Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt

I was too surprised to speak.

“They said they had seen this great star in the Heavens,” he said, “and they had followed that star to the house where we were. You were in a crib. And they laid their gifts before you.”

I didn’t dare to ask him anything.

“Everyone in Bethlehem saw those magi come, and their servants with them. They rode camels, those men. They spoke with authority. They bowed before you. And then they went away. It was the end of their journey, and they were satisfied.”

I knew he was telling me the truth. No lie would ever pass the lips of my brother James.

And I knew that he knew I had caused that boy in Egypt to die, and that I’d brought him back to life. And he’d seen me bring clay sparrows to life, a thing I hardly remembered.

A King. Son of David, Son of David, Son of David.

The women were coming in now. And my older cousins had wandered in from where I didn’t know.

My aunt Salome picked up the last of the bread and scraps from supper.

Old Sarah had taken her place on the bench.

“Pray that child sleeps till morning,” said Old Sarah.

“Don’t fret,” said Aunt Salome. “Riba sleeps with one eye open for all of them.”

“A blessing,” said my mother, “that sweet girl.”

“Poor Bruria would not be alive if it were not for that girl. That girl tends to her as if she were a child. Poor Bruria…”

“Poor Bruria…”

And so on it went.

My mother told me to go to bed.

The next day James wouldn’t look at me. It was not a surprise. He hardly ever looked at me. And as the days passed, he never did.

The winter months grew colder and colder.

When it came time for the Feast of Lights, we had many lamps burning in our house, and from the rooftops one could see big fires from all the villages, and in our streets, the men danced with torches just as they would have if they had gone to Jerusalem.

On the morning at the end of the eighth day, as the Feast was ending, and I was sleeping, I heard shouts from outside. Soon everyone in the room was up and ru

Before I could ask what it was, I went with them.

The early morning light was perfectly gray. And the Lord had sent a snow!

All of Nazareth was beautifully covered with it, and it came down in big flakes, and the children ran out to gather the flakes as if they were leaves, but the flakes melted away.

Joseph looked at me with a secret smile, as everyone else went out into the silent snowfall.

“You prayed for a snow?” he asked. “Well, you have a snow.”

“No!” I said. “I didn’t do it. Did I?”

“Be careful what you pray for!” he whispered. “You understand?” His smile grew bigger, and he led me out to feel the snowflakes for myself. His laughter and happiness made me feel all right.

But James, who stood by himself, under the roof that jutted out over the courtyard stones, stared at me; and when Joseph went off, he crept up, and whispered in my ear:

“Why don’t you pray for gold to drop from Heaven!”

I felt my face on fire.

But he was gone with the others. And we were almost never, never alone.

Later that day—the eight days of the Feast of Lights had ended at dawn—I sought out the grove of trees, the only place in the whole creation where I could be alone. The snow was thick. I wore heavy wool around my feet with thick sandals, but the wool was wet by the time I got there and I was very cold. I couldn’t stay long under the trees, but I stood there, thinking to myself and looking at the wonder of the snow covering the fields and making them look so very beautiful like a woman dressed in her finest robes.

How fresh, how clean it all looked.

I prayed. Father in Heaven, tell me what you want of me. Tell me what all these things mean? Everything has a story to it. And what is the story of all this?

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I saw the heavens had given us more snow, and it was making a veil over Nazareth. Slowly as I watched, the village disappeared. Yet I knew it was there.

“Father in Heaven, I won’t pray for snow, Father in Heaven, I will never pray for what is not your will. Father in Heaven, I won’t pray for this one to live or that one to die, oh, no, never for that one to die, and never, never will I try even to make it rain or stop rain, or to make it snow, never until I understand what it means, all of it…” And there my prayer ran out into flashing memories, and the snow caught my eyes as I looked up into the trees and the snow came down softly on me as if it were kissing me.

I was hidden in the snow, I was hidden and safe, even from myself.

Far away someone called my name.

I woke from my prayer, I woke from the stillness, and the softness of the snow, and I ran down the hill, waving, and calling, and heading for the warm firelight and the family all around it.

Chapter 22

My first year in the Promised Land came to an end as it had commenced: with the opening of the New Year for Israel.

Herod Archelaus and the Roman soldiers from Syria had made peace in Judea—at least enough peace—for us to pass through the land of Herod Archelaus, through the Jordan Valley, and up into the hill country to Jerusalem for the Feast of Passover.

To myself I was an older child since that sorrowful and frightening journey on the very same path to Nazareth. I knew many new words to think in my head about what I’d seen. And I loved it when we were in the open country. I loved the smiling and the laughter. And I loved the bathing in the Jordan River again.

Many other villagers had joined the men of our family, many wives had come along, and a great flock of young maidens under the eye of fathers and mothers, and all of my new friends from the village, most of them my kindred, and some not.

The little rains had been good this year, everyone said, and for a long time the land was green.

Old Sarah made the journey with us and she rode the back of the donkey, and it was good to have her. We crowded around her. My mother came also, but Aunt Esther and Aunt Salome stayed behind to tend to the little ones and Little Salome remained with them.

Bruria, our refugee, came with us, and so did the Greek slave girl Riba, with her newborn in a sling, tending to everyone.

Now I should say one reason that Joseph brought Bruria was in the hope that when we passed the site of her farm Bruria would want to reclaim it. Bruria had many of her papers, which had been recovered from the burnt place, and surely, said Joseph, there were people there who knew it was her property.

But Bruria had no desire to do this. She wanted nothing. She worked as a woman in sleep, helping but wanting nothing for herself. And Joseph told us apart from her that we must never judge her or be unkind to her. If she wanted to remain with us forever, she could. We had all been strangers once in the Land of Egypt.

No one minded at all, and my mother said so. Riba was a joy to the women, said my aunt Salome. She was modest as a Jewish woman, and clean and helpful, and did as we all did in everything.

We had come to love Riba and Bruria. And when Bruria passed the site of her old farm and did not care, we were sad for her. That was her land and she ought to have it.

Now with us too on the road came the Pharisees, all in a group with their beasts for the women and the old men to ride, and their household. And there were other households from Nazareth as well, and from many other villages who joined the procession.

Our kindred from Capernaum, the fishermen and their wives and sons met us too—these were Zebedee, the beloved cousin of my mother and his wife, Mary Alexandra who was my mother’s cousin, too, and both distantly cousins of Joseph, and many others, some of whom I remembered, some not.