Before Winter (4)

Two: The Island of Cyprus.

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the twentieth day of the fourth month.

It has been a great blessing to work with Peter these last years, first in Rome and then here. Now that I have finished recording the details of the Messiah’s life on earth, he has gone back to Jerusalem to speak with the council there, so that they may have a fixed and certain policy concerning these false preachers and disciples that have arisen. I am left here, to continue our work of evangelism for a time. How amazing it is to see people responding to our message! Every day they gather to listen as I explain the good news and tell them what they must do to be saved. When they are baptized, the joy shines in their faces. Together we read the words of God, and remember the death of Christ. Praise be to the Lord, who has given me this ministry, and through His great mercy has opened a way to Himself for the Gentiles. 

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the twenty-third day of the fourth month. 

God has brought a new brother to share with my work here. Alexander is his name, and he was a coppersmith in Ephesus when Paul first brought the gospel to that city. He tells me that he stayed at the church there for a few years, but now feels God is calling him to evangelize in a new place. On his way here he met Tychicus who was traveling from Rome to Ephesus, and heard news of Paul. He has been very useful, sharing what he has learned with the new believers here. The church in Ephesus must be thriving, Alexander is enthusiastic about the work there, and full of praise for Timothy’s leadership. It is hard to think of him as a pastor—the Timothy I remember was only a lad, wide-eyed, hearing the gospel for the first time from the mouth of Paul, when we visited Lystra…

Mark set down his stylus, remembering the day he first met Timothy—the day he thought for a few grief-stricken minutes that Paul was dead. 

They had split up, to preach in different parts of the city, and the first Barnabas and Mark knew of the riot was the distant roar of hundreds of voices. As they broke off the meeting to discover the reason for the tumult, they saw Timothy running toward them, fear in his face. 

“What’s wrong?” Barnabas demanded, “Where’s Paul, what happened?” He almost shook the poor boy, who was doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath enough to speak. 

Barnabas, the unshakeable, the steadfast. When Mark saw the worry in his frown, the urgency of his voice, he first realized how dangerous evangelism could be. 

“Paul,” Timothy had gasped, “The crowds are stoning him. He sent me away as soon as they began to gather around him, but I heard…” his shoulders were shaking, and he struggled to get the words out between sobs. “He wouldn’t let me stay, he pushed me away and told me to run, so I came to find you.” 

They ran. The heat of the summer sun made Mark’s head swim, but they kept running. Now the noise was louder, breaking up into a confused babble of individual shouts, still too indistinct to make out what they were saying. 

“They must be taking him outside the gates!” Barnabas yelled over the pounding of their feet. “Come on!”

Mark did not ask how he knew, but swerved after him down a side street, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. As they rounded the turn, they ran past a few stragglers and then all at once were caught up in the seething mass of the crowd, pushing and shoving to get through, struggling to keep their feet. 

The mob surged through the gate, taking Barnabas and Mark along with it. Bruised and blinded by dust, Mark found himself near the front of the mob, who were circled around a prone figure, dirty, bloody, and twisted on the ground. A shock of horror coursed through him when he recognized the battered features of Paul, just as a rock sailed through the air and thudded into Paul’s side, cracking ribs and jerking his body sideways. 

Barnabas pushed past him, but Mark caught his arm and held him back. “We’d be killed!” He shouted into his ear. “He’s already dead, there’s nothing we can do!” 

Shaking him off, Barnabas ran to Paul, and Mark stumbled after him, expecting to hear angry shouts, and to feel the rocks on his own back as well. Instead, the noise diminished as the crowd began to break apart. The rock that lay on the ground, stained with Paul’s blood, had been the last, and the vicious attack was over. Individual people, no longer caught in the group rage, drifted back toward the city gate, ignoring the disciples who began to gather around their broken and crumpled leader. 

Barnabas knelt by Paul’s head, lifting it off the ground. With one arm, he wiped the sweat and tears from his own face, before trying to clean off the blood and dirt that was clotted around his friend’s eyes, nose, and mouth. 

No breath came out of Paul’s pale, blood-crusted lips, and Barnabas bent his head down, placing his ear against Paul’s chest. For a long time he listened, his sober face proclaiming the truth he could not bring himself to believe. At last he stood up, shaking his head. “He must have died before they even dragged him out here. All the blood is already drying,” his voice broke, and he turned away. 

Mark stepped forward, putting his arm around his uncle. Tears streaked his face, a mixture of guilt at having held back during the riot and sorrow for Paul. “We have to bury him.” The words were strange and dull in his ears, as if he was talking in a dream. 

“Certainly not.” The weak voice behind him sounded far away. His head turned to look back at Paul’s body, the joyful exclamations of the disciples penetrated his consciousness as they rushed toward the apostle. His eyes were open, and he was sitting up, a pained expression on his face as he tried to move his limbs. 

“A miracle!” Barnabas embraced his friend, laughing in delight. “Lord Jesus, You have given us back our brother from the dead! Blessed be Your name forever and ever!” 

On that day, watching Paul limp back into the city, seeing from a distance how Timothy hovered near him, almost tripping him in his efforts to support him, Mark had thought that he would never refuse to stand by this man again. 

