Chapter
Two
WHEN she stepped out on to the roof, the moon was full, and everything was bathed and shimmering in its delicate, silvery light.
Bethany's night wind, which always kissed the earth and the whitewashed houses with its coolness each evening, was gently perfuming the air with various fragrances.
The majestic scent of cedar, cypress, and pine trees was sprinkled with the soft, light aroma of spring flowers which had just burst into splashes of color in the gardens below and the hills beyond.
The only sounds up there now were the songs of the crickets and other small creatures who were performing their simple musical patterns out in their hillside amphitheater.
Bordering the large roof on three sides were low stout walls, whitewashed and gleaming in the moon's illumination. The long back side of the roof supported a narrow third-level room. Martha used it for storing extra supplies and foodstuffs, but sometimes, when they had a houseful of guests in the height of the summer's heat and dryness, she cleaned it out and used it for cool sleeping quarters.
At one end attached to the front of this room was a large fringed canopy. It was held out from the walls by three sturdy wooden poles. During the day its shade provided a lonely respite from the sun's searing rays, but at night it provided a dark, rather private place for contemplation.
Scattered over the rooftop itself were large, flat, woven drying trays and wide baskets. Because it was spring, the trays were empty now, but they were stained and fragrant with the juice
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from the last harvest of figs, grapes and apricots. Here and there, in the midst of the baskets and trays, stood some gracefully designed pottery storage jars. Up on the wall, Martha had started small fruit trees by planting them in little wooden tubs. They stood like miniature sentries around the wall and gently bent with the breeze.
The moon's light was so bright that the darkest place on the roof was the area under the canvas canopy, but all of it escaped Martha. None of the night's sounds, sights, or even the roof's lone occupant was seen by the fatigued woman.
Almost as if she were in a trance. Martha moved across the expansive roof, picked her way around some large jars, and crumpled down on the edge of the roof wall just in front of the canopied area.
Her feelings were unreal as if they did not belong to her but floated out around her. Her body was there, but she couldn't feel anything. Her eyes were open, but she saw nothing. She spoke and was unaware that her words were being heard. "I feel like a wilted tamarisk blossom," she sighed. She couldn't remember being so tired. Even my bones are tired, she realized. The skin over her cheekbones seemed stretched to its limit, and her head was persistently pounding with pain. She was gray with fatigue, but she resolved anew that she would not give in. "I'll hold out," she said aloud, but she wasn't sure how.
Suddenly she blurted out, "My God, have You abandoned me? Lazarus is dying. I've done all I could do. No I've done more than anyone. Will You snatch him away, too?" Her thoughts became jagged, rough spoken utterances. Had she been given to cursing (as the widow woman who lived in the small cave on the lower hillside), she would have screamed her obscenities to the whole of Bethany. Yes, she thought, even to the smallest star on the edge of the darkest part of night. However, she couldn't ignore the coolness of the night on the roof, and it soothed her, but her thoughts continued to pour out of her as if her soul were a broken vessel.
"Like a thief in the night, You have stolen my mother, father, even my bridegroom. And now, again in the night, are You stealing my brother, too?"
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Some of what she said and felt got through to her, because she found herself a bit shocked at what she had voiced. Never, ever, had she vocalized her frustrations about God's will to anyone, much less to God! Yet the words continued to drain out of her heart.
"I do not begin to see the wisdom of all this. He suffers wordlessly; yet he continues to suffer. His pain is more than I can bear; yet the thought of his dying runs a dagger through me. Dear God, I have seen so much of sickness and death. Must I see even more?"
For once Martha let her hot, stinging tears stream down her face. The rigidness seemed to melt out of her neck and spine, and as the tears were released, she bent over and laid her head in her arms on her knees. Her sobbing stabbed the night with sound.
She did not know how long she sat like that or whether it was the cry or the cool wind which refreshed her, but slowly she felt a little better. She eased herself down off the wall and sat on the rooftop itself. An early spring rain had patted down the earth, and the cool, moist air seemed to slow her breathing and anger.
Leaning with her back braced by the wall, she said aloud of past memories, "You know, my Lord, I don't ever remember being alive without the sword of death hanging over my head."
She recalled her mother's death and remembered that her father's sobbing could be heard in the farthest corner of their majestic stone house.
