Sons of Encouragement

by Francine Rivers

  The woman turned away before Silas could say anything. He stood, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, as the last few disappeared into the night.

  One man’s view of what had happened was not a complete record of important events! All he had done was immerse himself in his memories, write his own views of what had happened. He had allowed himself to dwell on his feelings.

  Silas had never walked with Jesus during those years when He preached from Galilee to Jerusalem, or traveled with Him to Samaria or Phoenicia. Silas was not an eyewitness to the miracles. He had not sat at Jesus’ feet. When Jesus had told him what he must do, he had refused!

  I came late to faith, Lord. I was slow to hear, slow to see, and oh, so slow to obey!

  Silas took the scroll and went into his room. Of what value is this scroll if it leads any of Your children astray? He added a piece of wood to the fire Macombo had built on the brazier. Let this be my offering to You, Lord. My life. All of it. Everything I’ve ever done or will do. Let the smoke rising be a sweet incense to you. Set my heart aflame again, Lord. Don’t let me waste my life in reverie!

  “What are you doing!” Epanetus strode across the room.

  When he reached to pull the scroll out of the fire, Silas grasped his wrist. “Leave it!”

  “You spent weeks writing the history, and now you burn it? Why?”

  “They will make too much of it. And I don’t want to leave anything behind that might confuse the children.”

  “It was all true, wasn’t it? Every word you wrote!”

  “Yes, as far as I saw it. But we serve a greater truth than my experiences or thoughts or feelings, Epanetus. The other scrolls—the ones I’ve copied for you—hold that truth. Paul and Peter spoke the words of Christ, and those words will remain.” He released Epanetus. The scroll burned quickly now. “What I wrote there served its purpose. It’s time to let it go.”

  Epanetus glared at him. “Are you not Jesus’ disciple, too? Why shouldn’t you write what you know so that it can be a record for those to come?”

  “Because I was not an eyewitness to the most important events of Jesus’ life. I didn’t walk with Him, live with Him, eat with Him, hear every word He spoke from morning to night. I wasn’t there when He walked on water, or raised a widow’s son to life. Peter was.”

  “Paul wasn’t!”

  “No, but Paul was Jesus’ chosen instrument to take His message to the Gentiles and to kings as well as the people of Israel. And the Lord confirmed that calling when He spoke to Ananias, and when He revealed it to me.”

  “Jesus called you, too, Silas. You are also a prophet of God!”

  “He called me to give up that which I held dearer than God, to give it back to the One who gave it in the first place. The Lord spoke to me so that I might encourage Paul and Peter in the work He had given them. Jesus called you, too. He called Urbanus, Patrobas, Diana, Curiatus. He will call thousands of others. But what I wrote was not inspired by the Holy Spirit, my friend. It was nothing more than rambling recollections from a man in need of renewed strength. You and I and all the rest will not write anything that will stand the test of time as will words inspired by the Holy Spirit. God will use men like Paul for that, and Peter, and others.”

  Epanetus’s face was still flushed. “The church needs its history, and you’ve just burned it!”

  Silas gave a soft laugh. “Epanetus, my friend, I’m just a secretary. I write the words of others, and, at times, help them improve what they must say. I helped Paul because his vision was impaired. I helped Peter because he could not write Greek or Latin.” He shook his head. “Only once did I write a letter, and only because I was commanded to do so. And the Holy Spirit gave me the words. Paul confirmed them.”

  “Believers want to hear everything that happened from the time of Jesus’ birth to His ascension.”

  “And God will call someone to write it! But I am not a historian, Epanetus.”

  God knew who it would be. The Jerusalem council had discussed the matter often. Perhaps it would be Luke, the physician. He had spoken to those who knew Jesus, and he had been constantly writing notes. He had spent days with Mary, the mother of Jesus, while in Ephesus, and with John, the one Jesus treated like His younger brother. Luke had lived and traveled with Paul far longer than Silas had, and he was a learned man, dedicated to truth. Or perhaps John Mark would finish what he had set out to do the first time he had returned to Jerusalem.

