ONE

FACE TO FACE

A Novel

Catherine Lawton

CLADACH

Publishing

Face to Face : A Novel

Published by CLADACH Publishing, Greeley, CO 80633

http://www.cladach.com

This story is an imaginative rendering of Luke 13:10-17. The author has sought to be true to the Word of God, history, personal experience, and Judeo/Christian tradition.

Cover Design by Deanna Boveé

Cover Photos: Getty Images

(Print book: ISBN 0967038685)

To:

my friend Leonie, who listened to the first inspirations for this story; my sister, Beverly, who kept encouraging me to bring the story to publication; and all the brothers and sisters with whom we were meeting and praying when Jesus’ invitation to release and healing in Luke 13:10-17 came alive to me.

What rejoicing in His presence,

When are banished grief and pain,

When the crooked ways are straightened

And the dark things shall be plain.

Face to face—O blissful moment!

Face to face—to see and know:

Face to face with my Redeemer,

Jesus Christ who loves me so!

~ from the song “Face to Face”

by Carrie E. Breck

The sound of feet running—falling hard on the path outside—broke the listening hush of the morning. I opened my eyes. I had waited there on my bed with both hope and dread. It seemed I had waited all my life for this day: first as a child in the land of my people’s captivity; then as a woman, captive in a different sense, here in this mud-brick house in the village of Beth-haran east of the Jordan. Now the hammering footfalls grew louder and nearer and my heart beat harder and faster.

But what did I expect to come crashing through my door? Breast-plated Roman soldiers intent on punishing me for my son’s crimes? Pharisees castigating me with the Law? The village women taunting and lashing with their tongues? Sun-burned Galileans grabbing me up and thrusting me under the soul-knowing eyes of their master?

The curtain across the doorway parted and in washed sunlight, spring air, and my son, Benoni, still wearing his fringed prayer shawl. He paused to remove his sandals. Riled by my fearful thoughts, I scolded him. “Benoni! You were running on the Sabbath! What if Simon saw you!”

Ignoring my words, he blew into his hands, rubbing them together for warmth. “Mama, I have good news!” His usually-deep voice rose to an excited pitch.

This only son of mine, this boy becoming a man; I did not want him to be disappointed today.

“This news is good for whom?” I countered guardedly, then changed the subject. “You left so early, before dawn. Why didn’t you refill the lamp before you left? The flame has gone out and that’s a bad omen.”

“Omen, skomen. Mama, please listen. That wasn’t a rumor I heard last night. The Galilean rabbi is right here in our town. Just now, at morning prayers, I spoke to a companion of his. Simon has asked the rabbi to preach in our synagogue today. At last Yeshuah has come!”

At the sound of that name a convulsion of cold pain wrenched my shoulders. The pneuma, the demon of sickness that had fastened upon me and kept me bent over for eighteen years, stabbed its venomous claws into my spine. My fists clenched and yanked at the blanket that covered me. A ripping sound rent the air.

I shrieked, “Haven’t I told you a hundred times not to say that name? It will kill me.” Then as quickly as it came, the pain and panic subsided. Weakly I whispered, “I’ve already mended enough rips.”

Benoni knelt then beside the bed. He looked with concern into my eyes and sighed. Dark curls marched across his forceful brow and intensity shown in his eyes so like his father’s. I could see he would soon have a real beard. No more kissing a smooth cheek, I thought.

“Mama, it’s time to get up.” Before I could protest he sprang to his feet and reached down to effortlessly lift my twisted frame in his arms. I caught my breath, feeling almost too bouyant with his strong arms supporting me, his face so close to mine, when I usually crouched near the floor, separate and weighed down.

“You’re as light as a bundle of feathers, Mama. Not much different than picking up the pigeons that are outside cooing right now.”

“They don’t wait to be picked up; they fly to you freely.”

“Yes, if you offer them food. What morsels will tempt you, Mama?” He made an effort to keep his voice controlled and soft. I knew he’d rather be running back down the path to see what was happening at the meetinghouse.