Now, looking down at what he had written, Mark shook his head at the memory. It always brought back pain to write of his relationship with Paul, though their friendship had been firm for many years now. Perhaps one day he could bear to write the story of his years with Paul, as he had written the account of the life of Christ. 

With a sigh, he finished his record for the day.

…he showed promise then, though I have not seen him since. I pray I will have an opportunity to disciple Alexander as Paul and Barnabas discipled Timothy and I. 

Before Winter (3)

One: Ephesus (Part Two)

Looking at the sun, which was now sinking in the west, Timothy quickened his pace, heading towards the Jewish section of town. Demetrius had been right, there was not time to visit both Jason and Martha. The old woman needed his attention more, now that she could not gather with the believers but must wait for them to come to her, so he decided to go to her house today, and  wait to speak with Jason until they met at Simon’s house. 

It was strange, being half-Jew, half-Greek. To the Romans, he was a Jew, to be mocked for his dark complexion and his nation’s customs, while his own people were suspicious of his Greek face and mannerisms. Still, they did accept his right of birth, and allowed him in their synagogues as one of themselves. He could go into Martha’s house without the entire household needing to ritually purge the uncleanness afterward, as they would be required by law if a Gentile entered. Many Christian Jews no longer followed these ceremonial laws, receiving their Gentile brothers with gladness, but Martha’s son-in-law, who was taking care of her, was not yet a believer, and Timothy knew how he would react to an unclean Gentile visiting her. 

“Shalom, Timothy.” 

“Peace to you.” Timothy responded automatically, before even registering who had greeted him. “Simon!” The two men clasped hands warmly. 

“What brings you to this part of the city, brother?” Simon asked, as he turned to walk alongside Timothy.

“I go to see our sister Martha. Levi tells me she is failing fast, and I thought it might be of comfort to pray with her.” 

“A worthy errand. See that you get back to your lodging before dark. The city is none too safe at night.”

“So Demetrius cautioned me when I set out.” Timothy chuckled. “Is it everyone’s duty to make sure I am safe?”

“We must all look out for each other in these dangerous times, Timothy.” 

“Then I must hurry, to follow your wise advice. Christ go with you!” 

“And with you, my friend.” 

Simon turned to resume his walk, and Timothy knocked on the door of Martha’s house. It was an older building, and tall, with a gloomy and stale interior. Several families lived there, sharing the faint breath of fresh air that could be caught on the roof at dusk, among the few green plants that Miriam, Martha’s daughter, had coaxed into life. 

The door creaked open, revealing the suspicious eyes and copious beard of Miriam’s husband. “Timothy.” he stood in the doorway, waiting.

“Shalom, Joseph. I come to see your mother-in-law, having heard she is not well.” 

“Enter then.” The man took a reluctant step back. “She’s in there.” He motioned towards the back room.

Silently, Timothy stepped past him, moving through the semi-darkness in the direction indicated, with his hands stretched out to prevent bumping into the walls. 

As he came into the room, Martha turned her face toward him, hearing the sound of movement. A small oil lamp illuminated her worn features, and cast a flickering shadow on the opposite wall. Glancing at her face, Timothy saw that she was closer to death than he had expected. He did not know whether she was even conscious of his presence, but he sat down on the wooden stool that stood next to her cot, and laid his hand on her shoulder. 

Miriam slipped into the room, holding a bowl of broth and a towel. “She is very weak,” she whispered, “I do not think she will see the sun rise.” She bent over to pour a little of the broth into the old woman’s mouth, wiping her chin between each spoonful with careful love. “There is so little I can do for her now, I hate to leave her alone even for a few minutes. Joseph helps all he can, but he has his trade, and the children need me too.”

“Let me watch for a few hours,” Timothy suggested in a low voice. “I came to pray with her, and I will also stay to see her received into glory with our Saviour. You should rest, to have the strength for the others in your family as well. God will bless you for the love and respect you show your mother.” 

“Thank you, Timothy. Call for me if anything changes, please.” Miriam gathered up the bowl of half-eaten soup, and crept out of the room. 

With a sigh, Timothy leaned back against the wall. 

New life and death, both in a single day, he mused. So the world had always been, since sin entered it. Closing his eyes, he began to pray. For Martha, her family, Damaris and her baby, Simon, Demetrius—one after another he lifted them up, asking the Father to watch over them, to fill them with His Spirit. Through the night he watched and prayed, in rhythm with the shallow breath of a dying body. 

Before Winter (2)

One: Ephesus

“Thank you for inviting me to share your meal, Demetrius.” As Timothy rose from the table, he reached out to his friend, grasping his arm. It was a relief to come to Demetrius’s house, a welcome break from his busy life. Here he could relax, speak or be silent as he chose, without weighing each word. Much as he loved his work—his calling in life—here he was not a pastor, always giving, but a brother: giving and receiving in turn. 

Demetrius rose with him. “You must stay a little longer. We can read together from the writings of the apostles and prophets.” 