Lazarus, only three years old at the time, knew only by his father's wailing that something was terribly wrong. He stayed on his pallet with Naomi bending over him, doing her best to calm his fears.
Martha, at five, knew better. She was already a serious child by nature, and her mother's death made her even more somber.
Their neighbor Hannah had discovered Martha standing stoically in the hall outside Rachel's room. She had picked the little girl up, held her on her broad lap, and sang soft little songs to her. But it was to no avail. Martha's young mind sensed that because of the night's events, everything would be changed.
The morning after her mother died, Martha solemnly watched
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as the women bathed and prepared the body for burial in the family sepulchre. Had they seen her, she would not have been allowed to stay. But she was so small and still, and the women so preoccupied, that no one caught sight of her.
Some would say later of the day that it was the moment when a five-year-old girl grew into womanhood. It was true. For Martha seemed, from that day forward, to accept death and dying, and in small ways she began to carry out a few adult responsibilities. Overnight she became the self-appointed guardian and mother to both her brother and infant sister, almost totally ignoring Naomi's mothering efforts.
She interrupted her recollections by voicing out loud, "Yes, all this time I've taken my mother's place and for the last eighteen years even my father's position."
"Mother," she said absently to the night winds. "Mother, you would be proud of me, I think, for I have tried to do my very best."
Deliberately, to change her thoughts and depressing mood, she began to concentrate on identifying the night's fragrances. She started with the tiny, white, star-shaped blossoms on one of her fledgling orange trees and worked through a couple of others. She even caught the faint whiff of roasting lamb. It roused her sense of taste and reminded her of how long it had been since she had eaten.
Who, in all of Bethany, would be cooking this time of night? she idly wondered. Who, but thoughtful Hannah, she realized. No wonder Hannah left early tonight. She wanted to provide for us tomorrow. How dear of her.
The pain in her head was still persistent, but now it had enlarged and moved down into her neck and shoulder muscles. It was demanding her full attention. She massaged around her neck and spent some time trying to loosen the hard ropes which seemed to be strangling her, but it was of no use. Everything was knotted into pain. Her mind went back to Lazarus.
How many times have I done this for him? She smiled in a rueful manner as she remembered how one of the villagers, a vulgar man, had teased her about her ability to rub and massage away pain. He had coarsely suggested she go to Jerusalem and
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open up a massage shop next to the Romans' public bathhouse.
All her life she had been good with her healing hands, and she knew it with confidence, not conceit; yet she could not tolerate her failure with Lazarus.
It was all so puzzling to her. She was Bethany's mainstay for the sick. If a woman ailed or a baby was born, if a man was dying or if someone had been injured in an accident, they always sent for her. The villagers knew they could depend on Martha's calmness, her gift with herbs and ointments, and her talented healing hands.
For months now she had used on Lazarus every magical brew of herbs she had ever known. She had wrapped him in every poultice imaginable, and she had done everything there was to do.
But now the overwhelming fatigue had robed her of the ability to think clearly, and as a sudden squally storm could stir a calm lake into a frenzy, she became more depressed and blurted out, "Why, then, have I failed so much? I've lost my precious family. I was unable to save any of them. Am I to lose Lazarus, too? Am I to fail again?"
Out of the dark area under the canopy a voice quietly answered.
"We could send for the Master."
Martha heard the voice, and the words hit her with the force of a lightning bolt in a thunderstorm. She was up on her feet instantly. On her ascent up, her arm hit two basket trays and sent them flying over the wall and thudding about on the ground below.
Immediately Martha remembered how she had sought for Mary earlier and how Mary had simply vanished into the night. Without warning Martha's anger boiled to the surface of her mind and tongue. She stood in the middle of the roof in front of the canopy, both hands on her hips, and spit out a torrential flow of words, accusations, and penetrating questions.
"Mary! Where have you been all night? I needed you. Why didn't you come and help me? I sent Tabitha to find you. Don't you know Lazarus almost died?" She was on the edge of screaming now. "Why did you stay away?" Finally, she shouted
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the three vital words which were burning within her. "Where were you?"
Mary came out from the awning's darkness and stood directly in front of Martha. Her hair was all covered by a veil, but her face shone in the moonlight because of the wetness of her cheeks. She was shaking, not because of the night's chill, but because she'd never seen or heard Martha so angry.
