Chapter 4

Jerusalem— The Eternal City

I approached Jerusalem on the Hebron Road as I climbed up out of the Hinnom Valley. The prophets had compared this place to hell. The valley formed a deep, narrow ravine at the foot of the walls of the city, where Jerusalem’s refuse was burned. Because the refuse eternally burned, it had provided an object lesson for prophets, whose burden it was to warn Israel of the consequences of wickedness and to purify her to receive her king, the promised Messiah.

This place was also where the bodies of executed criminals and other infamous people were dumped. I observed such a scene now. Several Roman soldiers had driven a cart to the outskirts of the city, followed by a group of wailing women. As the soldiers hefted a body from the cart and tossed it into the smoldering refuse pile, one of the women collapsed and the others knelt beside her in an effort to console her.

I could only imagine that the deceased was related to her, and because Romans were involved, the dead person had probably suffered crucifixion. The body would never be honored by being washed, anointed with spices, and wrapped in burial linen. It was simply another carcass to be discarded. I turned my head from this scene of death. I had been haunted by too much of it today.

Since the time that I had left Bethlehem, I had passed several bands of pilgrims going up to Jerusalem to celebrate the approaching Passover. I moved more quickly now that I was no longer carrying a lamb. Each group greeted me as I neared, but I didn’t slow or linger. In each woman’s face, I saw Miriam; in each child, I was reminded of the son I would never know. I returned their greetings but did not slow to share their joy or sing with them the traditional Psalms of Ascent.

As I passed them, I heard them sing of deliverance, redemption, and the hope of a Messiah. I heard fathers rehearse to their children the meaning of Passover, when the angel of death passed over the homes of our fathers, killed the firstborn of the Egyptians, and set Israel free. Although I listened to their exultations, I did not feel to rejoice. My heart was too heavy and my anxiety too high. I simply prayed that the angel of death would once again pass over us and deliver my Miriam today.

The number of pilgrims going up to Jerusalem impressed me. They were many, but I knew from experience that their numbers were relatively small compared to the hundreds of thousands who would shortly press into Jerusalem for Passover. But celebrating deliverance was not my purpose today; to petition God for deliverance was.

When I climbed out of the Hinnom Valley, I beheld Jerusalem, the Eternal City, rising breathtakingly like an ensign in the golden sun. To Israel, Jerusalem was the most sacred place on earth, traditionally the center place where God had first set down his foot on the morn of creation. Leaving Hinnom Valley and approaching Jerusalem, I felt as though I were climbing out of hell and was about to enter heaven. As I viewed the gates of the holy city, my hope surged. Surely God was here. I only prayed that he would help me today.

I entered Jerusalem through Zion’s Gate, passing under the arch of the imposing wall that surrounded the city. I entered the lower city, where the poorer people lived. The small houses here were built hard up against each other. Narrow, earthen streets ran every which way, causing visitors to become easily lost. Most of the streets and alleys were unpaved, a combination of pounded earth and stone. I asked a man for directions to the temple. He pointed off to an obscure point on the horizon and rattled off instructions I did not fully understand. Before I reached the temple, I would need to ask directions twice more.

I quickened my step. Now that I had entered Jerusalem, the thought of my prayer for Miriam was acutely on my mind, more than it had been all day. That I must hurry to the temple to pray was my single objective. I looked up in the direction of the sun and noted that it was beginning to dip toward the western horizon. I hoped I was not too late. When I reached the temple, I would need to procure an animal somehow for my offering. A lamb would be best, but a turtledove would be acceptable. When I remembered losing Amit, I felt as though a deep wound had reopened; the hurt was still fresh. I reached for the purse strapped to my tunic and considered again the improbability of purchasing another lamb with the few coins that it held. Perhaps someone might take pity on me. I quickly discarded that fantasy. No, a turtledove would have to do.