He tried a different tactic. “Remember the morning prayer you taught me as a child?” He slowly paced the room, chanting the psalm, while holding me aloft as if offering his mother to the heavens.

Where can I go from your Spirit?

Where can I flee from your presence?

If I ascend to heaven, you are there!

If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!

If I rise on the wings of the dawn—

“My mornings have lost their wings,” I protested.

He gently set me on the edge of the bed, where I perched looking at my toes as he rekindled the fire, tossing sticks and dung cakes into the small pit dug into our earthen floor; then he refilled and lit the lamp. “There you go, Mama. That will warm your bones and chase away your shadows.” At the door he paused, stepped into his sandals, and turned to leave. I heard him draw a loud breath.

“There’s a sweet smell after last night’s spring rain. And the air is clearer.” He turned back. “Mama, I want you to know something. When I ran off with the Zealots last year, I was just an angry boy. Things have changed.” He paused, then deepened his voice. “I have changed. And this time, Mama, you don’t need to worry. My new friends are not bloodthirsty rebels. This is a true revolution.” His restless feet turned away and took him out the door. “Start out early and be careful,” he called over his shoulder. “The road’s a little wet.” He was gone.

My heart pounded urgently in my ears. All week the town had sizzled with talk about the rabbi working his way from village to village down the east side of the Jordan. Many people were curious to see this young Galilean who was working miracles and gaining such a large following. Merchants planned to profit from the overnight stay of his companions. The synagogue leaders hoped to use the young rabbi’s popularity for their own interests in prompting the people to greater ardor in giving alms, attending the services, and keeping the rituals.

I listened to all the excitement with mixed emotions. I had heard how the traveling rabbi had cast out demons, made blind eyes see, and lifted women from a life of shame. Oh, how I longed to see this man. Had Benoni sensed my thoughts? Did he know, that in spite of my feigned disdain, I was every bit as interested and curious as my neighbors, and perhaps more so?

If only I could stand up straight like other folk and see his face as he speaks to us. If only I could have the opportunity and courage to ask him to touch . . . But what was I thinking?

I intended to go to the meeting later that day and hide in the crowd. Even if I couldn’t see him, at least I could hear him speak. I might find out about the words, the scriptures that for years now had been speaking in my mind, in my dreams, and in my heart.

I’ll go, I thought. But first, I’ll tend to some unfinished business that I can’t neglect any longer.

Shuffling to my sewing basket I rummaged through cloth, yarn, needles, spools. So much unfinished work. I’ll reorganize this mess later. First I removed the square piece of wood that formed a false bottom to the basket. I peeked in. Yes, it was still there: a magic charm that hadn’t helped me at all. Likewise the copper bracelets and the strong potions. Into the little fire I threw the charm. At first it seemed to quench the flame, then the fire flared anew. I watched the burning amulet transform into a grotesque, glowing shape, then an empty shell, and finally crumble into a mass of glowing embers.

Add that to the ash heap of my life.

I felt around the bottom of the sewing basket once more and my hand found something hard, cool, and smooth. That old perfume bottle! I had nearly forgotten about it.

What an extravagant man was my husband. How many women in Perea own glass perfume bottles? Most store their perfumed oils and ointments in clay bottles and a few women have alabaster flasks. I rolled the smooth, amber glass between the fingers of both hands.

Could even one drop of perfume remain in the bottle after eighteen years? I pulled at the cork with my gnarled fingers. Before the pneuma grabbed hold of me, my hands had been limber and supple.

Ouch. But there; out popped the cork, and the scent of the sweetest nard escaped the bottle and invaded my head—more intoxicating than the strongest spiced wine. My weak knees trembled. Abruptly, I sat down hard on the floor to keep from falling.

Oh, the memories evoked by that scent—memories too painful to open, and yet too keen and disquieting to hold inside any longer.

