It Seems Like Only Yesterday

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The old woman told me to my face that it would have been better if I had never been born.

And was I expected to accept the blame for that?

I lost my innocence then—at the tender age of twelve. Like the gush that announces the blooming of womanhood, came the understanding that no one is safe, not even a child in the presence of someone old enough to know better.

At one time our city mayor was a lowly high school counselor—well, I guess to us he didn’t seem so humble then. My one, and thankfully, only visit to his office was on the occasion of his dispensing advice concerning my future. He asked about my plans. I told him. He informed me that I didn’t have the brains to do what I anticipated.

It’s a good thing I didn’t believe him.

It was at that point in life that I came to the conclusion that free advice might actually be worth exactly what you pay for it, and even those in lofty positions of influence might not always know what they are talking about.

Four years later, within weeks of graduating from my chosen institution of higher learning, I was asked to be the valedictorian of my graduating class. Days later, a rather shamefaced dean informed me that the Board of Directors of the school had rescinded the invitation. After all, they argued, the school was trying to attract men, making it inappropriate to have me, a woman, as valedictorian.

I guess I should have been doubly insulted.

So I learned that sometimes even the most godly men do ungodly things. History tends to repeat itself, but it’s that first plunge into the waters of disillusionment that seems the coldest. With time I would become much more familiar with my own frailties and become much more sympathetic to the weaknesses of others. All the same, during those chaotic days I discovered friends I really wasn’t aware that I had, classmates who refused to allow the scions of ecclesiastical power to do the wrong thing.

During the adventurous twenties, I was to learn that with patience and perseverance, even the harshest critic can be won over, and that not every open door leads directly into the next room. Sometimes there are hallways to be dealt with before we are ready for the next door. A hallway can be a humbling place, something akin to standing in a corner except that it isn’t punishment. It’s, well, a place to wait, reflect, and get things in perspective.

In one of those hallways, in middle life—the lower middle—a shock awaited me. I discovered that God wasn’t impressed by my job description. He showed me that I needed to describe myself, not by my title, but by my relationship to him. He was more impressed by my being than by my doing. To teach me that lesson, he had to strip away all that he had given me so that I would learn to focus, not on the gift, but on the One who had done the giving.

In my forties, I took the first steps toward learning not to tell God how things ought to be done. I also learned to tell my mother what to do, and then discovered what a wonderful thing it was to be able to relinquish the role of “mothering” my mother and to return to being a daughter.

“Freedom 55” came and went. I resented that, especially since my brother retired with a nice package at the age of fifty-two. But then, I argued, what would be the use of having learned all those lessons, gained all those experiences and acquired all that expertise just in time to be relegated to that proverbial “pasture.” I remembered Caleb, who demanded the right to take on the toughest assignment possible—at the age of eighty-five. I’m barely crawling out of my nappies compared to him.

Now, on the cusp of years that are physically rusty but spiritually golden, I realize that my battles are not fought with the same naivety as in the spring of my life, nor with the same heat as in my summer years. The fall is cool but fresh, and bright with colour. There are still possibilities to explore, mountains to take, more lessons to learn, before winter comes.

And I have a message to deliver to an old woman.

Not Today, Maybe Tomorrow

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Sheila gently laid the photo album on her Aunt Mary’s lap. It had been a while since she had visited with the last of her mother’s siblings. Time and distance conspired to keep them apart. But a 100th birthday didn’t happen ever day, so Sheila put everything else aside to be at Riverdale for the celebration.

Frail hands, veins standing out and marked with age spots, caressed one of the photos on the first page of the album.

“That was 1911, the year I was born. That’s my mother.”

Sheila moved closer. Aunt Mary’s hearing wasn’t very good anymore.

“They didn’t smile much for photos, did they?”

Mary harrumphed, as she said, “Mother wasn’t a very happy person at the best of times. Ten children before me and all the farm work too—just about wore her to death.”

She turned the page. The photo of a handsome young lad in a military uniform stared up at them.