  Silas nodded confidently. “God will call the right man to record the facts.”

  Epanetus watched the scroll blacken and shrink. “All your work in ashes.”

  Not all. There were the letters of Paul and Peter. “It is better to burn the whole of my life than allow one word, one sentence, to mislead those who are like infants in Christ. Read the letters I’m leaving with you, Epanetus. Christ is in them. He breathed every word into Paul’s ear and Peter’s.”

  “I have no choice now.”

  “No. Thank God.” Silas felt impelled to warn him. “You must be careful what you accept as the Word of the Lord, Epanetus. There are many who would create their own version of what happened. Just as I did with that scroll. You must measure whatever you receive against the letters I’m leaving with you. Stories can become legends, and legends myths. Do not be fooled! Jesus Christ is God the Son. He is the way, the truth, and the life. Do not depart from Him.”

  Epanetus frowned. “You’re leaving.”

  “It’s time.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “North, perhaps.”

  “To Rome? You’ll be dead in a week!”

  “I don’t know where God will send me, Epanetus. He hasn’t told me yet. Only that I must go.” He gave a soft laugh. “When a man spends so much time looking back, it’s difficult to know what lies ahead.”

  It was late, and both were tired. They said good night to each other, heading to their chambers.

  Epanetus stopped in the corridor. “Someone asked me if you ever married. If you had children. In Jerusalem, perhaps.”

  “I never had time.”

  “Were you ever so inclined?”

  “Did I ever love anyone, you mean? No. Were plans ever made for me to have a wife? Yes. My father had a wife in mind for me, a girl half my age and of good family. Her father was almost as rich as mine. My father’s death ended any thought of marriage in my mind. I was too busy holding the inheritance he and my ancestors had accumulated. Besides, she was very young.” He smiled and shrugged. “She married and had children. She and her husband became Christians during Pentecost.”

  They had lost everything when the persecution began, and he had bought a house for them in Antioch. There had been times when he had wondered what his life might have been had he married her.

  “You look wistful.”

  Silas looked up at him. “Perhaps. A little. We all thought Jesus would return in a few weeks or months. A year or two at the most.”

  “You miss not having a family.”

  “Sometimes. But I could not have done what I did if I’d had a wife and children. And I wouldn’t have missed the years I spent traveling with Paul and working with Timothy.”

  “You traveled with Peter. He had a wife.”

  “We come as we’re called, Epanetus. Peter had a family when Jesus called him as a disciple. I admit when I traveled with Peter and his wife, I often yearned for what they had. It was not in God’s plan for me.”

  “There’s still time.”

  Silas thought of Diana and heat flooded his face. He shook his head.

  Epanetus gave him an enigmatic smile. “A man is never too old to marry, Silas.”

  “Because he can doesn’t mean he should.”

  Epanetus nodded thoughtfully. “She would have to be a special woman, I would imagine.”

  “I can think of several who would make you a suitable wife.”

  Epanetus laughed. He slapped Silas on the back. “Good night, Silas.”

  Silas awakened to
Curiatus’s voice in the corridor. “But I have to see him!”

  “He’s still asleep.” Macombo spoke in a hushed voice.

  “The sun is barely up.” Epanetus spoke from farther away. “Why are you here so early?”

  “Silas is leaving.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mother told me. She said she dreamed he was on a ship and he was sailing away.”

  Silas heard the anguish in the boy’s voice and rose from his bed. “I’m here, Curiatus. I haven’t gone anywhere.” Yet. “It was just a dream.” And it had touched some chord inside him and made him tremble.

  The boy came to him. “When are you going?”

  He looked at Epanetus and Macombo, and down into Curiatus’s distressed eyes. “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “In three days,” Epanetus said and looked sternly at Silas. “No sooner than that.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  Epanetus stepped forward. “Is that the way you ask—?”