Eighteen years earlier, Thomas and I, young and filled with dreams, had prepared for a journey, a pilgrimage that I thought would fulfill all my dreams as well as Thomas’s ambitions.

Perhaps another pilgrimage is my destiny today. If it leads to my death this time, no matter. First I will relive, try to gather, the ashes of the past, get back something I lost—the ability to dream, to hope, to stand. I closed my eyes and allowed the evocative fragrance of spikenard to carry my thoughts back to the early days of my marriage, to the man who had captured my youthful heart. . . .

On that long-ago morning, I had packed the gear and Thomas had jogged to the stable to fetch the donkey. I had just tied my sash and adjusted my hair veil when my baby awoke, all ruddy and chubby and tasting salty when I kissed him. We had rubbed Benjamin’s skin with salt to toughen him for the journey. I felt a tingle as my milk started in. I put him to breast and felt relief as he began to nurse.

Then Thomas called me outside to our small yard. I shivered in the chilly predawn air. I had to learn to saddle the donkey. Once I sat on it he would not be able to touch it again until after my purification in Jerusalem.

In a business-like manner, Thomas explained the intricacies of donkey saddling.

“Position the blanket carefully and cinch the belt snugly, like so, around the belly—”

“Shalom!” A pleasant voice interrupted the lesson and we both looked up to see Aunt Naomi’s short, sturdy form arriving, her friendly arms laden with fresh loaves. Beneath a heavy shawl, her round cheeks flushed from the early morning exertion and her wizened eyes twinkled toward the bundle in my arms.

“Thank heaven, I’m not too late.” Naomi deposited the fragrant loaves in Thomas’s hands and snatched the baby from my arms. For a moment she ignored Thomas and me; she hugged and jostled and clucked and cooed at the baby.

“I promised to bring bread for your trip,” Naomi said, smiling at us now. “But I didn’t know Tamara would give birth this morning. Yes, of course—,” Naomi waved aside my query with a flurry of her hand, “the mother is fine. ‘Twas an easy birth, but you should hear Simon moan and holler. His daughter is born with twisted feet. He says he certainly has not sinned, so Tamara must be to blame. Who knows? I only help to catch the little miracles as they come into this world. I do wonder what life will be like for this Pharisee’s child. . . . But, she is a pretty, delicate cherub—except for her feet.”

“Have they named her?” I wedged a question between the tumble of words no doubt to be repeated many times across town before the end of the day. Naomi nodded affirmatively.

“Her name is Lewanna: ‘Beaming, white one.’ Born under a full moon, too.” Naomi lifted her chin toward the sky. The softly fading moon was ready to slip over the horizon. It was bowing out to the early glow of the rising sun about to appear over the Perean hills that offered age-old succor to quiet Beth-haran.

The suspended moment fit my mood perfectly. The sky’s pink glow cast a beckoning, beguiling light washing down the plains to the river valley and warmly illuminating the Judean mountains where the road led to the holy city of our hopes: Jerusalem.

Thomas evidently had a similar thought. “We must hurry!” he exclaimed. “We’re to meet at the gate at sunrise.”

Even in his haste, he had yielded to the tantalizing aroma of the warm bread and was chewing a mouthful as he finished tying our provisions onto the saddle. Naomi waved a stubby brown finger in exhortation.

“Take care of these precious ones, young man!”

Thomas swallowed slowly, grinned broadly, and bowed ceremoniously. Such gallantry. He kissed Naomi’s forehead.

“I am your debtor, old friend. You gave me a lovely wife; you welcomed our son to his first breath; and you continue to grace our lives with your attentiveness. I will return your pets to you better than ever, ten days from now.”

We three laughed together joyously; then Naomi scurried off, calling, “Shalom.”

Life was predictable, it seemed. In Jerusalem we would present our firstborn to the Lord, and we would surely be rewarded with more sons. My father’s memory would be honored and his wishes fulfilled. I would be separated from my uncleanness and freed from the restrictions prescribed by the Law for this period after childbirth.