Not knowing Miriam’s present condition added to my distress. Picturing her lying in her soiled bed, agonizing with each contraction, with the worried women gathered around, I struggled to hold onto hope. Tears began to form in my eyes again. They were coming more easily now. I felt ashamed and looked around, hoping that no one had noticed. It was unmanly to appear so emotional, but I was incapable of holding back.

At the edge of the lower city, just as I was to break free of it, I came upon a scene that caused me to slow momentarily. Before me stood a marriage canopy, and within the adjoining house I heard the sounds of celebration. A new family had been added to Israel.

My mind was suddenly overwhelmed with memories of Miriam. On the occasion of Miriam’s and my wedding, seven years before, my relatives had likewise gathered to celebrate our nuptials. It was unforgettable. Miriam’s mother, Leah, had seen to that.

Like all Jewish children, Miriam and I had been taught that we were born to marry. As teenagers, we became officially betrothed, promised to each other before our families and other witnesses. Neither of us had been surprised at the occasion of our betrothal. It had been planned and negotiated between our parents years before it took place.

Tradition called for me to offer Miriam’s father a bride-price for his daughter. Because I was very poor, I had managed to save only twenty denarii, a paltry amount, considering it was supposed to represent my bride’s value. I wanted to offer more. I wanted to show Miriam that her worth to me could not be measured by money. Therefore, I increased the bride-price by offering to work for two years for Miriam’s father in the same way that my forefather Jacob had worked for his father-in-law to win Rachel. Thereafter, I prepared a marriage contract, wherein I pledged to provide and care for Miriam with all my heart, might, mind, and soul. I was overjoyed when Miriam and her father accepted all the terms, including my meager bride-price offering.

The thought of caring for Miriam tortured me now. Did my leaving her today constitute an act of caring or an act of desperation? She had asked me to go, to offer up a sacrifice and ask God to bless us, but had I been wise to leave her? When I finally offered my prayer in the temple to plead for God’s intervention, would my faith be strong enough to summon the Sovereign of the Universe to condescend to save her? Would God indeed bless us today?

Still thinking of the newly married couple, I recalled the fond details of our betrothal. On that occasion, when Miriam’s father accepted the bride-price and I had offered Miriam the marriage contract, one more step remained: Miriam must drink the cup of acceptance. Because she could not be forced to become betrothed, she must drink from the cup to signify her acceptance of my offer. This was a moment of trepidation. I poured wine into a cup and handed it to Miriam. My father, her parents, the friend of the bridegroom, and two witnesses surrounded us. Despite my having known for years that this day was coming, I began to tremble when Miriam took the cup in her right hand. I prayed that she would accept me. When she finally drank it, I wept for joy.

This woman would be my wife, I thought, a virgin most fair and beautiful, the gemstone of Beit Sahour, a maiden without an equal. How I had come to win her heart I could not divine. At that point, Miriam’s father stepped forward and blessed us. As a final gesture, I handed Miriam a coin, the traditional betrothal gift of love. As I placed the coin in her hand, I repeated the words, “By this, thou art set apart for me according to the laws of Moses and of Israel.” Now we were betrothed to be married.

The most difficult part of our betrothal was holding to tradition and taking my leave. I would not see my beloved for nearly two years while I constructed the wedding chamber, which would become our home. The thought of leaving my beloved Miriam tortured me. I hated being away from her. Even now, after seven years of marriage, when she was out of my sight for very long, I would find myself gazing at the sun to estimate the time when I could be with her again.

I thought about the couple that had just married: they had no idea what life had in store for them. Over the ensuing years would they, too, lose three children before they were born? Seven years from now, would the wife be fighting for her life while her husband rushed to the temple to pray for her? Would their love for each other and their faith in God prove sufficient to weather life’s storms and guide them through their wilderness to their promised land?

Through the two years of our betrothal, I was true to my vow. I worked for Miriam’s father while I built a room in my father’s house for my bride. The wait, of course, was agony. I survived it by remaining busy. I constructed the wedding chamber under my father’s supervision, and he did not allow me to shirk. “You are making this chamber for Miriam,” he would remind me, as though he loved her more than I. His insistence on quality protracted the time, and because I needed his permission to claim my wife, I was obligated to make improvements until he was satisfied.

