CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I WAS LYING on my back, staring at the ceiling of our room, when I first heard the commotion. Sarah was with me, and Saba appeared at the door.

“He is here already, on the other side.”

Gathering ourselves, we rushed from the house and stopped short at the view. There, just beyond the town, hundreds were hurrying. To where, I didn’t know, but it could only mean he had arrived.

Sarah was the first to run, and then I, on her heels.

“Stay close, Maviah!” Saba said. “Stay with me.”

But I hardly heard him, for I was already caught up, rushing to stay with Sarah, who seemed to have forgotten that she was weak from her illness.

“Sarah!” I had to follow her—she was my eyes.

She ignored me, desperate to reach the same destination as everyone else.

Then we broke over a grassy slope west of the village and Sarah pulled up sharply, so that I ran into her.

Even with milky vision, the sight took my breath away. A thousand at least had already gathered. More streamed from the slope beyond. Only three months earlier in Capernaum there had been hundreds—now there were sure to be thousands.

How they loved him! Because he loved them as himself, as if they were he. What you did not do to the least of these, you did not do for me.

The least among them were those who’d sinned by breaking the law and were now outcast in accordance with their Law as given in their religion. Were they not the sexually deviant and lepers and hungry children and the poor and diseased and sinners of all types that crowded close? Yet Yeshua loved them and honored them—all except those who judged from afar whom he called hypocrties because they were no better deep inside.

Would he remember me and love me so? At such a distance I would not see his face clearly enough to know. And there were so many.

They hushed and settled down when they saw the teacher sitting on a large boulder. I too saw, just enough to see that he rested one foot on the rock, knee within the crook of his elbow, allowing the other foot to hang over the edge. He was speaking already, as if addressing only friends on a lazy afternoon. How long had he been here?

His voice reached me, and I stilled my breathing to hear.

“Have you not heard me say, no one can serve two masters? Is this not true?”

No one responded, for they, like me, were held in the grip of his presence already. His voice carried the kind of authority one would not dare resist. They had come to feed on his words and his power, I thought.

“Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and mammon. Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.”

Stephen’s words echoed in my mind. Clearly, Yeshua spoke these truths often.

He spread a hand wide to indicate the sky.

“Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

How true were those words, I thought. Still, I could not fathom a life so free of worry.

But he wasn’t done with the matter.

“And why do you worry about clothes? See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith?”

The words crashed through my mind. I craved this faith as I had craved water in the Nafud.

“So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

A slight murmur rose at this, for trouble was the way of the Galilean under Rome. I couldn’t tell if they agreed or disagreed with him, perhaps both. My heart was pounding.

Yeshua still sat on the boulder, one leg cradled in his elbow, the other hanging over the edge. He was tired, perhaps. Or only comfortable.

“You have heard me say to love your neighbor as yourself, for he too is your brother. I have said to judge not lest you be judged, for the Father judges no man.”

He paused, looking at those gathered.

“You have heard me say, ‘Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find.’ If you know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give to those who ask him!”

My mind filled with this new teaching. Yeshua’s Father was also mine—he’d just said as much. And could I ask him for a gift? How? Must I build an altar?

“Today I will tell you a story about the Father and his sons, two brothers.”

He unfolded his leg and pushed himself to his feet, now standing tall upon the rock. Then he lifted a finger and began.

“There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, ‘Father, give me my share of the estate.’ So the father divided his property between them. Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a distant country, and there squandered his wealth in wild living.”

The moment I heard his words, I found myself in the story, for, though not a son, I was a daughter bound to my father’s name.

“After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and the younger son began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to a citizen of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed pigs. He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything.”

He paused. The hill was silent.

I too was desperate to be fed, so far from my father and in desperate straits.

Yeshua spoke. “When the son came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ So he got up and went to his father.”

Tears filled my eyes at his words. What I would give to be accepted into my father’s house! I too had shamed my father in being who I was, and longed only to be honored in his house. All my life I had longed for it.

And yet I was a daughter, not a son. I was a woman made lower by slavery.

“But while he was still a long way off”—his voice came louder now, reaching far—“his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him, and kissed him. The son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his servants, ‘Quick! Bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ So they began to celebrate.”

I could not stop tears from slipping down my cheeks. A terrible knot filled my throat, for I had never known of such a father. Surely the story was about Yeshua’s Father, not my own, nor any other, for Yeshua’s Father did not judge his son.

A murmur again spread, for the story seemed to be finished. But Yeshua lifted a hand.

“Meanwhile, the older son was in the field. When he came near the house, he heard music and dancing. So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. ‘Your brother has come,’ the servant replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’ The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. But he answered his father, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’ ”

Yeshua paused, pacing upon that rock, and not a soul dared make a sound. The good son was angry and judged his brother, and therefore refused to go into his father’s house. So now both sons had rejected the father, each in his own way. But would the father judge his firstborn?

“ ‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’ ”

The master paused.

“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

Now a cacophony of questions and exclamations rustled through the crowd. The story was over.

A ringing sounded in my ears and I felt as though I could not breathe. Three truths seared themselves into my heart at once. The first, that though the sons had separated themselves from their father’s table, first the younger and then the older, both remained sons of their father, possessing everything that belonged to him, for he judged them not and embraced them with equal joy.

The second, that both sons would find themselves only by letting go, as Stephen had said. The younger son, by letting go of what he thought might make him happy apart from his father. The elder son, by letting go of his grievance against his brother.

And the third, that I too would give all the life I had to be such a son. Though lost, to be found. And to have such a father. To sit at his table, sharing in all his great honor.

I was only half aware that one of the disciples had approached Yeshua and quietly spoke to him. Dazed, I watched Yeshua step off the rock and make his way up the far slope. Those seated there scrambled to make a way for him.

Sarah was already four paces gone when I became aware that she was rushing forward, hurrying through the crowd as Yeshua walked away.

“Sarah!”

I ran after her, flogged by worry. There were many people and she was moving quickly. What did she intend to do?

Saba spoke from my elbow. “We should return, Maviah. He leaves!”

“Sarah!” I ran faster, determined to stay with her. She seemed to know something I did not.

Perhaps I hoped that I could share what she had already found.

We were already running up the far slope when she reached the thick of the crowd and slowed to a fast walk, weaving past people.

“Maviah, we will come back!” Saba insisted. “There are too many!”

I pushed forward, close on Sarah’s back, and when I finally caught her, I grabbed on to her cloak.

She pressed on, now clambering into the throng like a rabbit desperate to make its burrow. I couldn’t see Yeshua—there were too many people on all sides, many who were poor and ill and foul-smelling. None of this mattered to Sarah.

“Sarah? Please…”

And then we were upon the inner circle, with many pressing close to Yeshua, touching his arms and garments while his disciples tried to keep a semblance of order about their teacher. He seemed unwilling to send any away.

There were two women in front of Sarah, between her and Yeshua, and I thought she would push them aside, so desperate did she appear. Instead, being slight, she bent low and shoved her arm between them, and reached for the tassels of Yeshua’s woolen tunic.

I let loose of her then, surprised by her boldness. And though my vision was blurred, I could not mistake what happened.

Sarah, having reached far, then stumbled and fell to her knees, panting, with me now several paces behind, Saba by my side. If Yeshua had not stopped, the crowd might have trampled her.

But he did stop, abruptly, lifting up an arm and looking about.

“Who touched my clothes?” he asked.

The crowd hushed and Peter, who stood close enough for me to recognize, looked about.

“You see the people crowding against you, master. Are they not all touching you?”

Yeshua turned, searching, and those near him backed up, giving him space. Sarah was on her knees, but at least ten others stood between her and Yeshua.

I saw her body quietly shaking with sobs.

I saw Yeshua looking about.

And I knew already why he was so determined to know who had touched him, though so many had. The thought sent a chill through my bones.

“Who touched me?” he asked yet again. “I must know. Who?”

Unable to contain herself, Sarah lunged to her feet and stumbled forward, pushing past the others, then falling to her knees again before Yeshua.

“It was me, Lord,” she sobbed, clinging to his garment. “Please forgive me.” She lifted her face to him. “I knew. I knew that even touching the hem of your garment would free me. I touched you.”

For a moment, no one moved.

“And I felt it leave me as I did,” she wept. “Forgive me. I beg you.”

I wanted to rush forward and throw myself at his feet too, but I was terrified that I did not have Sarah’s faith. Not even Stephen seemed to.

Yeshua reached down and touched Sarah on her head. He spoke in a tender voice, as a father might speak to his young child.

“Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”

The words crushed me. He had called her Daughter.

Daughter, your faith has healed you. Yeshua had saved her from her suffering.

Sarah was weeping with gratitude now, bowed low.

I was about to run to him, terrified and desperate at once. But one of the disciples took Yeshua’s arm and whispered something in his ear.

The master nodded, looked at those about him once again, then spoke plainly.

“I must go now, along with Peter, James, and John. Remember what you have heard and seen here today.”

And then he turned and left. The people parted for him in silence, as if none could resist his will. “Jairus’s daughter is dead,” I overheard someone say. “He goes to see the daughter of the synagogue’s ruler.”

But I too was a daughter, and I too would surely be dead soon.

A terrible sorrow swallowed me.

Yeshua was gone.

SARAH had been made whole.

We returned to the house and it took her a long while to find the words to speak of the power she’d felt flowing up her arm and down her spine. Like no sensation she had ever felt, she said. It was a fire that had swept through her body, burning up every trace of her affliction. She still spoke in a meek voice and was yet a frail woman, but in every other respect Sarah seemed to be a giant in my eyes. She seemed to see the world with new vision.