At first she just stood there, with no words to explain her absence. Finally, in her soft but clear, warm voice, Mary slowly confessed, "I've been up here, my sister." She put her head down. "I could not come to you. You know how any sickness of others produces my own inner illness. I would have been no good to you in his room. Besides, it was better that I stay here and pray." She looked up and searched Martha's face for understanding.
"Pray?" snapped Martha. "Pray — when all of Bethany was in our house? When I have so much to worry about, you disappear and make an added worry? When everyone had so many tasks to tend? When our brother would have been soothed by your presence? You stayed up here and prayed?"
Her exasperation with Mary knew no limits! After a moment's pause, she continued her tirade, only now her voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"Well, Mary, my dear sister, when you were up here praying, did God answer your prayers or shed any wisdom on our circumstances?"
Mary, sensitive to the events which provoked Martha's rage, ignored the tone of her sister's question and answered evenly, "Yes, Martha, He did answer. He is a loving God and full of justice and mercy."
Abruptly Martha turned, leaving her sister, and walked to the roof's edge to absently look down the main hill road which led towards Jerusalem.
Mary moved behind her, and after hesitating for a moment, she took ahold of Martha's arm and said carefully, "I think it is God's will that we send for Jesus. He loves our brother. They are the dearest friends. We have never asked the Master for healing. But now we need him if Lazarus is to be restored." She
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did not catch Martha's impatient sigh.
Grateful for the passing of a sudden gust of cold wind, Martha used the difficult moment to pick up an old shawl which had been left on the edge of a jar. After she pulled the shawl around her shoulders, she clearly, and surprisingly without hostility, said, "If he really is who he says he is — God," she pronounced the name skeptically, "then we would not have to send for him. He would already know we needed him."
Mary's skin prickled at the back of her neck ever so slightly as she heard her sister's nearly blasphemous statement.
Martha waited for her words to sink in and then, looking directly at Mary, said, "Don't condemn me with those righteous eyes of yours, my sister. You know you have already wondered why Jesus had not come on his own before this, haven't you?"
Mary knew full well she was no match for Martha's logical debates; so she simply shrugged her shoulders and answered, "Honestly, I know somewhere in your words are buried truths, but it would take wisdom beyond my understanding and logic beyond my ability to unravel the mysteries of what you have just said."
Lamely at first, and then tenderly but with more authority, she went on. "All I know is that tonight as I prayed, I felt we should send for the Master. From there, my sister, I just don't know."
Mary's openness had more than once softened Martha, and tonight her humble attitude plus her genuine loving honesty flowed over Martha like a warm, fragrant oil, soothing away the exhausted woman's feelings.
It is such a bewildering, confusing time, Martha thought. One moment I am angry and shouting, and the very next moment I am sad and inwardly weeping. All the order seems to have gone out of my life, and now I have lashed out at Mary; yet she answers me with soft truthfulness and gentle love.
Martha turned, shook her head, and with glistening eyes, embraced her sister. "I am truly sorry I spoke so harshly, beloved one." Martha apologized, patting her sister's shoulders. "Forgive me. My mind does not seem to be pulling together as it always has." Inside she felt as if her life was a cart hitched up to two unequally yoked animals, with a horse pulling one way and
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an ox pulling the other. Everything was so wrong and so baffling. She longed for the clear, decisive world of a few days ago.
Mary pulled away and studied Martha in a peculiar, searching way. It was obvious that some unseen thought had unbelievably formed itself into a startling realization, and looking directly at Martha, she said. "But you still don't think we should send for Jesus, do you, Martha?"
Martha tried to sound nonchalant. "No. It is simply that I am not sure we have the right to ask." She then brought up the friendship of the past three years and how it would be an imposition for Jesus to come. She continued, over Mary's softly voiced objections, with the fact that Jesus was in precarious circumstances as it was.
She would have gone on with her list of arguments except that Mary cut to the heart of it with, "You think it's too late for Lazarus! That's it, isn't it? You think he'll be dead before we can reach the Master. You don't think Jesus will reach here in time, is that it?"