“Was that one of your brothers?” Sheila asked, hoping to encourage more memories. “Some of them were in the First World War, weren’t they?

Mary thought for a moment before she answered: “No…at least I don’t think so, though…well, it might have been Charlie…but…oh, I don’t remember…” Her voice trailed off. Mary’s hand stopped over the picture, resting on it as though waiting for an answer to magically flow from the thick cardboard into her mind. Sheila could see the struggle to remember on her aunt’s face.

“It’s okay, Aunt Mary, it’s not important.”

The older woman looked up, meeting Sheila’s gaze and pinioning it with the icy blue of her own. “It IS important,” she retorted, frustration and a touch of anger adding an edge to her usually calm tones. Immediately her eyes went back to the photo.

“It was Charlie, not my brother, but my mother’s younger brother. He went away and never came back,” she said. It was as though that moment of pique had chased the fog away. She turned the page and reached out to stab a more modern photo with a long, boney, arthritic finger.

“That’s Emma, my sister.”

“My mother,” said Sheila.

Mary looked up again as though seeing Sheila for the first time.

“You were away for a long time, weren’t you? Where was it…Africa?”

“Japan, Aunt Mary. I was there for twelve years.”

“Yes, of course,” her aunt replied.

There had been a time when her visits with her aunt had resulted in hours of questions about Sheila’s life and experiences. Mary kept every letter, writing her questions in cramped handwriting in the margins so that she wouldn’t forget what she wanted to ask the next time her niece came. Now the questions wouldn’t come and the answers didn’t matter.

“Have you heard anything from Edith McKay? I haven’t had a letter from her in a long time. Has she called you?”

Sheila smiled to herself. In her latter years Aunt Mary had begun to collapse time in her mind and think of her niece as one of her peer group, another one of the “girls” like Edith, Mary’s best friend from her younger days.

“Edith died several years ago, Aunt Mary,” Sheila said.

The older women looked puzzled for a moment. Then, as her brow cleared, she nodded slowly. “Yes, of course,” she replied.

Sheila decided it might be time to press her aunt a little. What kind of present do you get for a woman about to celebrate 100 years of life?

“What would you like for your birthday, Aunt Mary?”

This time Mary didn’t hesitate. “What I want I think I’m going to have to wait for,” she answered. Sheila knew that her aunt loved to go out for drives through the countryside and, thinking that perhaps the other nieces had some special outing planned, she asked: “And what might that be?”

“I want to go home.”

Her cousins had assured Sheila that their aunt had made the adjustment from her apartment to the seniors’ home with relative ease, so she was surprised that her aunt would be so adamant about leaving Riverdale.

“Don’t you like it here? Don’t they treat you well? It’s almost as good as the apartment and you don’t have to cook, or do your own laundry.”

The older women straightened with an effort. For the first time during the visit, there was a twinkle in her eye, certainty in her voice, and not a wisp of fog to be seen.

“The apartment isn’t the home I was thinking of.”

Hindsight

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In that other life, I might have cried bitterly, but I had only happy tears now. I should have been sad, or angry, or resentful, but those emotions had died along with my diseased and corrupted body.

So I faced my sister in Christ at the corner of Golden Passage and Angel’s Walk with nothing but love in my heart. Heaven is odd—I had never met Sandra on the dark side of eternity, nor any member of her family, but I knew her. I also intuitively felt the link that connected her former life with what had been mine. That’s why I wanted to meet her.

Even though time is endless here, there is no time in heaven for small talk, no need to “work up” to the subject. I simply asked. Sandra had never met me before, but she sensed the connection with me as much as I did with her.

“What happened?”

She smiled, not a sad smile, but a reflective one.

“It seemed so simple then, Mercedes. Why would my daughter and her husband go so far away, take my grandchildren to another world, another life, and deprive them, and me, of each others' company?”

“Not even to serve God?” I said.

“No, not even to serve God. I reasoned that they could serve Him at home just as well as they could in some foreign country—better, in fact. There was no new language to learn, no strange culture to adjust to, less danger, more of the good things of life. What could they do with youth thousands of miles away from me that they couldn’t do three streets over in the neighbourhood we had shared all of our lives.”