But she couldn’t find the words to explain how one could gain the faith that had made her whole. Though she could see with new eyes, I was still blinded and outcast.

Stephen suggested that this display of the master’s power should chase away all my doubts and fill me with great courage. Instead my fear only deepened.

For I had not been made whole. I had not rushed to touch the hem of his garment. I had failed even here, north of the Sea of Galilee.

Many were called, as Stephen had said, and I was terrified that I was one of those who could not find the faith to follow.

When the sun was setting, Saba, quiet from all that he had seen, approached me to ask what I now planned. We didn’t know when Yeshua might return, and Stephen wasn’t to be found, so I didn’t know.

“I need to be alone for a while, Saba.”

He dipped his head. “As you wish. But then perhaps we might find another way. Aretas waits.”

“Do you think I don’t know this?” I snapped.

“The tiger crouches. You find yourself lost in fear.”

“The tiger is Aretas and it is you who remind me of my fear!”

“Then you must believe the mystic with full confidence. He is truly a man who can command your troubles.”

But I wasn’t the queen Saba thought I was or could be. Truly, I despised my weakness.

“I know you mean well, Saba. But I’m forever enslaved.”

I couldn’t even see his eyes to know his reaction.

“Please… leave me.”

“As you wish.” He left me to my own torment.

Sarah was in the courtyard and must have overheard, but I wasn’t interested in her telling me that I needed to trust Yeshua. I only wanted to be alone. So I gathered my shawl and wrapped my cloak around my shoulders, then I slipped out the back.

Under a full moon, the night was still save for the chirping of insects and the distant sound of a dog barking. There was a grove of olive trees on the rise behind the house and I headed to it, knowing I would find solace there, where no man walked at night.

Alone under a tree at the center of the grove, I sank to the ground, pulled my legs up under my chin, and I let myself mourn as I had in the dungeons of Petra.

I mourned for my dead son and for Judah and for Rami. But now I mourned mostly for myself, proving the fullness of my weakness.

The burden that the world had placed on me as a daughter to the wrong mother was too great. That same burden now crushed me as Maviah, daughter of Rami, from whom far too much was expected.

For a long time, I rocked there beneath the tree, counting up all the evidence that blamed the world for my misery. Yes, I was gathering grievances, but it gave me the only meaning I could find.

I fed my self-pity with hot tears of anger.

Overcome with sorrow, I settled to my side, lay my head on my hands, and let my tears flow until merciful sleep stole my mind.

THE DREAM CAME after many other smaller dreams, each accusing me of my faults.

I was in Elias’s boat, and the dark seas raged about me like crouching jinn, snarling and foaming at the mouth. I spun around and saw that I was alone. The sky had turned black and the wind howled like rabid dogs with jagged teeth to shred the boat and rip the flesh from my bones.

Trembling, I clung to the mast with both arms, terrified for my life.

“Save me!” I cried, but the storm crushed my words with cracking thunder, denouncing me for my weakness.

Images rose up from those waves. My father, cursing my mother and throwing me to the slave traders as an infant. My master in Egypt, banishing me and sending me into the desert. Kahil, tossing my son from the window. Judah, beaten and bloody. A dungeon, imprisoning me in Petra. Sand pressed into my eyes, blinding me.

My own blood flowing, reminding me that I was only a woman.

The waves fell upon the boat and tore me from the mast, throwing me into the bottom of the boat. I gasped, gulping water. I would drown! It was too much for me. I was going to drown!

And then, in the way dreams can change, the water became my own tears, and I was drowning in wretched sorrow and self-pity. But I could not stand it, so I turned my sorrow into anger, then into such rage as I had never known.

I faced the black sky and I screamed my grievance, one arm around the mast again, one fist raised over my head. “I curse you, Rami! I curse you for throwing me away! I hate you!”

My words surprised me, for I had never allowed myself such words.

“I curse all the kingdoms who crush me! I curse the gods and the kings. I curse all men for enslaving me! I curse…”

The sea rose up beneath the boat like a mighty fist, thrusting it high, and my words caught in my throat. I could see that still larger waves were fast approaching, sure to hammer the boat to splinters.

Thunder roared. The wave fell away. The boat dropped and slammed into the sea with a shuddering blow.

And with that blow, a moment of calm came. I heard a gentle, consoling voice behind me at the bow.

“Maviah…”

I twisted to see Yeshua standing at the bow, feet planted—one upon the wooden seat, the other upon the leading tip of the boat. He was, gazing out at the horizon as if there were no storm.

Once again the wind blew, lifting his hair and tearing at his cloak. If he noticed, he showed no sign of it.

“Maviah… the one who feels so lowly among women. A slave among men. The least of all, so unworthy and afraid.”