  Silas raised his hand. “I don’t know where I’m going, Curiatus.”

  “You’ll go where God sends you, and I want to go along! Please, Silas, take me with you! Teach me as you and Paul taught Timothy! Circumcise me if you have to! I want to serve the Lord!”

  Silas felt his throat tighten. The thought of going out alone was what had held him back so long, but should he take this boy with him? “Timothy was older than you when he left his mother and grandmother.”

  “A year makes no difference.”

  “A year made a great deal of difference to John Mark.”

  “I’m old enough to know when God is calling me!”

  Silas smiled ruefully. “And how can one argue with that?” Could he take the word of a passionate boy?

  Curiatus looked crestfallen. “You don’t believe me.”

  David had been anointed as king when he was just a boy. Silas put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I need to pray about it, Curiatus. I can’t say one way or the other until I know what God wants.”

  “He’s told you to go.”

  “Yes, but not where.”

  “He sent disciples out two by two. You went with Paul. You went with Peter. Let me go with you!”

  “And what about your mother, Curiatus. Who will take care of her?”

  “Timothy had a mother. She let him go!”

  There was no use arguing with the boy. “If God has called you to come with me, Curiatus, He will confirm it by telling me.” What would Diana say about giving up her son when she might never see him again?

  Curiatus stepped closer. “I know God will tell you. I know He will.”

  “Can we go back to bed now?” Epanetus spoke drily. “At least until the sun comes up?”

  Silas fasted all day, but had no answer. He fasted a second day and prayed.

  Epanetus found him sitting in the back of the garden. “Curiatus came again. Do you have an answer for him yet?”

  “God’s been silent on the matter.”

  “Maybe that means you can decide either way, though there seems no doubt in Curiatus’s mind what God wants him to do.”

  “John Mark went out too soon.”

  “Timothy was younger and never looked back.”

  “I thought everything was settled.”

  “Ah yes; just pick up your pack of scrolls and walk away.”

  Silas cast him a dark look. Why did the Roman take such perverse pleasure in taunting him?

  Epanetus grinned. “I suppose the decision is even harder when you can’t have one without the other.”

  Silas glared at him, heart pounding. “That’s the answer, then.” He felt a check in his spirit, but ignored it. “If the boy isn’t ready to leave his mother, I dare not take him with me.”

  Epanetus groaned in annoyance. “That’s not what I said. And even if it was, there is a solution! You could—”

  Silas stood abruptly. “I don’t know where God will lead me, or whether I will ever come back this way again.” He stepped past Epanetus and headed for the house. “When I leave, I will go alone.” Why did he feel no relief in saying it?

  “You’re running scared again!” Epanetus called after him.

  Silas kept walking.

  Epanetus shouted this time. “Take Diana with you!”

  Heat poured into Silas’s face. He turned. “Lower your voice.”

  “Ah, that imperious tone. I’ve heard it often from Roman nobles. I wanted you to hear!”

  “I can’t take a woman! Her reputation would be ruined and my testimony meaningless!”

  Epanetus snorted. “I’m not suggesting you make her your concubine. Marry her!”

  Silas thought of Peter bound and helpless, crying out to his wife as Nero’s soldiers tortured her, “Remember the Lord! Remember the Lord!”

  Silas’s throat tightened in anguish. “God forgive you for suggesting it!” His voice broke.

  Epanetus’s face filled with compassion. “Silas, I’ve seen the way you look at her, and the way she looks—”

  “I’d rather kill myself now than see a woman I love tortured and martyred in front of me.”

  “I see,” he said slowly. “But I ask you: all the while you’ve fasted and prayed, were you asking God what He wants you to do next, or pleading with Him to agree with what you’ve already decided?”

  When Silas told Curiatus of his decision, the boy wept. “I’m sorry.” Silas could barely get the words out for the dryness of his throat. “Maybe in a few years . . .”

  “You’ll leave Italy and never return.”