“And your grandchildren?”

“They were so small when Susan and Jeff left—three and five. It tore my heart out to see them go. I was determined to convince them to come back home so that I could watch the kids grow, be part of their lives. It just didn’t seem fair. I had the means to visit frequently during that first year they were overseas. I called, sometimes two and three times a week. At every opportunity I reminded them of what they had given up, and of what they were depriving me of. Did you know Susan and Jeff?”

“No, they left before we could meet. I worked at the guardería where Susan would have left Toby to do prekindergarten, if they had stayed. She would have been the first real Christian to come into my life.”

The memories were purged. I remembered, but there was no hurt to feel. I had been so young when I began working in the guardería: needing and wanting, not knowing how to distinguish between the two, or how to interpret their signals. I followed where others led and ended up pregnant, destitute, and alone. Two bad relationships, two abortions and years of grief later, I was introduced to a missionary who introduced me to Jesus.

“In what was once my culture, family is very important. Being a grandmother, having the children close by, must have been vitally important for you, Sandra.”

“More important than anything, then. I was certain that having them home was the best thing in the world for all of us,” she replied.

“It wasn’t?”

Sandra shook her head. “They had everything being overseas couldn’t give them, and I had everything I wanted—my grandchildren. Susan and I were so close, more like sisters than mother and daughter. After they came back, it wasn’t quite the same. There always seemed to be a piece missing for Susan.”

I thought I saw a shadow appear and then disappear behind Sandra’s eyes. I must have been mistaken because there are no shadows in heaven.

“You were the missing piece, weren’t you, Mercedes? You were Susan’s mission. And I pressured her away before she could get to you, didn’t I?”

“God sent someone else later,” I said softly.

“Yes. Later.”

For eternity’s version of a second, heaven was silent as we acknowledged God’s mercy and His forgiveness—for both of us.

“How did your grandchildren fare?”

“Mercedes, distance isn’t only measured in miles. Danger lurks in familiar places and behind friendly faces. I watched them grow up and grow away from me anyway. Things happened—well, I came to wonder if they might not have been safer if they had stayed where Susan and Jeff felt that God had called them.”

Gently, I said: “But you did it for family. I understand.”

“You’re being kind. No, nothing so noble; I did it for myself.”

Tale of a Missionary Car

It wasn't quite this bad! (Google Images)

(Author's Note: This story came up in a Bible study I was leading this week, so I decided to post it on the blog today.)

A single candle flickered in the room, threatening to leave us in darkness as we prepared for bed. Chilling drafts crept in through cracks in the wall, the roof, and the partially opened door. Rain pounded down outside.

I lay shivering on a straw-filled mattress. What we had come to this community to do was not going to be easy. Fear and superstition in rural Colombia, South America made it difficult to explain the Gospel. How could an inexperienced team of Bible students break through years of deep-seated tradition?

It was during summer vacation in 1978, and I doing children’s ministry with some of my students from our Bible Institute. We had planned to offer the program in six churches—three in Medellin, a highly industrialized city of over a million people, and then three more in our rural churches.

My coworker Maria and I—plus Gustavo, our lone male team member, and two other students, headed out to a farming community about an hour outside of Medellin. Once we got off the main highway, the going got very rough. The path was filled with craters and jagged rocks that seemed destined to rip something vital off the bottom of my small car. We finally decided to get out and walk, leaving Maria to drive, in the hopes of lightening the load and avoiding any major damage.

When the path ran out, we were still some distance from the home where we would hold our program. Maria parked the car by a small schoolhouse on a hill just off the path. The school yard was about 10 feet above where the road ended. The car was out of sight. I was sure it would be safe enough parked away from the embankment with the doors locked and the brake on.

Our hostess Guillermina and her husband Efrain were poor tenant farmers. They entertained us royally with what little they had and they were so excited that we had come to tell their friends and neighbors about God’s love and forgiveness.

