So it all came to nothing, in the end, as she feared.
There wasn’t
anything any of them could do, except fuss and charge and fluster and give way
to conjecture and wild assumptions and foolish experiments, all of which turned
out to be utterly, pathetically useless. She had a feeling all along that there
would be no possible outcome except the worst possible one, and she’s not
usually given to pessimism.
But when an
apparently healthy young man of twenty-one years starts to be seriously sick
and none of the doctors can do much (except send a bill) and the usual remedies
have no effect, then a wife is entitled to become concerned, try everything she
can and hope a bit, isn’t she?
And then she’s
allowed to be disappointed when leeches and potions and superstitious flim-flam
all fail utterly, and he continues to deteriorate.
She did what
she could: she paid the doctors and gave her dear husband vegetable soup and
her best optimistic-looking smiles.
‘At least
you’ll have something to remember me by,’ he said one evening, as she sat by
his bed and he lay with his hand on her belly, as they waited together for the
baby within her to kick again.
She didn’t reply.
She didn’t know how to answer him, so she just smiled and once again willed the
child to be a boy. That’s the least God could do – if Caleb was going to die,
then please let his child be a boy.
‘Have you had
any more thoughts about a name?’ he asked. ‘I thought, if it’s a girl, how
about Rebekah, after your mother? Or Julia? What do you think?’
‘I shall call
the child Caleb, after his father,’ she said, resolutely.
‘You’re so
sure it’ll be a boy, aren’t you?’ Caleb laughed.
‘I’m sure I
want to remember you,’ she whispered.
She wept more
than a little during those final weeks, as life ebbed slowly away from her
husband – in direct contrast to the life growing within her.
His funeral
was a very painful event for her, as the folks gathered to mourn from their
little village of Nain, along with some friends and relatives from nearby
Nazareth. The procession was an ordeal, as she was heavy with child, and was
destroyed inside. Less than three years after marrying this man, she was left
with a wooden crate, a wounded heart, a fatherless child and the prospect of
being a charity case (and that’s if she was lucky). Her tears were real, unlike
those of the theatrical mourners and professionals.
She gave birth
to a boy, of course, and she called him Caleb, as planned. He was just like his
father: dark, strong, sensitive, witty, energetic, full of questions and a joy
to have around.
As he grew, hope
once again took up residence in their little house. Caleb made friends with the
other children and loved to pretend to be the teacher, marching up and down in
front of his ‘class’ of pupils, pointing at the imaginary chalkboard and freely
quoting from Mr Benjamin, his real teacher at the village school.
‘The next boy
who speaks will be sent to live with the lepers,’ Caleb would say in the
deepest tones he could manage. Apparently, this was one of the teacher’s
amusing remarks. Or another: ‘I have just three words to say about your work,
boy: this will not do.’ Oh, how they laughed! Caleb grew strong and healthy,
just as his dad had once been.
One day, the
boy and his mother were visiting the family in Nazareth and of course went to
the synagogue on the Sabbath. It was a small place, but perfectly adequate for
that gathering of God’s people. The Rabbi gave the welcome as usual, and some
of the regular songs were sung and prayers said. Then it was time for the
reading from the scroll and an unfamiliar young man stood to speak. His voice
was strong and clear, and he pronounced the words with an impressive
understanding.
In fact, when
he read from the scripture, it was as fresh and hopeful as if he was speaking
his own words… He read that lovely piece about freedom for the prisoners and
good news and the year of the Lord’s
favour. You know the one - Isaiah chapter 6.
Anyway, when
he’d finished the reading, he sat down and started to explain what he had just
read. He used strange phrases, such as ‘this scripture is fulfilled’ and then
went on to speak about Elijah and miracles and ‘prophets without honour’.
Some of the
men in the crowd became seriously upset. In the end, they shut him up, marched
him out of the synagogue and up the hill. The congregation rushed after them.
This was a lot more exciting (as you can imagine) than the usual Sabbath
service, which can be slightly predictable…
When the
crowd got to the top of the hill, there was a bit more chat and arguing. Caleb
and his mother reached the place where the action was about to happen just as
it all sort of fizzled out. One of the men of the synagogue was shouting about
‘throw him off the cliff!’ Others were clearly about to do exactly that when
all of a sudden the young man wriggled free of the hands that were holding him,
shook the dust from his feet, and walked away. He gave no defence, made no
plea; he just pushed gently through the crowd. The people simply stood back and
let him go, which was surprising since mere seconds before, they’d been
clamouring for this ‘blasphemer’ to be hurled to his death.
Nowt as queer
as folks, as they say round these parts.