Martha gave in and affirmatively nodded her head. Mary had that uncanny ability to sense the core of a problem and dig up the deep, covered-up issues of the heart. On this one, she had hit Martha dead center with her arrow of truth.
Mary touched Martha's cheek turned her face toward her own and directly questioned, "He is that sick? Lazarus is really so sick that he may die in a few days?" Her voice was breaking here and there.
Martha turned away and said flatly, "No. He may be already dead. He spilled much of his lifeblood tonight, and his body was burning with more heat than I've ever seen or felt before. His breathing comes in jerks and pauses like the steps of an old man coming down a dangerous, steep path. One does not know when the next breath will come, or if it will come at all. He lies with a death mask on his face."
"Oh, don't," Mary cried. "Don't say those things."
"I'm sorry, dear sister, but it is true." Martha straightened up, tall and unbending, and matter-of-factly smoothed her hair so it was all caught under the coiled braid at the nape of her neck. After adjusting her shawl, she said, "Come, we will go to
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him. I will show you what I mean."
Mary did not move or respond.
"Mary, Mary," Martha walked up behind her and said softly in her ear. "Dear sister, I know Jesus can hear. Haven't we both seen him with our own eyes?"
Mary nodded.
"It's just that this time," Martha hesitated. "This time, it's too late. Lazarus has been so sick too long, and time has run out for him"
"Then you are forgetting our kinsfolk in Capernaum." Mary's quiet voice chilled the air.
"Our kinsfolk?" Martha wondered aloud. "Oh, yes," she said as she remembered. "You mean our mother's brother and his account of Sarah's recovery?"
"Sarah's recovery?" Mary stared at her sister. "It was much more than a recovery! Uncle Jairus said she had died; yet Jesus raised her from the deep pool of death and brought her back!"
"But," Martha stammered, "that was different."
"Different, how?" demanded Mary.
"Well," Martha's tone was getting impatient, "Sarah never had been sick a day in all of her brief twelve years. She could have merely had a sleeping sickness which overcame her that morning then...."
"No!" Mary's voice was strained and taut. "That's not what happened. She was dead, not sleeping, and Jesus raised her. Besides, Philip and Andrew both told us about being with Jesus in the city of Nain and how a widow's son was raised from the dead ...."
"All this talk is needless," Martha broke in. "Think of all the stories we have heard of Jesus, Mary. How could one person to do so many things and be in so many places? Besides, I tell you, it is different for our Lazarus."
"I know what's the matter with you, Martha." Mary was as close to raising her voice as she had ever been. "You believe Jesus can do certain things, like healing people, but only up to a point or under the right circumstances. You think of Jesus as another Simeon, the magician — a person who can do some magic tricks, but not all. You've turned our Master into a magician,
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and a limited magician at that!" Her subdued fury flung itself noisily into the night.
"That's not true!" Martha angrily countered, as she gripped Mary's shoulders. "I believe in his divine gifts... I've seen him heal... I know his power. It's just that I have also seen Lazarus." Then, gesturing towards the sky with her hand, she continued. "While you've been up here 'communing' with God, I've been watching our brother's life ebb away. He's almost gone. If Jesus were here now — this moment — I believe he could put the light back into Lazarus's eyes. But he's not here, and I just know it's too late. I have to be realistic about this. I also know there is a time to be born and a time to die, and from everything I've seen, it is Lazarus's time."
Seeing she was getting nowhere, Martha abruptly took charge and guided her sister across the roof to the stairway, tersely saying, "Come, see for yourself."
The moon was slipping down behind one set of hills, and the sun was creeping up over the other. The crickets had slowed their song almost to a complete stop as the two young women made their way down the outside staircase.
Then entered Lazarus's large chamber to discover that Naomi and Leah had fallen into an exhausted sleep. While everything appeared to be pretty much as it had been, Martha instantly knew something was different. She hurried to him.
His dark brown hair and beard were damp to her touch as she smoothed it. His eyes opened, and though deep, dark half-circles lay under them, Martha thought she saw a glimmer of his old sparkle, and suddenly she was encouraged.
"Martha," Lazarus said faintly, and leaned closer to catch each word. "Is it morning yet?" The sleeping women awoke with a start at the sound of his voice.
What a delight! What wonderment! Not only did he recognize her, but he asked a reasonable question. Was he better? Martha's thoughts raced wildly. Behind her, Mary questioned, "What did he say?"