That afternoon we rounded up children from the neighboring farms and began our first kid’s meeting. It was late when we escorted them back to their homes. A house meeting was planned for the evening. The church people began to drift in one by one. Some had walked a long way. Because it was beginning to rain, the return trip home promised to be a wet one.

By the light of gas lanterns and with every bed and bench occupied, Gustavo delivered a stirring message from the Bible. Outside, the storm grew worse.

After the meeting, all us girls were glad to climb into our beds to escape the cold. The bedroom door wouldn’t shut, so I propped it closed with a box to keep out the worst of the draft. At last, Maria blew out the flickering candle and we settled in, seeking a little warmth against the dampness of the night.

I could hear someone talking on the porch outside. Suddenly the door flew open, sending the box crashing against the wall.

“Señoritas, señoritas!” Guillermina cried hysterically as she burst into the room and threw herself at the foot of the bed. “Forgive us!” It took some to get her calmed down enough to find out what we were supposed to forgive her for.

On the way back to their homes after the meeting, the Christians had found my car upside down in the middle of the path. Two tires had been slashed. The other two were flat. The gas line had been ripped out and some damage attempted to the motor. Earlier Gustavo had offered to sleep in the car for the sake of security, but it was too late for that now. What will we do? I wondered.

“Señorita,” our hostess continued, “we know who did this. Efrain is going out with his machete to punish them.”

Efrain, a new Christian, had once been notorious for his temper. Once again, anger had taken control. As our avenging angel he was now prepared to do battle.

“No”, I begged, “tell him to stay here. Murder is not God’s way of dealing with this.” Guillermina scurried out of the room after her husband.

Voices rose and fell outside the door. The four of us prayed that somehow God would prevent Efrain from this evil mission. Gustavo talked and prayed with him all through the night and our prayers were answered.

I shook uncontrollably as questions raced through my mind. How bad was the damage? How will we get back to Medellin? Why did this happen on the first night of six weeks of ministry? How will we do all the other clubs without the car? Was there worse to come?

Just hours before, I had congratulated myself that we had gotten the car this far without any damage. Now it was ruined.

As I lay there, God began to minister to me. Verses of His care and protection flashed through my mind. He reminded me that where the Spirit of God is, there is no room for fear, for “the angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them” (Psalm 34:7). There on that prickly mattress, peace returned. The car was His. Hadn’t I given it back to him when He first provided it? It was no longer mine, but HIS to do with as He pleased.

I fell asleep, thanking God and asking His forgiveness for my worry and fear.

The next morning, before we went back up the road to see the car, we had devotions together as a team. We prayed that God would glorify Himself through this situation. By the time we reached the school yard, a small crowd had already gathered. News travels fast, even in the remote, telephone-less hills of Colombia.

We answered the questions of all who passed, telling them about God and explaining to them why we had come here in the first place.

Our efforts at getting the car on its “feet” and back to town, accomplished with the help of La Unión’s battered fire truck, were closely watched and reported. As a team we resolved that we would stay, finish out our week, and not only talk about God’s love and forgiveness but prove it.

The meeting that night gave us the first glimpse of what the Lord was doing with His car. We were invited to hold our service in the home of a neighbor who wasn’t a believer. Strangers appeared at the door and the house was full to the rafters with people who had never heard the Gospel before. Curiosity had overcome fear. This amazing blessing would repeat itself every night during that week.

Colombians are very careful with their cars. Damage is swiftly repaired and keeping the car looking good is a “must”. But even after we returned to the city, I was reluctant to fix the car. Apart from the tires and the damage to the motor, both passenger and driver’s sides were crushed from being rolled down the embankment. This external damage provided us with endless opportunities to witness. At gas stations, stop signs and parking spots, people always asked what had happened. And when they asked, they received far more than just a “tale of a missionary car.”

With my limited understanding, I thought of the car as only a means of transportation from one place to another. But in God’s hands the car was to become an invaluable part of the missionary team, proving once again that He is always creative, always right and always faithful.