Caleb asked
‘Why were people being nasty to that man, Mum?’ and she couldn’t find a way to
answer him that honoured the synagogue leaders while paying appropriate respect
to the man who had caused all the trouble. So she just answered somewhat
dismissively.
‘Oh, I think
there may have been a misunderstanding,’ or ‘they thought he had broken the
law, but it turned out he hadn’t,’ or something. She could tell Caleb was less
than satisfied with the answer, but he shrugged, accepting (as children so
often have to) the familiar vagueness of adults.
They returned
home a week later, and settled back into their routine: the boy attended school
and the widow reluctantly became resigned to accepting charity, although she
used to till the ground outside the little house and grew a few vegetables.
It was a Tuesday
when Caleb came home from school and told his mother he’d had to have a bit of
a sleep at lunchtime, as he hadn’t felt well. ‘Mr Benjamin suggested I should
have a rest,’ he said. She thought it was all a little odd, but put it down to
growing pains, or overexcitement or something, the way a mother does.
But the next
day, Mr Benjamin himself turned up at the end of the afternoon, bringing Caleb
with him. ‘There may be something the matter with Caleb,’ he began. ‘He was
having trouble listening in class this morning, had another incident at
lunchtime, and then had to sit out while the other children played sports this
afternoon. I thought I’d better make sure he got home alright.’
‘Thank you
for your kindness, Mr Benjamin. Poor lad!’
Caleb went
indoors, so she was able to enquire further. ‘Another incident?’ she asked quietly.
‘Like
yesterday.’
‘He hasn’t
really explained what happened yesterday…’
‘He said that
he felt a bad pain which came on very quickly. Fortunately, it seemed to
dissipate just as fast, but I was quite concerned for a few minutes. I asked
him to tell you what had happened…’
‘Well, boys
will be boys,’ she said. She was not sure what she meant by this, but alarmed
by what she was hearing. It seemed frighteningly similar to the early days of
his father’s illness…
‘Thinking
about it,’ Mr Benjamin said as he turned to go, ‘I suppose Caleb might be
embarrassed to talk about it, or perhaps he doesn’t realise he was out cold for
a little while. Anyway, I suggest you keep him at home for the rest of the
week, in case what he’s got is catching. I don’t want a classroom full of
children all unconscious, do I?’
She didn’t
know if he was merely making light of the situation, or being serious. Perhaps
he was just exercising his tasteless sense of humour. But she rushed indoors to
talk with her precious boy.
By Thursday
evening, she was certain Caleb was in trouble. He was feverish as he lay on his
bed, arching his back and crying out from the pain. She felt wretched as he
pleaded ‘Mummy, make it stop! Oh, make it stop!’ But there was little she could
do. All their income (for which they were very grateful, but which was nothing
more than meagre) went on food, clothes and schooling, so she could not afford
doctors this time – not that she had much faith in them any more. So she did
what she could: made vegetable soup and sat by his bed, holding his hand when
he’d let her. She found it very difficult to raise an optimistic-looking smile.
Yes, young
Caleb was fading.
He didn’t
last beyond the weekend. By Sunday night, she was pulling the sheet up over his
precious tear-streaked face, and making more funeral arrangements.
‘How can God
treat me like this?’ she said to herself, not daring to pray, in case she
expressed her true feelings. ‘I go to synagogue and say prayers and do the
rituals and keep the laws and try to live like a member of the chosen race –
although after this I think I must have been chosen for suffering, not for
preferential treatment. Year of the
Lord’s favour? I don’t believe it. Yes, yes, I shouldn’t rage at God for
doing this to me, but the Lord taketh
away seems to be the only bit of that scripture that applies.’
The second
funeral was even more of an ordeal than the first. It was unspeakably horrible.
At least when her dead husband was buried she had a little hope within her –
physically and emotionally.
Now she was
burying her dead son, she had nothing.
After the
synagogue service, they carried the little – oh, so little! – wooden box out to
where the tombs were, outside the village, in order to lay the boy next to his
father.
A small crowd
had gathered. Mr Benjamin had thoughtfully cancelled school that day, so all
the children were there, with their families, many of them. Some of the younger
children were enjoying their day off, but the ones who knew Caleb showed
respect. Some were visibly saddened by the occasion.
As the small
crowd approached the place of the tombs, a group of travelling folks were
coming the other way. One of the men saw what was happening, came up to the coffin
and spoke with a remarkable mixture of authority and compassion to the widow.
‘Don’t cry.’
Oh, she so
wanted to stop crying, but her son and her husband were both dead, and this man
was giving no reason to stop mourning them.
Then he
approached the coffin, touched it and spoke softly. ‘Young man, I’m telling you
to get up!’
