The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

“It’s not just that. It’s even in the way he approaches his work, like there’s something holy or worshipful about it. Hard to explain.”

  “I get it, Samantha. Was it love at first sight then?”

  Samantha laughed. “I used to think that was a joke. But I don’t know anymore. I knew he was special from day one.”

  “And where are things now?”

  “He says we have no future because of our differences. I guess that’s why I’m here. Cameron tells me you’re a completed Jew. I’d love to hear about that.”

  “Sure,” Sarah answered. “Where to start?”

  “Start at the beginning. I want to hear everything.”

  Sarah put down her cup and leaned back. “Okay. I grew up in Philly. Nice Jewish family. My father was a cantor even. Taught bar-mitzvah classes. My mom was chapter president of the JWI—you know, Jewish Women International. Did lots of philanthropy, advocacy, etcetera. After Hebrew school, at twelve years of age, at our temple girls could become bat mitzvah—‘daughter of the commandments.’ Did you have that?”

  “No. Just the boys. I guess our synagogue wasn’t as progressive as yours.”

  “It was a huge deal in our family. I stood on the raised platform and read from the old scroll, with its mystical, spidery writing, and felt the warmth of God around me.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Samantha asked, nibbling at the pound cake.

  “Like God’s presence was there beside me. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

  “Through high school and college, I had one goal—to be a successful businesswoman in my own right, and accumulate all the ‘stuff’ I thought I needed to live the good life. I worked my tuches off, thinking that would bring me happiness. By twenty-five, I’d reached a point where I had hit the wall, felt like I was going nowhere. Oh, I had a great career, friends, all the ‘stuff’ I’d dreamed about, and I’d done it all myself. My way. But I was still so unhappy. Not just a little, but deeply depressed. I tried to cover it all up with partying, vacations, men, clothes—whatever. Nothing worked.”

  “I’m with you so far,” Samantha said. “Sounds rather familiar.”

  “You know, Samantha—we Jews always talk about peace. We say ‘Shalom, shalom,’ but I had none. Zero. Then I thought maybe if I became more devout, God would be pleased with me, so I ate only kosher foods, stopped going out on Friday nights, and tried to keep all the commandments. Nothing. I wanted that warm feeling again, like the taste of it I’d had when I was twelve. Instead of feeling closer to God, I felt farther and farther away. I thought, If this is all there is, I don’t want to go on living.”

  “So what did you do?” Samantha asked.

  “I thought about ending it all, many times. But, thank God, I didn’t. I know He protected me. About that time, a new agent, Jordan, joined our real-estate firm, and our manager warned us that she was ‘very religious,’ maybe thinking that we’d offend her somehow. I was wary at first. But she turned out to be the most kind, loving, honest person I’d ever met. She’d offer her help even when it wasn’t convenient or when it meant others advancing instead of herself—who does that? A real servant’s heart. We became good friends. Full of unconditional love, she was. Even for me, a Jew. And we’d have these long discussions about God.

  “I knew a bit about Mesach from my Jewish upbringing. When I started reading about the Messiah in my own Jewish Bible, I became more curious. The picture was sketchy, but I came across verses about Mesach in the Old Testament that sounded an awful lot like you-know-who. I tried to explain away the ancient prophecies, like Micah 5:2, which describes an Eternal One who would be born in Bethlehem. Or Daniel 9, that pinpoints the time of the Messiah’s first coming. And Isaiah 53, which spoke of His life and selfless sacrifice for sin. I found I couldn’t explain them away. There are three hundred prophecies about the coming Messiah, forty that are very specific.”

  “Three hundred? I had no idea.”

  “And Jesus fulfilled every one, Samantha. My rabbi would say that this is just coincidence, or Christian manipulation, out of context, after the fact. But with the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, we now know with certainty that these Jewish prophecies predated Jesus Christ. So I began to connect the dots.”

  Samantha leaned closer in, listening intently.