White and Gold With a Touch of Red

The sisters and sisters-in-law, still decked out in their flowery “Sunday-go-to-meeting” frocks, sat under the shade of the maple trees on this warm summer day. Erna fanned herself with the Sunday bulletin as Esther and Adeline chatted.

Near the corner of the house and within sight of the moms and aunts stood Erna’s boy, Wayne. He was a hand’s length from a hydrangea bush overflowing with greenish-white blooms.

“Whaddya think they’re talkin’ about?”

Wayne’s cousin Brenda nervously plucked at the embroidery on her dress. She peered around the hydrangea at the women. They kept looking over at the two children, smiling and pointing.

“Dunno. I don’t think we’re in trouble. But whatever it is, it’s about us,” she said.

“Yuh think so?”

“Yup. We shoulda bin told to take off our Sunday stuff soon as we got home from church. And nobody did.”

“Maybe they forgot?”

Brenda gave Wayne that “don’t be stupid” look.

Adeline worked fiercely every Saturday night to wrap Brenda’s blond hair in rags so that her golden ringlets bounced continually through Sunday School and church. Today the little girl wore a huge off-white bow in her hair. It matched a puffy-sleeved dress complete with Peter Pan collar, socks, and shoes.

The children wanted desperately to climb a tree, chase the chickens, puddle with the ducks in the creek, but had already been sharply rebuked by mothers and aunts and sternly told not to get dirty.

“Do yuh think we’re goin’ to church again?”

Brenda shook her head, making the ringlets swirl across her face.

“Brenda, don’t mess your hair up. For goodness sake, stay still!”

This rolled across the grass from the lawn chair occupied by Aunt Esther, the family fashion plate.

This time Wayne rolled his eyes. He was as blond as Brenda, and was also dressed in off-white right down to his shoes. Anyone looking at the two children would think that they were twins, not cousins.

The families, separated by five hundred miles, got together once every summer for a family reunion. Today was the day.

The other cousins came roaring around the corner of the house, almost colliding with the two semi-angels in semi-white.

“How come they can do what they want, and we can’t?” complained Brenda.

Wayne just shrugged. He was the quieter of the two. Every inch of Brenda craved for constant motion. This “stay still” was torture for her.

Uncle Harry came around the corner accompanied by a stranger carrying a tripod and a box.

“Wayne. Brenda. Come over here,” called Adeline, indicating the center of the lawn.

The man with the tripod set it up not far from them and then arranged the box on the top.

Brenda leaned over and whispered: “It’s a camera. They’re gonna take a picture.”

“They could’ve done that with my mom’s Brownie,” he observed with some disgust.

Adeline and Esther hurried over to the spot where the children were rooted. Erna stood back, not eager to get in the way of the movers and shakers of this little event. Esther went to work arranging the children.

“Now Brenda. You stand over here. Turn a little this way—no, that’s too much. Fine, that’s better. Put your arms down at your side. Stop fidgeting.”

She snapped out instructions like a drill sergeant as she smoothed Brenda’s skirts and adjusted her bow and sash. Then it was Wayne’s turn.

“Wayne, turn and look at your cousin. There, one leg in front of the other and bend towards her. Not too much now. Fine. Now, both of you lean forward just a bit. Wayne, reach out and touch Brenda’s arm. Don’t move, Wayne. Don’t wiggle, Brenda.”

Having positioned the children, the aunt turned to the photographer and signaled with her hand that everything was ready and he had better be ready too. She stepped out the way.

“Now Wayne, lean over and kiss Brenda on her cheek.”

Kiss her? On the cheek? Yuk! Why would I want to do that?

Kiss me? On the cheek? Yuk! Why would he want to do that?

Wayne knew better than to protest. Carefully, without moving the legs his aunt had positioned so precisely, he puckered his lips and leaned over.

Somewhere between pucker and cheek, the camera flashed and the white and gold moment was forever captured, framed by the luxuriant hydrangeas.

Personally, I think it’s a wonderful picture. Fifty years later, Brenda laughs at the memory. My brother? Well, he’s just as embarrassed today as he was then.