One day he approached me while I was provisioning the interior and examined my work. I steeled myself for another round of suggestions. But this time, he walked the circumference without saying a word. Then he turned and said, “You are finished. Go receive your bride.” My long wait had finally ended. At last, Miriam would be mine.

Miriam did not know the hour of my coming. That uncertainty required her to live in a constant state of preparation and watchfulness, ever anticipating the time when I might come for her. Every bridegroom chooses a friend to help him through the process of betrothal and oversee the marriage. My friend was my cousin Aaron. During the betrothal he had shuttled back and forth between Miriam and me, conveying messages.

“Have you seen her today?” I would ask him.

Aaron loved to tease. Often, he would say yes then begin to walk away.

“Wait!” I would beg him. “What does she look like?” Sometimes I had to resort to wrestling to pry the details from him.

“She is beautiful,” he would say.

“Then you have seen her.”

“Yes. She wears a veil in public with a chain of ten pieces of silver.”

That pleased me, of course. As a betrothed woman, Miriam wore a veil with the chain of coins hiding her face to signify that she was spoken for—she was mine. I would ask Aaron, “What does she say? Does she have a message for me?” Aaron’s face would turn red. “What is it?” I would demand.

“Something about . . . she loves you,” he would reply.

My heart would race. I would press for more details. “Is she preparing for my coming?”

“Yes. She has purified herself, and virgins attend her day and night.” Aaron’s statement held high significance for me. That Miriam was preparing herself through ritual immersion meant that she was symbolically turning away from her former life and readying herself to start a new life with me. The virgins who attended her were Miriam’s bridesmaids. They lived in an attitude of readiness, keeping oil in their lamps for the night that I would come for my bride. These customs were steeped in tradition, of course, and delighted every bride.

My father had given his permission, so I spent the remainder of the day preparing to go to claim my bride. I dressed in borrowed finery, jewelry, and a crown—as if I were a king. Marriage represented a coronation.

As midnight approached, my family and friends formed a procession and started out for Miriam’s home. Our lamps illumined the dark streets of Beit Sahour like the harvest moon, and we paraded through the streets to the sounds of music and tambourines. The entire town awakened at the sounds of my coming. Messengers preceded me. They trumpeted and shouted, “Behold, the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.”

When I arrived at Miriam’s home, I found her waiting for me, dressed in regal attire and anointed with sweet-smelling oil. Her hair was braided with precious stones, and she wore beautiful jewelry befitting a queen. I conveyed her from her home, and in a flood of lamplight, the wedding assembly moved off in a festal procession of song and dance to the place that I had prepared for her.

When we arrived at our new home, we stepped under the canopy and faced each other. Then the rabbi pronounced blessings upon us. He fastened our hands together with an ornate ribbon and gave us a cup of wine that we drank to seal the marriage covenant. At last, Miriam and I were married.

***

I took one last look at the marriage canopy of this newly married couple and moved on toward the temple, silently offering them my congratulations. I doubted that the husband, or any husband, could love his bride as I much as I loved Miriam, but even if his love amounted to a fraction of mine, he would be a fortunate man indeed.

I broke from my recollections as I emerged from the narrow streets of the lower city and beheld the Temple Mount. I doubted that anything so grand existed anywhere in the world. At the center of the Temple Mount stood the holy temple—the house of the Lord, the sacred structure that connected earth and heaven. The temple dwarfed all other structures in the complex. The common saying rang true: “He who has not seen the temple has not seen anything beautiful.” I started across the long bridge that led to the gates of the temple, surveying as I went the massive retaining walls that supported and surrounded the Temple Mount.