  “It’s best if I go alone.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “You’re not a man, Curiatus.”

  “I’m as much a man as Timothy was when you took him with you.”

  “That was different.”

  “How was it different?”

  Silas begged God for a way to explain, but no words came. Curiatus waited, eyes pleading. Silas spread his hands, unable to say anything more.

  The boy searched his face. “You just don’t want me to go with you. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Silas couldn’t look into his eyes anymore. Curiatus stood up slowly and walked away, shoulders hunched.

  Silas covered his face.

  Epanetus’s voice rumbled low, indistinct words, but the tone was clear. He comforted the boy. Silas expected his host to come into the triclinium and admonish him. Instead, he was left alone.

  Silas read to the gathering that evening—Peter’s letters to the five provinces. Diana and Curiatus didn’t come. Silas was almost thankful. He said his good-byes to the people and tried not to think about the boy and his mother. He was given a love offering to carry him on his way. His brothers and sisters wept as they laid hands on him and prayed God would bless and protect him wherever he went. He wept, too, but for reasons he did not want to think about too deeply.

  “We will pray for you every day, Silas.”

  He knew they would keep their promise.

  Early the next morning, he rose with the certainty of how he would travel, if not where. He dreamed the Lord beckoned him to a ship. He donned the new tunic Epanetus had given him. He wound the sash and tucked the pouch of denarii into it. He pinned the silver ring and knotted the leather straps that held the case containing his reed pens and knife for making corrections and cutting papyrus. Then he tied on the inkhorn. He took the coat Paul had given him and put it on, then shouldered the pack of scrolls.

  Epanetus waited for him in the courtyard. “Do you have all you need for your journey?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’ve traveled with far less. You and the others have been more than generous.”

  “It has been an honor having you here, Silas.”

  He clasped Epanetus’s arm. “An honor to me as well.”

  “Are you taking the road north to Rome or going down to the sea?”

  “The sea.”

  Epanetus smiled strangely. “In that case, I’ll walk with y
ou.”

  They left the house and headed down the winding streets. The agora bustled with people. Urbanus gave a nod as they passed. When they came to the port, Silas looked from young man to young man.

  “Are you looking for someone?” Epanetus said.

  “Curiatus. I had hoped to say good-bye.”

  “They’re over there.”

  Silas turned, and his heart leaped into his throat. Diana and Curiatus walked toward him, each carrying a bundle. He greeted them. “I’m glad to see you. I missed you last night.”

  Diana set her bundle down. “We had to make arrangements.”

  Arrangements?

  Curiatus looked at the docks. “So which ship are we taking?”

  Silas stared. “What?”

  Laughing, Epanetus grasped the boy by the shoulder. “Come with me, my boy. We’ll see which ship has room for extra passengers.”

  Silas looked from them to Diana. “He can’t go with me.”

  “We must.”

  We?

  She looked up at him gravely. “Silas, we prayed all night that the Lord would make it clear to us what we should do. Everyone in the church has been praying for us. You know the heart of my son. So we laid out the situation before the Lord. If you took the road north, you were to go alone. If you came to the port, we were to leave with you.” She smiled, eyes glowing. “And here you are.”

  He struggled not to cry. “I can’t take you with me, Diana. I can’t.”

  “Because you fear harm would come to me. I know. Epanetus told me.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “My body may be broken, my life taken, but I will never be harmed, Silas. Nor will Curiatus. Besides, don’t the Scriptures say three together are stronger than one alone? The Lord will not give us more than we can bear, and we have heaven to receive us. And He will be with us wherever we go.”

  “Think how it will look to others, Diana, a man traveling with a woman. You know what people will think. How can I teach holy living if we appear to be . . .” He glanced away. “You know what I mean.”

  She nodded. “Living in sin?”

  “Yes. So, it’s settled.”

  Her eyes grew soft. “Yes. Of course it is. We must marry.”

  He blushed. “You should stay here and marry a younger man.”