Thomas tied the hem of his robe up into his belt to make walking easier. He counted the silver coins one more time and dropped his purse into the fold of his tunic, then thrust his sheathed dagger inside his belt. How handsome and vigorous he looked.

_____

Gathered just inside the city gate, the men of our pilgrimage all talked at once. Arms waved and gesticulated. Voices rose in a buzz above the morning dew. The men discussed and debated which path to take, where to stop for lunch, and who would lead the way.

At first no one wanted to take up the rear. Then the shepherd, Samuel, volunteered for the job.

A murmur of approval rolled through the crowd. We liked that shaggy-haired, wiry-limbed nomad. Most of the year he trudged the Perean hills with his flocks. When he came to town, children gathered round to hear his stories and songs. Now Samuel held his staff aloft and pierced the chilly air, as if brandishing a sword.

“Let lion, bear, or thief assail,” his scratchy voice proclaimed. “’There’s none I can’t contend with. Your women and young folk will walk in safety.” He strode jauntily to his place, rod and staff in hand.

The leader bellowed a rallying shout above the din and our caravan set forth walking into our own shadows cast by the rising sun. Perched side-saddle on the donkey, I warmed my bare feet against the rough coat of its belly as we cut through the fields where farmers had begun plowing. I turned to see the women and small children following a ways behind us, and I waved to a friend. Thomas led the donkey by a rope. Three older men fell into step with him.

The air was laden with the scent of damp, harrowed earth. Spring run-off from rain on the hills flowed down the wadi canyon, which was dry most of the year. Its babbling rumble accompanied the men’s talk.

“What better way to start a new year than to take a journey up to Jerusalem, eh, Thomas?” The gray-bearded man, whose name was Lemuel, accented his words with the thump of his walking stick on the packed soil of the path. “Many of the fellows in our company today have not gone up to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover for years.”

“Last two Aprils, the Jordan swelled so high, it was uncrossable,” another companion reminded the men.

“If it wasn’t the river, then it was the lambing. I’m leaving the care of the ewes and lambs to my son this year. Time for me to renew the covenant, pile up a few stones so to speak,” spoke the third man.

“Some years I’ve seen more Gentiles round about than our own people. There’s nothing like a look at that golden Temple with the incense rising from the great altar to remind a man of his roots.” This man’s leather bag, containing food for the journey, swung from his shoulder.

“If a fellow could just stay in that sanctuary where not an unclean thing can enter and live. . . . If all the outside filth would vanish away—all of Caesar’s men, especially—”

“Hey, brother, wait until you see it,” someone interrupted. “I was in Jerusalem last summer. Listen, we lead a sheltered life here east of the Jordan. Old Gad knew what he was doing, taking this land for his tribe. He could mind his own business, work with his hands, and hear himself think. I’ll tell you, there is no peace in Judea. Every man looks both ways when he walks, keeps his purse hidden and his sword handy.”

I felt like an eavesdropper, and the tone of their talk made me want to pull my shawl tighter around little Benjamin and myself and let the warmth of the baby’s body, the swaying of the donkey’s gait, and the sounds of the morning lull me into a pleasant euphoria. But the conversation continued.

“Ha! Ha! You sound like some ancient prophet of woe!” Thomas guffawed.

“Jed may be exaggerating, but it is an evil day, with every man looking for something or someone to follow. Maybe it’s true that King Herod would have treated a pig better than he treated his sons, but at least while he lived and ruled us we were united as one kingdom and had a reason to be proud. What do we have now? Our nation is divided into separate tetrarchies, and we’re required to pay a toll just to cross our own river—”

“Our leaders are mere puppets of the Romans. And their heels continually crush our necks, especially since the tetrarch got it in his head to build his capital city, Tiberias, and started raising all our taxes and thinking up new excuses to charge levies and contributions. While we sweat and scrape and pay through the nose, he erects Greek theaters and gymnasiums, Roman baths, and even a heathen temple, so he can entertain and impress the elite.”