I looked up at the imposing pinnacle of the temple. There, every morning, a priest would sound his trumpet to signal the beginning of the daily sacrifices. I imagined standing atop the pinnacle and taking in the spectacular view. From there, I could have seen all Jerusalem, the Romans’ Antonia Fortress at the corner of Temple Mount, Herod’s opulent palace near the city walls, and beyond the walls, I would have seen the ominous Golgotha, the frightening rocky hill with cavities that resembled the eyes of a skull. Opposite Golgotha, I would have seen the Mount of Olives with its beautiful garden called Gethsemane.

I arrived at a wide set of steps that led into the Temple Mount. At the top of these steps stood the Huldah Gates, and before the gates were three pools. Dozens of people were congregated here, waiting to ritually purify themselves in the pools in order to gain access to the most sacred precincts of the temple. I felt the need to remain polite as I anxiously waited my turn, but the day was waning, as was my patience.

A young woman with long, flowing brown hair stood with her back to me. A thought shot through my mind that she was Miriam, and instinct nudged me to reach for her. But I caught myself when she turned. She smiled at me, and I returned it awkwardly. Miriam was so much on my mind now that I found myself searching for her in every young woman’s face. After I had purified myself, I hurried to enter through the temple gates. I could no longer afford delays. Beggars and the infirm called out to me, but I looked past them as I hurried on.

I came to a long, dim staircase that ran under the Temple Mount and emerged in the court of the temple above. I took the stairs in quick strides and soon stepped out of the darkness into the brightness of light. I had the feeling that I had entered a celestial world, and I felt hope surge within me. I was now standing in the huge Court of the Gentiles, so named because anyone of any nationality or religion was allowed here. My eyes and ears told me that there were indeed many nationalities in this place. I observed renowned rabbis teaching their disciples at various locations in the courtyard. I also noticed more blind and crippled people begging throughout the court—so many that one could easily become numb to their plight. Once again, I chose to ignore them, and I hurried on.

I spotted a Levite, dressed in his white temple robes and tubular hat, directing worshippers and advising them what kind of sacrifices were to be performed. I approached him and asked, “Where might I purchase a turtledove?”

He swept his hand across the Court of the Gentiles and said, “Take your pick.” I was embarrassed that in my rush I had not paid sufficient attention. The Court of the Gentiles was filled with vendors selling sacrificial animals, souvenirs, and food. He looked at me suspiciously and asked, “Do you have money?”

“A little,” I answered. Then touching the scrip that hung from my belt, “I have but five mites.”

The Levite frowned. “Where are you from?”

“Beit Sahour,” I answered impatiently. “Do you think I might purchase a turtledove for five mites?”

“Beit Sahour,” he mused. Then with sudden understanding, he said, “So you are a shepherd.”

He said it with a tone of disdain. Shepherds were considered the lowest of society. We had no standing in the courts of the law and were not even allowed to testify there. That I had entered the temple at all was taking a risk. “It is true that I am a shepherd,” I answered boldly. “My flock supplies many sacrificial lambs for the temple.”

The Levite seemed to size up my statement but appeared impressed. “Then you are one of the shepherds under special rabbinical instruction,” he said. “You have been specifically trained for this royal task.”

I was not willing to engage him in conversation. “Please, sir,” I insisted, “I am in need of a turtledove.”

“Of course,” he answered. “There is a vendor at the door of the Soreg. He is known to be reasonable.” With that, the Levite pointed me toward the entrance of the sacred inner temple court, where stood the temple proper.

I thanked him and made my way to the magnificent temple, rising breathtakingly heavenward above its high, imposing outer walls.

The temple’s white, rose-accented limestone finish was so brilliant I had to shield my eyes to behold it. From a distance, the temple appeared like a great snow-clad mountain. Even in my haste I couldn’t help but be in awe of the temple’s construction. Parts of the structure were decorated with pure gold and precious blue and green gems. The gold and cool colors contrasted elegantly with the temple’s dominant white exterior. Towering gold-plated pilasters added to the temple’s beauty. Atop the pilasters were crenellations that lined the roof, suggesting the crown of a king. Taken in total, the temple provided a spectacular visual feast.