  “On my birthday, Jordan bought me a Bible. I started reading the ‘other side’ of the book, the ‘closed side’—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. It struck me that they are very Jewish books, written in a way to convince other Jews, and Gentiles as well, that Jesus is the long-awaited Messiah. The more I read it, the more I learned about Jesus, and the more I wanted to know Him. It was like He was irresistible to me. I asked Jordan if I could go to her church with her, and that Sunday the passage of the day was Philippians 3:8 and 9. Here, let me read it to you.”

  Sarah reached into her purse and pulled out a thin, compact Bible, then began to read. “‘What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ, and be found in Him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith.’”

  Sarah put down the Bible. “Keep in mind that those words were written by Paul, once a wealthy, high-ranking Jew of the first order, who killed Christians, until God transformed him. I heard those words, Samantha, and for me, the earth moved—literally. I knew in that moment that Yeshua was my Redeemer, the Messiah, the true Son of God. I began to weep. I can’t explain to you how I felt. It was like … like being emptied and filled up at the same time. I was set free. It was so beautiful.”

  Samantha could see a loving earnestness in Sarah’s eyes.

  “That’s what the truth does, Samantha. For the first time in my life, I knew what Shalom really means. The warmth of God was so real. And this time, it wasn’t just around me, it was inside. Deep inside. And it has never left me.”

  Sarah reached over and laid her hand on Samantha’s. “That’s what it means to be a completed Jew. It’s not turning from who we are as Jews, but coming into a fullness of the promise and all God has for us in Jesus. I feel incredibly blessed that God has chosen me to know Him—to really understand what Jesus has done for me. He makes me whole, Samantha. He gives me eternal life. That changes everything. That’s what Oliver has. And Jesus wants to do the same for you.”

  Samantha was still awake. She’d stayed in bed, hearing the clock in the hall chime the quarter hours: 2:30, 2:45, 3:00. Pieces of her conversation earlier with Sarah swirled in her thoughts.

  Shalom. Fulfilled prophecies. The truth. Set free. So beautiful. Whole. Eternal life. Changes everything.

  She could almost still feel the caring touch of Sarah’s hand.

  What would it feel like, what would it change, to really believe that this life isn’t all there is?

  Samantha heard the clock chime again: 3:15. She drew the duvet closer around her.

  She closed her eyes.

  God, I don’t know what to say. I want to feel Your warmth inside me. Barth said if I listened closely with an open heart, I would hear You. Jesus, if You are the Messiah, please let me know, like You did Sarah. I want what she, and Oliver, and Cameron have. I want Shalom.

  At 4:30 a.m. Oliver awoke to an intermittent drip of water falling on his chest. He looked up and saw a puddle gathered in a fold on the top of the tent, on the outside. Through squinting eyes, he watched a drop of water flow down a seam and stop at a cross member, then drip with a muted splash onto the top of his sleeping bag. He brushed the wetness off, sat up, crawled out of the bag, and leaned to the zippered door. He drew the zipper halfway down. The gray sky seemed to be only yards above the ridge where Oliver had pitched his tent. It wasn’t rain, exactly, but
more like a thick mist that ebbed and flowed in currents across the rim of the mountains. Oliver could see his breath form in little puffs in the cold air. Robert stirred, then stood, and nosed at the door.

  “You won’t like it out there, Robert,” Oliver warned as he unzipped the door to fully open and let the dog out. The dog took a dozen steps into the cold mist and stopped, turning his head back to Oliver with an obviously unhappy expression. He hurried back inside, shaking his coat twice, leaving a fine splatter all over the tent’s interior.

  Oliver looked out at the dismal day. He was not a man of snap decisions, but this one was easy. “I’m packing up, Robert. I don’t want to sleep in the damp cold, on the hard ground again.”