If the men had listened they could have heard the comforting sounds of water rushing down the wadi canyon; birds singing as they flitted over rock, meadow, and field; and the padding of feet marching on in hope; but they kept talking, as if the words gave them power and control.

“My cousin Joel ran off and joined that group by the Dead Sea, the Essenes. Says he wants to be holy.”

“Yeah, well, anyone can be holy when he’s shut away without women in an austere place like that wearing long white robes, eating tasteless food with no strong drink, and constantly praying, studying, and copying scrolls.”

“Are you kidding? Then why do they work so hard to keep that holiness? Bathing so often, fasting and mortifying their bodies daily, praying until they fall asleep—”

“What would happen to the nation of Israel if we all did that? We must live our daily lives, carry on commerce, and obey the commandment to ‘be fruitful and multiply’.”

“Could it be,” a mild-mannered man ventured, “that the Essenes have a broader purpose—keeping before us a reminder and example of the need to give our full heart’s devotion to God and to keep ourselves separate from sin—?”

“How long can we remain separate unto our God when we labor under the dominance of sinners and heathen and pay taxes for ungodly purposes?” Two men especially warmed to the subject, their voices rising to higher pitches.

“Someone must confront issues . . . speak out against oppression, taxes, bribery, corruption—”

“But that requires a prophet. Not since the days of Ezra has anyone with God-given authority in his voice cried out, ‘Thus saith the Lord!’ Our greatest need in these days is to hear from the Lord our God.”

“He has spoken through Moses. We have the Law. That’s all we need. Those who obey the commandments will have nothing to fear.”

“On the other hand, we can’t even keep all the requirements of the Law if Caesar has his way. How long do you think the Romans will continue to tolerate our traditions?”

“The giants are in the land, all right. And they are a different sort of enemy. With the Canaanites it was clearly our God against their gods. Imagine calling upon wood and stone to fight your battles for you!”

“The Romans, though; they don’t look to their gods for salvation, only for an excuse to frolic in decadence. They are devoted only to pleasure. Caesar worship is a farce. Worse: it’s blasphemy!”

“When Messiah appears, all the underlings of Tiberius will slink away with their tails between their legs.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! I would like to see that.”

“If the Anointed One is revealed tomorrow, I will sign up for his army immediately.”

“Me, too.”

“Then the Deliverer will bring down the kingdom from heaven.”

“Hurrah!”

“Perhaps this feast will be the time.”

The men began a chant. One man took out his flute and began to play a tune. Then he and his friend quickened their steps to join another group of men up ahead.

Lemuel kept stride with Thomas. I could see the older man cast sidelong glances toward my husband. I was wary of his smirking face and his too-smooth words.

“Thomas, you do not seem very moved by that kind of talk.”

“I can’t really relate to it.”

“No, I suppose not, since you are a generation removed from the wars.”

“I have my plans.” (How sure he was.) “Already I am moving toward my goals.”

“Even at a young age, you’ve tasted success: well esteemed in the town, owning choice land, possessing a wife whose beauty must move a man’s heart.” I felt my face warming and was glad the men didn’t glance back.

“Yes.” Thomas’s eyes studied the path ahead. “I have proved my father wrong in this marriage. He did not want to pay such a price for Joakima; she was a stranger, her family long exiled in a foreign land. He was afraid she must have picked up too many pagan ways. But my father underestimated my ability to sanctify my own wife. I am seeing to it that she is as Jewish as any daughter of Abraham has ever been. Already I am rewarded, for she is now a mother in Israel. Our family’s name is established for another generation.”

“No doubt this baby is the first of many sons. I have not enjoyed that blessing. I can only look forward to finding the best husbands for my daughters.”

And bargaining for the largest dowry possible, I added silently.

“Which reminds me. My Huldah is now fifteen. I have noticed your younger brother glancing her way. I wonder, Thomas, good man, if you would be so kind as to put in a word for my daughter to your father? You know the long-standing friendship between our two families, and how I think of you as practically my own son. And one other thing—perhaps this is an opportune time to mention it. My best and deepest well is located beside your grazing land. Perhaps I would be able to make its sweet water available to the brother of my son-in-law.”