I hurried toward the inner temple compound to locate the vendor. In spite of my personal disdain for commerce in the temple area, I needed to purchase a turtledove to make an offering in conjunction with my prayer before rushing back to my Miriam.

When I came to the Beautiful Gate, the entrance leading into the temple’s inner courts, I looked for the vendor but noticed a father and mother with their infant instead. The way that the child was wrapped suggested that it was a boy. The couple was young—much like Miriam and I in our first year of marriage. The mother wore a pale yellow tunic, the color of parchment. Her dark hair emerged from the sheer veil she wore on her head and flowed down to the middle of her back in soft waves. She reminded me so much of Miriam that I stopped and stared at her for a moment. She was lovingly cradling her baby while her husband asked questions and directions of temple-goers. This was apparently the first time that he and his wife had come to the temple, at least with a baby.

As I watched them, I began to mourn for the loss of my child. Had it been a boy, Miriam and I would have likewise brought him to the temple forty days after his birth to present him to the Lord and participate in the same sacred rites. We would have performed the ritual of redeeming our firstborn son by paying five shekels at the sanctuary. I imagined that this family had come to the temple today for that reason. Watching this young couple with their child, I felt a profound sense of loss. If today’s events had been different, Miriam and I would have been standing here forty days from now, participating in these sacred rites.

An old man drew near to help the confused husband. After a short conversation, the old man motioned toward the Beautiful Gate, and the young husband smiled as if to thank him. At that point, the old man sought permission from the mother to hold the child. She obliged and handed him the bundle. Gathering the child into his arms, the old man gazed at the baby for a moment and then smiled politely and handed the child back to his mother. I thought I perceived disappointment in his face. Regardless, the couple thanked him again before mounting the steps that led to the inner courts of the temple.

Sensing that the old man knew the precinct well, I stepped toward him and said, “Please excuse me. I couldn’t help but notice your kindness. Do you know where I might purchase a turtledove? I was told there was a vendor here.”

The old man seemed startled. He peered at me as if with recognition. “Do we know each other?” he asked.

I stared at him for a hint of familiarity. “No. I don’t think so. I am just a visitor . . . from Beit Sahour.”

“You’re a shepherd,” the old man observed. I expected another wave of condemnation, but I perceived that the old man was pleased he had guessed my profession.

“Yes, I am a shepherd,” I replied.

I began to repeat my question when he said, “I know of your order and your service.” Then gazing at me with real intent, he asked, “At night, while tending your flock, have you looked heavenward toward the east and watched for the coming of the new star?”

I shook my head. “What star?”

“It will be a new one—the star of Jacob, which shall herald the Messiah’s birth.”

I was startled that his pronouncement sounded imminent. Centuries earlier Moses had prophesied of such a star. I regarded the old man with mild disbelief. Here was another delusional fanatic, I thought. I was suddenly sorry that I had taken the occasion to talk to him. I hadn’t the time. Making a movement to leave, I answered, “I am not a student of the heavens . . . and I have had other things on my mind lately.” I began to excuse myself. “I really must be going. My wife has been with child, and I must—”

In a sudden burst of understanding, the old man interjected, “Your wife is with child?” He looked in the direction of Beautiful Gate and added, “Like the couple that just entered the Court of the Women?” His question had the tone of yearning, as if a long-sought hope depended upon my response. When I did not immediately answer, he grew serious, as if his mind were working on an idea. He studied my face; his eyes penetrated me. He reminded me of my father, who would gaze at me with that same searching look before saying something wise. Finally, the old man said, “You say you’re from Beit Sahour. That is near Bethlehem.” He paused. “And you say your wife is with child?”

I was growing uneasy. His examination evoked tender emotions in me. I dropped my eyes and replied softly, “The child has died in my wife’s womb.” I drew in a deep breath and added, “And now her life—” I could not continue.