She was about
to get angry at this cruel, foolish poor taste, when, to her joyful amazement,
everyone could hear shouts from the inside of the coffin! They could also hear
hefty great kicks, which reminded the woman of the way her baby had struggled
before he was born. The men carrying the coffin put it down, and as they prised
the lid free, Caleb sat up!
‘Are we playing
hide and seek? I think I fell asleep…’
She ran to him
and smothered the poor lad with kisses. ‘You were very poorly, you know.
Actually…’ She wondered if she should tell him he’d been dead since the night
before? Perhaps that would not be a good idea. At least, not yet. ‘You’ve been
really very poorly. But you’re
obviously feeling better!’ She tried to hug him.
‘Oh, get off
me, Mum! I’m hungry. Is there any dinner? Do I have to go to school today?’
He noticed
some of his school friends standing nearby. They were dumbstruck with amazement
at what they were witnessing. But Caleb asked ‘Can I go and play with Manasseh?
Let me out of this box! Why is Uncle Jethro here? I feel a lot better than I
did yesterday. I must have slept it off or something. Yes, lots better, But I
am peckish. I’d like some dinner!’
By this time,
everyone was smiling and several of the travellers were laughing at the way
Caleb was so matter-of-fact. Soon the merriment spread to the whole crowd, and
someone told the professional mourners to go home. Caleb pointed out to his
mother (yet more childish self-centredness and exaggeration) that he was about
to starve to death, so could he please
have some dinner?
It was all
happening so quickly that the widow didn’t get a chance to speak to the
travelling man who had so utterly changed her run of bad luck. She later
learned he was a prophet-type from Nazareth, and someone said he had been
rejected locally. One lady (a bit of a gossip, so don’t hold much store by her
comments) said had been the young man they wanted to throw off the cliff…
But the widow
had to concede that this certainly was the year of the Lord’s favour, albeit
after a pretty shaky start.
She spent
lots of money on a party for Caleb and his friends to celebrate his revival,
and decided that (as soon as she could) she would travel to Jerusalem on a
pilgrimage to the temple to pray prayers of thanksgiving. All the money she had
left was put towards this trip – all her savings, everything. She knew she
would have to work hard for the next few months to make ends meet but she reckoned
she was organised and could manage things well enough to be able to get by on
not very much.
Caleb stayed
with Manasseh and his family for a few days while she travelled. She had to pay
Manasseh’s family a little for his keep and give her travelling companions a
little (actually, slightly more than she’d expected) for the loan of the donkey
and for food. So by the time she got to Jerusalem, she’d spent all her money
and had nothing left to pay the temple tax. Not anything. She was completely
without a single penny.
This was a
disaster – to have spent what she had, and to have come all this way and then
no have coins to give as she entered the temple... ‘What would people think?’
she wondered. ‘I have nothing to put into those great brass trumpets.’ It was
their shape that reminded people of fanfares: the sound they made was an
impressive rattling as handfuls of coins were thrown in.
Fighting a
rising sense of panic, she had a thorough, desperate rummage in her bags and
eventually found two mites she didn’t know she had, tucked into a seam in a
corner. She wondered if they would be an insult, but decided she could put them
in. At least it would be something! She hoped no-one would criticise her, so
she slipped into the queue, waiting to approach the trumpets.
She so wanted
to be able to give thanks at the temple for the life of her son as she was genuinely
grateful to God for sending that prophet-type to heal young Caleb, and restore
him to life. She desperately wanted to pray at the temple, and seek God’s
forgiveness for her anger.
Just ahead of
her were five wealthy people, who were lining up to throw large quantities of
money into the offering. As was the self-aggrandising custom, they’d changed
their money into temple tax coinage – small denominations, to ensure that their
giving would make the maximum amount of clatter and noise.
She quickly
stepped up to the offering-place, threw in her two mites and hurried into the
temple courts. She was vaguely aware of some men sitting around and hanging about,
but she didn’t stop to see who they were. She was glad she had managed to get
away without anyone noticing what she’d done. If one of the priests had seen
how little she’d given, he might have given her a lecture about generosity and
even chased her out of the temple.
But honestly,
it was all she had. Could she be justifiably called a skinflint when her
offering left her flat broke?
She didn’t
notice that one of the men watching her was the traveller-prophet who had
raised her son from his coffin. And she never found out he had been the
unfamiliar young man who had stirred up trouble for himself in the synagogue.
‘Shame
I never got to meet him again, to thank him,’ she said to herself.
Already
a widow – now her son has died too
What qualities do the widow, the teacher, and the boy exhibit? Which
do you most admire?
How many times does the widow encounter Jesus (usually without
realising it)?
Why does God pay far more attention to what we have left over, rather
than the amount we give?