“I have much yet to do today.” Timothy shook his head. “I must visit Damaris and Simon to see their new child, and check on Jason’s progress. I heard a few days ago that our beloved sister Martha is failing, and I really should go pray with her today.” He moved toward the door and bent down to put on his sandals.

“Visit the baby, by all means, but surely Jason will finish copying Paul’s letters without your supervision? And Martha…could you send one of the other elders? You will hardly get home before dark. I would go myself, but I cannot walk so far with this limp.” 

Timothy smiled, imagining Demetrius’s close-cropped gray hair and clean-shaven face walking among the flowing beards and tassels worn by Martha’s brothers, sons, and nephews. “You still look like a Roman soldier, you know. Most of the other elders are Gentile too, and might be equally unwelcome in the Jewish sector.” 

“Perhaps you are right,” said Demetrius, “but I still wish I could help you more.”

“Don’t worry.” Timothy straightened up, reaching for his heavy cloak. “I am not neglecting my reading or study of doctrine, even though today I spend my time on the practical side of pastoring.” 

Valentina, Demetrius’s wife, came up and stood next to her husband. “We will see you on the first of the week then, at Simon’s house?”

Timothy nodded. “God bless you both.” 

“The Lord Jesus Christ go with you, Timothy.” Demetrius raised his hand in farewell, and Timothy ducked under the door, out into the afternoon sunshine. 

Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the docks and the smell of the sea. Though the sun was shining, the winter wind was cold in his face, and he bent his head forward, pushing into it. The sound of the market behind him was muted, and a citizen hurried past him, heading for the gymnasium. As he approached the port, the scent of salt water and rotting fish grew stronger, and he wrinkled his nose against it as he made his way to Damaris’s hut, wondering if her husband would be home at this time of day, or out fishing still. 

When he reached the door, propped open to admit more light, he knocked gently on the frame. 

“Pastor?” Damaris, appeared in the doorway and beckoned him in. “Why the uncertain sound? You know our house, surely.” 

Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, Timothy responded, “I didn’t want to wake the baby if he was sleeping.” Seeing her husband sitting in the corner, holding the baby wrapped in a blanket, Timothy nodded to him in greeting. A quiet man, he complimented his wife’s more buoyant personality.

“Oh, he is still too young to care much about noise and movement!” Damaris laughed. “Would you like to hold him?” She flitted over to her husband, who held the baby up to her and settled him in her arms. 

As Damaris approached him with the child, Timothy stepped away from the door, so that the light would not fall on the newborn’s face. “Should I sit down with him?” He glanced around, looking for another stool.

“No need. Just crook your arm out…there. Keep his neck supported, and the blanket around him, and you’ll be just fine.” 

Before he could respond, the baby was in his arms, and the new mother was across the room, asking if she could get him anything to drink. 

“I’m fine, thank you.” Timothy shifted his arm, trying to get into a more comfortable position without disturbing the baby. Every time he held a newborn, he was astonished at how light they were. The blanket slipped a little, and the baby wriggled, waving his hand in the air as Timothy pulled the cloth back around, tucking it in against his chest. 

“Shh.” He murmured, and jiggled his elbow a little. The tiny forehead and mouth, a moment before wrinkled and puckered with the beginning of a wail, smoothed back into contentment. For a little while he stood, contemplating the new life in his arms, before handing the baby back to his mother with a smile. “I see your little one is doing very well. Congratulations to you and your husband.”

“He is perfect,” Damaris agreed, glancing toward her husband, “and thank you for your prayers for his birth.”

“I will continue to remember all of you in my prayers, that God may grant you health and joy,” said Timothy, lifting his hand in farewell as he turned back to the streets.

“The Lord go with you!” Damaris called after him.

Before Winter

…I betrayed him so many times. He calls himself the chief of sinners, but I was the one who deserted him when he needed me. And I knew the truth. I told myself I was doing God’s will, but I always knew it was really my own will. It was not even fear that made me leave in the end; that would have been weak, but honest. No, I just had my own stubborn, stupid idea, and I would not listen to his wisdom. 

Sure, he was never perfect. When I started shouting, he shouted right back. Barnabas tried to calm us both down, but I stomped out like a sulky child. Then I just kept going. At first I was too angry to go back, but as the miles between us widened and several days passed, I began to be ashamed. I thought he would still be mad at me, so I kept going. I was still full of pride. Finally, I told myself that now it was too late to go back, that the break was for good. 

God had to work on my heart for a long time. Through Barnabas and others, I did realize at last that I was wrong, but even then I thought that my relationship with him was irrevocably ruined. When he forgave me fully and immediately, I understood the grace of God in far greater depth than before. 

Lord, Your redemption is beyond our finite comprehension. Every day I praise Your name because of the wondrous works You have done for the children of men. Grant me Your grace that I may share what I have learned of redemption with all who need it, and let me never forget my own sin and blindness. 

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Alright, here's the deal. I'm working on writing a book, so I won't have any time to blog unless I put up excerpts from that. Also, I need all the feedback I can get, to make sure I'm not being utterly confusing. 

So, tell me. To start off with, who is the "I" and who is the "he"? This is supposed to be pretty much a stand-alone section (I jump into another part of the story in the next chapter), so if it is unclear, I need to change it.