The old man placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “I am sorry for prying. I perceive that you have come to the temple to pray for her today.” I nodded. He offered a slight bow and said, “My name is Simeon. I come to the temple often. In a distant time, the Lord spoke peace to my heart and told me that I would live to see his salvation, the promised Messiah, before I died. One day I will find him here. When my eyes have beheld him, I will depart this life in peace. I will know for myself that salvation will come to all nations and glory will return to Israel.” Simeon gazed at me again. He said, “The Child’s father would be about your age—”

“I am not the man you seek,” I replied abruptly. “My name is Joshua ben Levi. I have no child . . . but my wife may be dying. My only purpose in coming to the temple today is to pray for her.”

“You have come seeking a miracle.” Simeon’s declaration was a statement of fact. After he had said it, he became suddenly firm, as if understanding had illuminated him. He squared himself before me and spoke with an authoritative voice, as if with the tongue of an angel. “God will bless you today, Joshua ben Levi.”

Simeon’s words penetrated me to the heart. I felt a shock shoot through my body as if I had been struck by lightning. Once again I felt as though Simeon could have been my father speaking. For a moment I could not utter a response. I felt weak. I took his hand, squeezed it hard, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Still facing me, Simeon urged, “You must believe, Joshua. Even if life takes from you that which is most precious, you must hold true to your God and wait for his salvation.” Then, motioning toward an old woman, who was ministering to a crippled man sitting at the entrance of the Beautiful Gate, he added, “There are others who believe and wait for the consolation of Israel. The woman’s name is Anna. She married at fourteen and her husband died seven years later. For the last sixty-three years, she has been a widow. She spends her days in the temple fasting, praying, administering relief to God’s children . . . and waiting for the Messiah.”

I stared in disbelief at the eighty-four-year-old woman. Each movement seemed a burden. She was frail and hunched, a tiny woman, shorter perhaps than anyone I had seen in the temple court, and yet she shuttled about with purpose, lending her support to whomever was in need. Her object at the moment was a crippled man sitting near the gate. Indicating the crippled man, Simeon explained, “The man to whom Anna is giving service was born mute and deaf. In his youth, his legs were crushed under a wagon. His friends bring him here daily to the temple to beg. He has no other means of support. His meals consist of that which people give him.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, I placed a hand on my purse as if to protect it. Impatiently, I said, “I must be going. Surely you know a generous vendor here.”

Simeon appeared disappointed. He gestured toward a table beyond the crippled man where a vendor sat selling sacrificial birds in wicker cages. Simeon said, “That is the man you seek.” Before I could hurry away, he grabbed my arm and said, “You are so anxious to obey the letter of the law that you miss the point: sacrifice has nothing to do with animals; sacrifice has everything to do with the heart. The greatest sacrifice is you, Joshua; it is charity. And when you can make that sacrifice, it empowers you and sets you free.” Then regarding me, he added, “But charity requires great faith.” Simeon smiled and released his grip. Bowing slightly, he bid me farewell, saying, “Go in peace, Joshua ben Levi.”

I thanked Simeon, turned to depart, and then stopped short.

“What is the matter?” Simeon asked.

I did not know. As I gazed alternately at the cripple and the vendor, I began to feel uneasy. I asked, “You say the crippled man has no support?” Simeon nodded. I turned my attention again to the crippled man, and as I gazed upon him, I suddenly felt small and ashamed. I knew what Miriam would do in this situation. She had never done a selfish thing in her life. I looked at Simeon. “You are right. It takes so much faith.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “It is when you let go of the rope that you fall into the safe arms of God. That is the great discovery of life.” Then as if to lead me, he asked, “Wasn’t your purpose a turtledove and a prayer?”

I smiled and thanked him. “You have helped me decide what I must do.” Then in parting, I said, “I hope you find your Messiah.”

Simeon embraced me and whispered reassurance, “I come here every day seeking him, and I am never disappointed.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Simeon gestured toward the crippled man. “I find him whenever I serve his children.” Simeon paused. “Perhaps in that way you will find him, too.”

With that, we parted, and I made my way through the crowd toward the crippled man. As I drew near, he lifted his head in anticipation. I judged him to be about the age of my father and yet somehow he appeared much older. His clothes were worn to the point of being immodest, his legs twisted awkwardly beneath him.