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Author's Note: I was very young when this happened so I can't say that my description of the events is even close to true, but the picture is, as they say, "worth a thousand words."

A Drawer Full of Crosses

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“I’ll be finished in an hour.”

That was my cousin, Susan. I’d spent every morning all during that week doing my devotions in her little cubbyhole of a home office. This particular morning she invited me to do my “meditating” at Galilee while she completed a couple of small jobs.

Outside of divine intervention, there should be no conceivable reason for Susan to end up at a spiritual retreat centre. She hates being dependent on anyone, even God. Nevertheless, even though she hasn’t admitted to needing to search for Him, God has sent out His posse after her.

Through the local, small town grapevine, Susan discovered that Galilee was looking for a painter. At the time, my cousin needed a job. She paints pastoral scenes, still life and portraits, so was more than qualified to paint walls, doors and woodwork.

The painting job turned into an administrative position. Personally, I think she runs the place: she lives and breathes Galilee.

She delights in telling me about the adventures involved in taking minutes when Galilee’s Board of Directors meets.

“I don’t speak Catholic,” she quips, explaining her difficulty in understanding the discussions buzzing around her.

She doesn’t “speak Catholic.” I am not sure she has ever gone to any church except to the chapel at Galilee when giving the required tour to guests — and to me, her “meditating” cousin. Considering the rather irreverent language in Susan’s vocabulary, I’ve often wondered how she’s managed to keep her job at the retreat centre. I suppose if God can shut the lions’ mouths, He is perfectly capable of shutting the ears of those who do “speak Catholic” so they don’t get offended by her speech patterns.

Before Susan sent me off to “meditate” — Susan doesn’t speak “Baptist” either, preferring a more generic “cover-all-the-possible-expressions-of-spirituality” kind of language — she showed me around the grounds and through the buildings.

Surrounded by stately trees, lush gardens and carefully tended grass, Galilee sits on a hill overlooking the Ottawa River. Since its conversion from a training facility for priests to a retreat centre, the doors have been opened to anyone looking for breathing space in their lives: Baptists, Buddhists, people wanting to get lost and others trying to find themselves. Galilee even welcomes neighbourhood dogs as long as “poop-and-scoop” is observed.

Susan carefully explained to me the effort that went in to painting the spiral staircase in the main hallway and the trouble the leather paneling snaking along the wall, caused her. Yes, you read correctly — leather paneling.

Everywhere there are reminders of religion. I wouldn’t have expected anything else in a place run by the Oblates. However, Susan thinks that non-Catholic people might be uncomfortable surrounded by religious objects. After all, some people try to find peace without connecting intimately with God.

So, she has a little campaign going. Susan’s trying to get rid of the crosses. She doesn’t want to burn them or bury them: nothing so crass. She respects everyone’s right to do religion his own way with his own “stuff.” Every one of the simple bedrooms, each one looking out through huge windows over the grounds toward the river, boasts a crucifix as its single ornament. My cousin believes that statues and crosses in the hallways and public rooms are fine. This is, after all, a Catholic Retreat Centre. However, she also believes that making guests comfortable at Galilee; providing non-Catholics and lapsed Catholics without distractions while they are “retreating,” should include giving everyone a generic bedroom, sans crucifix. She’s trying to convince the people in charge to put all the crosses in the dresser drawers: a sort of “out-of-sight-out-of-mind” theory.

I thought about how I would feel at Galilee if I were to seek to retreat there. Would I, a very serious, life-long Baptist, be offended or distracted by a crucifix in my room? It’s unlikely, though I was certainly impressed by the number of them around. However, the presence of the crosses has more significance for Susan than it does for me.

I wonder how many times in the course of a week she walks through those rooms. Susan holds Christ at arm’s length. She doesn’t know Him personally. Ten, fifteen, twenty times a day she sees a representation of Him, hanging on a cross to provide her with an eternal retreat. Perhaps one day, if she sees those crosses often enough, Susan will actually see beyond the object to the objective.

