit the tether in place, then spend hours perched upon her shoulder, occasionally flitting about and making Dorcas laugh. All that long day, the bird filled the house with song.

  The next morning they descended once more to the valley floor. Abigail had left Dorcas with the young mother, who appeared much improved that morning. It seemed to Abigail as though nearly the entire village walked down together. This was hardly a surprise, as their livelihood was dependent upon the market that lined the road junctures. The village owned five wagons, and all were used that day, piled high with canvas and wood and tools. The village had survived many such storms. They knew what to expect – before, during, and afterward

  The Plains of Megiddo were a silent void. Nothing stirred – no wind, no birds, no animals. Even the buildings that marked where the roads joined were blanketed by sand, rendering them all the same shade of sunlit yellow.

  The stone walls that had faced the storm’s wrath were all heaped with sand as high as the roofs. Doors had to be forced open. The finest dust had sifted through the sealed portals and now coated every surface. The work done in the village above had to be repeated here, but there was no rush. Yelban predicted it would be at least a week before the next caravans arrived, perhaps longer.

  They finished work on Abigail’s stall long before many others had even made a good start. Alban and Martha went to help rebuild the corral and ready the stables. Abigail and Helzebah helped Yelban and his family with the tavern and the stoves. That night, the majority of the village camped there on the valley floor. The husband of the young mother returned to the village with a few others, promising to keep Dorcas with them overnight and report back the next day.

  They ate a communal meal, filling Yelban’s tavern and spilling out into the empty roads. They sang, they prayed, and then they sat and listened while first Alban and then Martha spoke of Jesus and his teachings.

  Abigail’s eyelids were growing heavy as Yelban stood and walked toward them. He cleared his throat, turned to Abigail, and said in a somewhat formal tone, “You have helped us at every turn. You healed my wife.”

  “It was God’s doing,” Abigail said quickly. “Not mine.”

  She might as well not have spoken, for Yelban continued in the same vein, speaking loud enough to be heard by the entire group. “You teach, and ask for nothing. You heal. You give of what you have. You are a friend to all.”

  Abigail stirred, uncomfortable, but Martha touched her arm. When she glanced over, Martha lifted one finger. Wait.

  “The elders have spoken. We have decided. Your name will be passed among the other villages and their elders. You will be spoken of as one to be trusted. All who weave will be told of you and your business here. The debts left by those who came before you are no more. You need only pay once you have sold the wares. You will be taught what is the proper price to pay the weavers. Any who seek to do you wrong will have offended every one of us.”

  Abigail felt her eyes fill with tears. Her throat felt tighter than at the height of the storm.

  Alban clearly saw the struggle she was having. He rose and said, “On behalf of my sister in Christ, I thank you all. Soon I must return to my own family, who await me in Capernaum. I will depart with an easy heart, knowing that I leave Abigail surrounded by true friends, safe here in her new home.”

  They sang another song, prayed a final time, and then dispersed. Several of the villagers came up and offered Abig
ail a formal welcome, as though greeting her for the first time. Yelban’s wife gave them blankets and bedding. Abigail walked out into the night, accompanied by Martha and Helzebah and Alban, surrounded by the soft hush of a desert night and the voices of people who welcomed her. She stared up at the wash of stars, and tried out the word that rang through her mind and heart.

  Home.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Megiddo Plains

  Just before their third dawn in the caves, the storm began to ease. Jacob lifted his head from its rocky pillow to listen. In truth, he had not been asleep. His rest throughout the storm had come in starts and stops. He would drift away from the wind’s howl for a few moments, then the discomfort of a dry throat or a sound from the animals or something else would draw him back to consciousness. His entire body ached. He was famished. Thirst was a constant enemy. But he was alive. And so were the women. And the beasts.

  The women were in the cave to his right. Jacob shared his shelter with the animals. Neither cave had been deep enough to fully escape the storm. Fashioned by eons of wind, they were bowl-like depressions without the depth or the fissures that water could create. Jacob had searched the cliff face in both directions and found no better haven. They were at least sheltered from the worst of the wind. But the dust swirled about them in constant clouds. The animals complained constantly, until thirst rendered them unable to protest any longer.

  They all were thirsty, all the time. There were five skins between them. Jacob rationed the water strictly, giving them one meager cupful twice each day. Even so, they had water for just one more day. He supposed the women wondered why he continued to share their scarce water with the beasts. The reason was simple. Without the beasts they would die out there in the desert. Jacob’s greatest worry, never spoken aloud, was that the storm might last into a fourth day.