He raised his cup to me with a shaky hand and begged for money. I noticed that the cup contained only two mites, the smallest coin in the Empire. As I considered him, I remembered Miriam’s charity in similar situations. Her reaction to being childless was to reach out to others. Once, she labored all day to cook a delicious meal. I discovered the feast that evening when I returned from the fields. I was famished, and when I smelled the food, I hurried to sample it. But when I lifted the lid of a boiling pot, Miriam goodheartedly cracked my knuckles with a spoon, as if I were a naughty child. She informed me that the food was for a weary mother whose four children were abed, sick with fevers.

That had not been the first time I’d gone hungry while Miriam served others. I became used to watching her leave our home in the early evening, carrying hearty meals to those in need. I had never begrudged Miriam her avocation, but that evening certainly tried my patience. When I complained, she handed me one of the pots and two loaves of fresh bread and ordered me to help her convey the meal to the sick family. Reluctantly, I obeyed her.

When we delivered the meal, the mother broke down and cried. Seldom had I seen such need and such gratitude. My hunger fled, and my body filled with feelings of empathy and love. That night I gained a new appreciation for my tenderhearted wife; I finally realized why Miriam seemed driven to do such things. Giving love was nourishment to her. She did not consider love a mere feeling; to Miriam love was her reason for living. That night I gratefully shared a plain meal with my sweet wife. It was perhaps the most satisfying meal I ever enjoyed.

Now, looking at the crippled man, I tried to see him through Miriam’s eyes. I could not imagine such a life: the constant embarrassment of begging day after day, the sum purpose of his existence to procure food for his next meal. Deaf, he could hear no sounds of love or laughter; mute, he could not communicate his innermost feelings; and crippled, he had to depend on the kindnesses of others to move from place to place. I wondered what kept him alive.

I knew what Miriam would do. I knelt beside him and emptied my purse into his cup. Now the two mites became seven, and his response to his good fortune was tears of gratitude. He reached out and grasped my hand and nodded a gesture of thanks, as if I had just handed him a treasure. I had seldom received such an expression of gratitude.

“There is no need to thank me,” I said. Remembering his handicaps, I found myself struggling to communicate, mouthing each word deliberately.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. Anna, the old woman whom I had observed assisting the man, stood above me. “Let me help you communicate with him,” she offered.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I wanted to tell him that he is . . . my brother. That is why I gave him the money. There is no need to thank me.”

Anna smiled and made motions to the man. He turned and looked at me with apparent understanding. He set down his cup and took my hands in both of his. In some remarkable manner, we communicated. Thinking of Miriam’s charity again, I looked up at Anna and asked, “Is he hungry?”

“He is always hungry,” she replied.

I reached for the scrip that hung about my tunic. It contained a few morsels of food for my journey. I handed it to the man, embarrassed that it was so little. To Anna I said, “Tell him I am fasting today. I won’t be needing the food.”

Anna obliged, and the man began to eat the food hastily. Then Anna knelt beside me and said, “A fast yields no blessing unless you serve someone. May God bless you with what you fast for today.”

We watched the man enjoy the food as if it were a fine feast. When he finished, I stood to leave. The man gazed at me with great love as if he would ask me to stay. As if he could hear me, I said, “I really must go.” Something in his expression told me that he understood. He squeezed my hand again then made a gesture that I could not decipher.

Anna helped me. “He is blessing you,” she said. I felt suddenly warm. Now I knew why Miriam was constantly searching for someone to serve. If it was possible, I loved her more at this moment than I had ever loved her in my life.

I left Anna and the crippled man. I had just let go of the rope, and I prayed that God would catch me. Now I would have to go to the temple and approach God with no sacrifice except that of a broken heart. That was everything that I had to offer when I would pray for Miriam in the Holy Place. All I carried with me now was the gratitude of Rebekah and her son and the thanks and blessing of my new brother.