Lord, don’t let her put those crosses in a drawer.

A Stab In The Dark

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“Yup, deader than my uncle’s great aunt.”

A skinny bare foot shot out to poke the body sprawled on the sun-baked earth.

“You ain’t got an uncle, Arnon.”

“That’s the point. Anyway, this guy won’t be botherin’ none of us no more.”

The other man looked around furtively. The noonday heat had driven every living thing in search of cooler places. The two men were alone—if you didn’t count the dead man.

“Yah, well, there are lots to replace him. Slave drivers work and slaves work, but only one of us gets paid.”

The man without an uncle bent over to finger the cloth of the dead man’s tunic.

“How much you think that’s worth, Ghassan?”

“Forget it. You can’t sell it, wear it, or give it away unless you’re thinkin’ of bein’ buried in it after his buddies stretch you to pieces between two of them wheels."

Ghassan waved his arm in the general direction of the two stone rollers the slaves used to move the blocks designated for the building of Pharaoh’s storehouses. Arnon recoiled, both from the cadaver’s clothes, and from the horrific thought of such a painful end. He quickly changed the subject. The stones might have ears.

“You seen who done it?”

“Sure. I was the one he was beatin’ on, wasn’t I.”

“So, if you tell, maybe we won’t all get blamed for this guy’s sudden end.”

“True.”

“Whatcha waitin’ for then?”

“Dunno. I got a feelin’ about him, you know, the one who stuck his nose in my business. Said he was one of us—didn’t see any dirt under his fingernails though. Told me he was fed up with us bein’ treated like so much garbage. I don’t feel right about turnin’ him in. ‘Sides, I don’t want him mad at me. He seemed a mite quick tempered.”

“Well then, we’d better get ourselves outta here before someone finds this buzzard bait, or we’ll do time for the crime.”

With that, the two slaves scurried off. When they were out of sight, a shadow, hidden behind a pile of brick, converted itself into flesh and blood and moved quickly to where the body lay. Grabbing the dead man under the arms, his killer dragged him away.

If anyone missed the slave master, it wasn’t the slaves. As predicted, someone just as cruel soon took his place. Life went on, one painful day dying, then resurrecting, into another.

Some time later Arnon and Ghassan were assigned to collecting the bits of straw that fell from the carts as they trundled back and forth from the pits where the bricks were made. The two men took advantage of the lighter work to get as far away from their compatriots as reason would allow.

“Hey, that sister of yours is sure gettin’ to be quite a looker. She got herself a boyfriend?”

Ghassan straightened from his task, his eyes narrowing in anger.

“You’ll be smart to keep your eyes to yourself. That ain’t any way to speak about a respectable girl.”

“I’m only sayin’ …”

Whether it was the heat, the sun, the boring job, or the comment itself, the difference in perspective soon brought the two men nose-to-nose and fist-to-fist.

“Stop it, you two. You’re brothers in captivity. You should be helping each other, not fighting like two dogs over a bone.”

Surprised by the presence of a third party, Arnon and Ghassan stopped in their tracks. They turned. Ghassan gasped. The killer had returned.

Recovering from the shock, and with the heat of his spat with Arnon still burning in his brain, the words spewed thoughtlessly from Ghassan’s mouth.

“What? Who made you God? What right do you have to lord it over us and tell us what to do. You gonna kill me too, like you killed that Egyptian?”

To his surprise, the stranger’s mouth went slack, his face paled. Without another word, he turned and fled.

Their argument forgotten, Arnon turned to Ghassan.

“Well, don’t that beat all. You suppose he really wanted to kill us?”

Ghassan shook his head.

“I got a feeling lots of men will die on account of him, but I don’t think the Egyptian was supposed to be one of them. It’s like he suddenly realized he’d started a war before reading the battle plan. He’s runnin’ scared.”

“What plan?”

“Ask the one who’s chasing him.”

“What ‘one’?”

“Arnon, you know, sometimes you’re thicker than a brick. My granddad told me about the prophecy …”