“It is something to consider.”

_____

The perfume bottle lay shattered on the floor. I stared at it. When did I drop it? Well, it is broken now, as broken as my hopes, my body, and my life.

Something to consider?! His own plans; his own success; proving himself to his father: these mattered more to him than anything else. Marriage a business deal; a wife a possession to polish and sanctify and use. . . . Men act as if they can change the world by their talk.

When I had produced a son, I had seen the look of pure pleasure in the eyes of my husband. That was the look I had lived for. The same as my mother before me and her mother before her, I had wanted to please the man I loved. When I was a child, my father’s praise made my heart sing. In marriage, my devotion focused on my husband. I think I began to expect something in return, though, from the one I thus lived to please, as if somehow he must prove himself worthy of my devotion; as if my devotion somehow exposed me, rendered me vulnerable and in need of protection and reassurance.

Sitting there on the floor, staring at the broken bottle, my heart screamed, Where now is the reassurance, the protection, the devotion, the covering of love? I curled into a ball and wept until my bitterness was spent. The memories had opened old wounds. I hadn’t known that choking anger had been crouching at my door.

Then, on hands and knees, I picked up the pieces of the broken bottle. I thought, The floor should have been swept yesterday of all these crumbs. But what does it matter? Here is my opportunity. Here, in this sharp-edged shard of glass is a way out, a way into oblivion.

I could do it now. One slit of my wrist. To forget . . . To be cut off from the pain . . . Eternity can be no longer than these eighteen years have been, nor can Hades be any darker. My light burned out long ago, when Thomas—Oh, don’t think of him again!—

But how could I say I hate him when I practically worshiped him? If I could go back, if I could only go back. He loved me, I know he did. He showed it in his eyes that afternoon at Gilgal after we crossed the Jordan.

. . .

SCRIPTURES REFERENCED IN THE STORY

Numbers 6:24-26. . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 160

Deuteronomy 6:4. . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 117

2 Samuel 12:15-23. . . . . . . . . . . . p. 81

Psalm 24:3-5 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 49

Psalm 103:15-17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 75

Psalm 139: 7-10 . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 11

Ecclesiastes 3:4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 76

Song of Solomon 4:9,12; 5:2; 6:7 . p. 27

Isaiah 12:2. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 183

Isaiah 30:15. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 94

Isaiah 35:3-4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 173

Isaiah 40:27-31; 41:9-13;

46:4; 51:11,14; 52:2 . . . . . p. 95

Isaiah 52:2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 172

Isaiah 54:4,6; 55:1,6; 57:15;

58:6-9, 61:1; 63:9 . . . . . . . p. 96

Jeremiah 31:15-17 . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 42

Matthew 11:28 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 180

Luke 3:16 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . p. 141

Luke 13:10-17. . . . . . . . . . . p. 181-185

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Catherine Lawton was born in Colorado and grew up as a pastor’s daughter in seven towns up and down the state of California. She has loved to write since she was a child, having her first poem published in a national periodical at the age of twelve; and since then her byline has appeared in numerous periodicals and book compilations. She has a BA degree in English from Pasadena College/ Point Loma Nazarene University, and took graduate courses at Sonoma State University. She has served as a church musician, a private piano teacher, a public school substitute teacher and English reader, and a freelance writer and editor. Cathy and her husband, Larry, have participated in and led volunteer short-term mission teams to Mexico, South Africa, Venezuela, Sicily & Rome, and Peru.

Catherine is the owner of Cladach Publishing, a small royalty press. After living in Santa Rosa, California for thirty years the Lawtons moved their home and business to Colorado, returning to Catherine’s roots.

Besides the publishing business, Catherine enjoys gardening, hiking in the Rocky Mountains, playing piano, and spending time with her two grown children and their spouses, and five grandchildren.