  In fifteen minutes, Oliver had disassembled the tent, packed it in its duffel bag, stowed it in a compartment in the truckbed, adding the lantern, the camp stove, and his sleeping bag to the dirty pot already there. He tied the food cooler down to the truckbed and called for Robert, who eagerly jumped into the cab. From the driver’s side window, he looked out over the campsite, making sure nothing was left there, then started the truck and drove slowly over the rutted road, avoiding muddy stretches as best he could, driving carefully until he reached the main highway, paved and wet, outside the park.

  “We’ll drive until we find breakfast, Robert. Maybe there’s an IHOP around here somewhere. I have a taste for pancakes. Do you want some pancakes, Robert?”

  In fifteen minutes, he came upon a diner, sitting all by itself at a crossroads. No name, just the word DINER, unlit, on a big black-and-white sign. Oliver looked at his watch. He walked to the front door and returned.

  “They should be open in ten minutes.”

  The two of them sat in the truck, the engine running, the heater on, and waited. He tried to find a radio station but couldn’t.

  “Maybe the mountains are in the way.”

  He took out a vinyl folder from the glove box and slipped out a CD, then slid it into the CD player. The unit whirred and the words started. Oliver had treated himself to a set of CDs last Christmas—the collection containing the entire Bible, read aloud, with occasional music in the background.

  When he had purchased the CDs, he had promised himself that he would listen to the entire Bible while he drove back and forth to work. The promise was never fulfilled. He seemed never to be in his truck long enough to actually hear a full chapter. He hadn’t even listened to them on the longer drives from Jeannette to Shadyside, keeping the radio tuned to traffic and weather reports instead. But today, he had no real choice in the matter.

  The speaker was reading from 1 Corinthians.

  “Don’t you wives realize that your husbands might be saved because of you? Don’t you husbands realize that your wives might be saved because of you?”

  Oliver sat up, startled. He punched the Pause button, then hit Back. The CD whirred. He pressed Play. The verse came out again.

  “Don’t you husbands realize that your wives might be saved because of you?”

  Oliver was sure he had heard that particular verse before, and probably heard a sermon or two explaining it. But he had never really paid much attention to it, thinking he would never be yoked with a person who did not believe. And he knew the words didn’t give license to marry an unbeliever. At least he was pretty sure they didn’t.

  But why that verse, and why now? It was a random selection from an entire folder of CDs.

  Robert the Dog stirred slightly in the passenger seat.

  Oliver reversed the CD and repeated the verse again.

  “Don’t you husbands realize that your wives might be saved because of you?”

  Is this a word from God? Is this why I’m up here in the middle of nowhere with no radio to listen to? Did He want me to hear that verse?

  Oliver turned the CD player off.

  Do epiphanies happen like this? Is this what I came here to find?

  Another truck pulled into the lot, and two men jumped out and headed to the doors of the restaurant. The lights inside flickered on, and the sign by the road lit up, the word DINER transformed into a brilliant neon blue. Robert must have sensed it, for he woke up and growled softly in anticipation.

  An epiphany from a random selection from a random CD? Is that some sort of sign for me?

  Robert clambered over to the driver’s side, whining with a greater urgency.

  “Okay, Robert. I’ll get breakfast.”

  Robert was partial to pancakes. Oliver knew what to order: two of the “Lumberjack” breakfasts. One for himself, one for Robert.

  “Don’t you husbands realize that your wives might be saved because of you?”

  As he walked toward the front door, with Robert happily bouncing from one side of the cab to the other, a sentence from a sermon simply popped into Oliver’s thoughts.

  “A Christian husband brings holiness to his marriage.”

  And then he placed his order for two breakfasts, one with coffee.

  He’ll probably eat a whole order of sausage too.

  Oliver didn’t stop in Jeannette. He drove straight to the church in Shadyside and parked in the back. He let Robert out. It had been a long drive through the mountains, filled with thick fog and patches of rain and lightning. Even more fog, dense as cotton, rose from the narrow clefts in the hills as he made his way through Smoke Valley, shrouding the twisting highway in a thickness of gray mist.

