August 2016
“Come on, Danny. Come on. Give it a shot. You can do it, dude,” hollered Daniel T. Reese’s pal, Joey Nape.
They were two of half-a-dozen preteens out in a cul-de-sac trying to outdo each other on skateboards.
“It’s easy, Danny. Just roll out, jump on, and lean back on your rear foot. The board will kick up, and then you guide it up and over the curb.”
This was taking place in a neighborhood in the city of Vancouver, Washington. Just across the mighty Columbia River from Portland, Oregon. Daniel T. Reese and Joey Nape were both twelve.
Their summer vacation from school was in its seventh week, and Daniel was destined to miss a large part of what remained—with his pal Joey, that is.
“Come on, Danny! It’s a no brainier, man. Do it. Do it,” Joey said, egging him on.
“OK, OK, Joey. Shut up already,” said Daniel T. with his left foot on the front of his board. Using his right foot, he pushed off into a rollout on the street asphalt and aimed for the curb.
A little too far out, he placed his right foot at the rear of the board, leaned back, and the front of the board shot up. Daniel did not know what to do next. He shifted his weight slightly, and the front of his board plopped back down onto the front wheels. The board struck the side of the curb hard, throwing Daniel T. up in the air. He did a half twist and came down on the sidewalk on his back, where his head whiplashed against the cement with a thud.
At the local hospital, where Daniel T. was rushed by ambulance, doctors did a thorough examination: X-rays, CT scan, and MRI. They found nothing but a goose-egg lump on the back of his head. A little shaving and three stitches would fix that. His breathing was good; his blood pressure was normal, and his heart rate was fine. All of his vital signs were OK, but Daniel T. Reese was in a deep coma.
“Whoa,” said Danny as he awoke suddenly. “Where am I?” He was flat on his back on hard-packed ground.
“You are nearly in the middle of the street,” a deep voice told him. “You should move out of the way quickly or be run over by that donkey and wagon coming toward you.”
Daniel got up on his elbows and looked to his right and saw nothing but pedestrians. Then he heard something and looked to his left.
“Yau!” he yelped and rolled out of the way just in time.
“Good move, boy,” the voice said.
Daniel hoisted himself upright and took a good look about him. On both sides of the street were stands of one stature or another with people going to and from them.
“Where am I?” Daniel asked again.
The man who owned the voice, dressed in robes from head to toe, slowly walked around Daniel, looking him up and down and focusing especially upon his footwear.
“You are in Nazareth. Where do you come from? What tribe do you belong to? I have never seen such manner of dress. And on your feet, what is it that you wear?” asked the man.
“Nazareth?” Daniel questioned, totally astonished. “Where is that, dude? Sounds like a place maybe up north in the Seattle area. There’s a lot of towns up there with really funked out names. Stuff like Issaquah, Encumclaw, and Snoqualmie. I think they are Indian names, but I’m not all that sure cause I don’t belong to a tribe. My shoes? Dude, they are Nike’s—the kind Michael Jordan wears, or maybe that is O’Neil. Hey, all of them big ball players wear ’em, man.
“Damn! Sure is hot. Them robes help keep you cool? I notice everyone is wearing ’em. And, yo, dude, did you score your wigged-out sandals like at the Walmart?”
The man held up one hand to the boy. “It is hot out here in the sun. Come. Let us find a place in some shade. You seem to enjoy speaking; however, you use a certain manner and tone of voice that I do not recognize. Also, you have many words that are strange, and I do not understand.”
The man led Daniel off to a side street or alleyway and found a place beneath a tree.
“What land do you come from? What village? What people?” asked the man.
“Well,” said the boy, “I live in Vancouver, Washington in the United States of America. If Nazareth is up north, then you know where that is. My people I guess are European, not exactly sure where, or maybe from Minnesota. My name is Daniel T. Reese. What’s yours?”
“Daniel is a good strong name,” the man said as he reached out and grasped the boy’s offered right hand, but his hand wrapped itself around the boy’s wrist, as was the custom in his land.
Daniel smiled big, and he took hold of the man’s wrist as well. “Cool, dude,” he said and then slid his hand over the man’s palm, snapped his fingers, and held up his hand. “Give me five after that slide!”
The man just stood there and glanced at his hand and then at the boy’s.
“Aw, man, you be lame. I hold up my hand and you do the same. Go ahead, like this,” Daniel pointed to his right hand with his left.
The man held up his right hand.
“All right, dude. Now we cross and strap ’em together.” They did. “Cool. Later, I’ll teach you more handshake shit. Now, where exactly is Nazareth?” asked Daniel. “I don’t know how I got here, but I need to be getting back to Vancouver. How much time has gone by since I was skateboarding with Joel and the guys? Do you know what time it is?”
The man shaded his eyes with one hand as he looked up toward the sun. “I believe that it is close to one,” he said.
“Don’t you have a watch?”
“Watch what, Daniel?”
“Oh, never mind. Can you point me to the nearest freeway? Maybe I can thumb a ride back home.”
“What is a freeway?” asked the man.
“You know, where cars and trucks and buses go one way or another to wherever they want to go,” Daniel said.
“What are cars and trucks and buses?”
“Are you serious, dude?” asked an astonished Daniel. “Aw, man, you really don’t know, huh? Jesus! Just where am I?” Daniel asked again, furiously this time, as he looked around him.
“Do you know my son?” asked the man with a smile on his face.
“I don’t think so,” said Daniel, “but maybe. What’s his name?”
“You just said it. His name is Jesus and I am Joseph.