Smiling, Lazarus said, "If someone would draw back the tapestries, I could tell if it is morning, if only someone would..." He spoke quite clearly, and everyone heard.
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Thank heaven, even his sense of humor is alive! Martha's thoughts flashed, and she breathed deeply. Naomi and Leah left hurriedly to tell the others of this miraculous change.
"Mary, pull back the curtains." Martha's command was almost joyous.
Lazarus's room faced the east, and since the first rosy haze of dawn had begun, the light filtered in — pale, but lovely.
Is it the warm color of the morning sun, or is it really his coloring that tells me he looks better? Is he, or is the sun playing tricks on me? Martha wondered. He did look so much better. She was still unable to take it all in. But just as she was sorting it all out in her mind, Mary tugged at her arm and silently motioned her to follow.
Out in the hall, using guarded, whispered tones, both women began talking at once.
"It's a sign!" Mary enthused.
"Maybe Jesus has already healed him!" Martha hopefully theorized.
"That may be true, but shouldn't we send for Jesus, anyway?" Mary urged.
"Yes, perhaps that's wise." Martha surprised herself with her abrupt turnabout.
Together they went back to him.
"What are you two planing?" Lazarus asked and managed a weak smile.
"We thought you'd like to see the Master." Mary explained.
He nodded and ever so softly said, "Yes, yes. I'd like that. I am lonely to see his face, and it would be good to hear his voice."
On hearing this, Martha left them hurriedly, and her words "I'll see to it" made them smile knowingly at each other.
Mary was on familiar ground with this Lazarus, and she could freely give of herself to his needs. It was the other Lazarus, the one impaled by the sword of pain or quivering on the brink of death, to whom she was of no help at all. Only Martha could treat and minister on those days. But this morning, with him so improved, she was pleased that Martha had left her in charge of him, and she was filled with a contagious kind of joy.
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Mary perched herself on the edge of his pallet like a small sparrow on a tree branch, and for some time they needed no words. They drank in the stillness and the peace of the lovely dawn.
A bit later Mary questioned, "Could you sip some water, dear Lazarus?" He answered with something, but she missed it; so he spoke up and said, "No, nothing. Just sing for me."
Her laugh bubbled out of her, and she said, "Oh, no. I would sound like a frog croaking in the creek bed. Besides, what would I sing?"
He spoke slowly, but softly; so she bent closer to him to catch his words.
"When we were children, you made up songs for any occasion. Do it now," he whispered.
Delighted that he seemed so much better, Mary agreed and pulled a large cushion from his pallet, placed it on the floor nearest his head, and plopped down on it with childlike grace.
"Alright, big brother, but it might not be very good, and remember you'll have to add a verse of your own."
Her humming began immediately and so did the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Lazarus silently watched the face of his beautiful sister, and she, catching the look of dear love, became even more beautiful.
After she thought and hummed a bit, she checked with him and asked playfully, "Are you ready for this?" He nodded and blinked one eyelid to show his approval.
The foolish little song, written in a moment and inspired by the moment, came liltingly out of Mary's clear and bell-like voice.
Jesus is coming today, today.
Oh, give me sparrows' wings on his feet.
So he can fly to us, this day,
This day.
Jesus is coming today, today.
Oh, give him foxes' feet,
So he can run to us, this day,
This day.
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Here Lazarus chuckled softly. "You're right," he said. "It's not very good."
Ignoring him, with a look of mock indignation, she continued.
Jesus is coming today, today.
Oh, give him fast little rabbit's feet,
So he can hop to us this day.
This day.
Mary stopped her singing, and suppressing a small giggle, she said as sternly as she could, "Now, Lazarus, for the next verse it's your turn." Turning up her pert little nose, she said, "You'll see how it takes a lot of natural talent to compose songs." She stole a peek at him. He was still smiling.
"Come, now, it's your turn, Lazarus... Lazarus..." She touched his arm. The smile was there, but he was not.
Abruptly the song and the game were over. He had gone without a good-bye.
Still holding his arm. Mary was unable to move. The only sound from her was her repeated cry of "Martha... Martha...Martha," but it was barely whispered; so no one heard, and no one came. christian books online books