  He had to navigate slowly, staring hard at the white lines at the side of the road. A trip that should have taken four hours took eight. Robert was tense from sitting in the cab all day as was Oliver, but Oliver was on a mission.

  Robert circled the church lot, then came back up the front steps. Oliver waited for him, unlocked the door, let him inside.

  “I’ll be gone a few minutes, Robert.”

  Then he thought better of it and hurried downstairs to check if there was adequate food and water for the dog. There was.

  Oliver stopped in the just-completed restroom in the basement. He had not showered or shaved. He ran his hand over his chin.

  “Could be worse,” he said to himself. He pulled off his fleece pullover and put on a sweatshirt, a good bit fresher than the pullover. He patted at his hair.

  Locking the door behind him, he walked to the corner and crossed the street.

  He didn’t hurry. At this moment, he had no idea of what he was going to say, but he knew he had to say something, explain himself one more time, see her face once more—not in a work situation, but in a setting where he could speak freely.

  He hesitated only a bit at the bottom of the porch stairs. He took a deep breath, then another, and climbed up the broad staircase, crossed the wide, expansive porch, and pushed at the gold button on the doorpost. Below it, he noticed, was hung a little rectangular box, with Hebrew letters inscribed on the face.

  I wonder what the box means. Maybe something to do with Passover.

  He heard the chimes from inside, an elegant, muted sound.

  More reminders of how very different we are.

  He waited. There was a rustling from somewhere inside the sprawling Victorian house. At least he thought he heard a rustling. Panels of frosted glass, etched with an ornate swirling design, surrounded the door. The door opened. He had expected Mally, but another figure stood in the doorway.

  “Yes? Can I help you? Just want to know if you’re selling something, or carrying a petition, because those are two things I don’t do at the door. Ever.”

  Another day, Oliver might have been rattled by the man’s curt greeting. But today he let it wash past him.

  “I’m Oliver Barnett, sir. I’m the contractor for the church down the street. I’m working for Samantha. Is she at home?”

  The short man with a buttery tanned face peered forward. “You’re Oliver? Oy. I had pictured someone else
altogether.”

  Oliver waited, not knowing how to respond.

  “I’m her father. Samuel Cohen. But you probably knew that. Come on in. I’m watching some boring golf tournament on TV. Sam’s not home. No one’s home. But if you need something, maybe I can help.”

  Oliver didn’t think the man could but didn’t think he could simply walk away either. “Uhh, okay. Did Samantha say when she might return?”

  Oliver didn’t want to sound like a rude teenager, demanding that a girl’s parents provide an estimated time of arrival for their child.

  “She didn’t. And she didn’t take her cell phone. I tried to call her earlier and all I heard was the blasted thing ringing from her case in the kitchen. That’s not like her, so I’m assuming she’ll be home shortly. Anyhow, come on in. Have a coffee. Or a beer. Or a cocktail. Samantha says that you’re not like some of the other shleppers she’s had working for her. They would take a beer, if it were offered, at nine in the morning.”

  Samuel headed off into the house, and Oliver felt obligated now to follow him.

  “Coffee okay?” he asked, pausing by the kitchen. “Mally made it this morning.”

  “Sure.”

  “Come on in. Have a seat.” Samuel nodded toward the large table, poured coffee into a mug, then handed it to Oliver. He sat down and turned back to the TV. “You play golf, Mr. Barnett?”

  “Oliver … sir.”

  “Oliver, do you play golf?”

  “I do. Once in a while. I’m not what anyone would call good at it. I like miniature golf, though. But I guess that doesn’t count.”

  Samuel stared at the screen. “I like it when they whisper, those announcers. Like the golfer can actually hear them talking. Or … maybe they can. Who can tell? But, that, I like. The game itself is ridiculous. I don’t really enjoy it, but I’ve never had the kishkes to say no to the boys at the club. Who was it that said, ‘Golf is not a game, it’s bondage—obviously devised by a man torn with guilt, eager to atone for his sins.’”