I was too stunned to speak.

“Do you still see all of this as great trouble where I see none?” he asked, slowly turning to face me. “Only because you see with a plank of judgment in your eye.”

In that dream my vision was clear and I could see Yeshua’s eyes, wells of endless peace and power, beckoning me to enter another realm. But he was saying I still could not see.

“In these waves that threaten to crush you, you still perceive darkness, and how deep is that darkness.”

I could not speak. His teaching from Capernaum haunted me. The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eye is clear, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness.

“Why do you fear, Maviah?”

He smiled as if addressing a child distracted by her own silliness.

“Why do you hate?”

Hate? Did I hate?

“I…” It was all I could muster.

“Because you see only darkness. You are blind.” He set his foot down into the hull and took a step toward me, shifting his gaze to the raging waves, unconcerned. “So you suffer. And how deep is that suffering. But this is the path you too must follow.”

When he faced me again, the compassion and power in his eyes seemed to swallow me. I could not doubt that I was looking at more than a mere man.

“To the Hebrews it will one day be written of me: ‘During the days of Yeshua’s life on earth, he offered up prayers and petitions with fervent cries and tears… and he was heard because of his reverent submission.’ ”

A hint of sorrow crossed his face.

“Tears and submission, Maviah. Can you too submit your fear of death to the Father? Can you learn to trust? Can you follow the way into the kingdom of heaven where nothing can harm you?”

I must, I thought. I must… but I couldn’t speak.

“They will also write of me: ‘Son though he was, he learned obedience from what he suffered.’ It will be written that I too learned to obey because it is true. What then do you think is my advantage over you? If my path is with learning and tears and submission, can you not follow that same path? You too can learn. You too can see past your troubles. They are like the waves you believe threaten this boat. You too can find freedom from the storm. You too can walk on troubled waters. Only then you will see that my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

In those words I found my first measure of comfort, because it meant he was like me. If he did it, could not I?

“Follow me, Daughter. Follow me on the narrow path so few ever find. Follow me because I am the way.”

I suddenly wanted only this. I wanted to follow this teacher, this mystic, this son of the Father, this man who was surely more than a mere man, though he suffered as did I. Nothing else seemed to matter, for I understood that he too had followed the path of surrender and found great power. I could see this in his eyes, brimming with adventurous challenge and unquestioned acceptance rather than fear of the storm.

I wanted to run to him and throw my arms around him and cling to him, vowing all of my life. I wanted to trust him to find his yoke easy and his burden light as I surrendered my very breath. I wanted to rest in the arms of the Father, who loved without condition and did not judge me, as Yeshua taught. My hands trembled with that sentiment; tears streamed down my cheeks.

The storm was still raging about us but he could as easily step from the boat and walk on water as command these seas, I thought.

Could I as well?

“How?” I asked. Then with more clarity, finding my voice over the wind. “How do I surrender?”

He smiled and tilted his head slightly, as if daring me to hear him. He faced the storm and spoke in a soft voice, as much to himself as to me, I thought.

“Forgive,” he said.

Just that one word, but it promised to unlock the secrets of the stars.

“Master…” I didn’t know what to say. How could I forgive?

“Let go of your right to take offense at all that ever threatened you and all that threatens you still. Release the fear your understanding shows you in this storm. Turn even the other cheek.”

Though I could not understand their full meaning, his words pulled deeply at my heart. To be able to see no offense so as to turn my cheek to all that threatened… this was forgiveness? What power he had! Could I then have this power?

“How?” I asked, voice thin in that dream.

He turned his head, eyes bright and fearless and daring.

“By trusting me instead. Put your faith in me, not the storm, nor the boat. I and the Father are one. Surrender to the Father even your need for life. You cannot truly forgive until you surrender your belief in this storm and trust in me instead.”

Clarity came to me like the clearing of dark clouds. In him! Not by believing the truth about him, but by surrendering to him and trusting in him, I would have no need to protect myself from this or any storm. Would it then matter what happened to me, if my life was submitted to him? My fingers trembled with the power of what he was suggesting.

A faint, knowing grin twisted his lips. “Seventy times seven,” he said. “Forgive the world of offense seventy times seven.”

Seventy times seven. Not a number but the meaning of always, without ceasing. Yeshua’s way was to abide only in forgiveness. And he was the power of that forgiveness.

“Would you like to see, Maviah?” he asked, stepping toward me.

Yes, I thought. I could see with my eyes, here in the dream. But he was referring to different eyes—the eyes of my heart. The lamp of my body that could see light instead of darkness.

“Yes,” I said.

He stopped in front of me.

“Will you lead them into the way that I will show you?”

He was speaking of the desert, surely. Tears filled my eyes.

“Yes…”

“Will you follow my path and be the light of the world to shine in that darkness?”

“Yes…”

“Then your faith will heal you, Daughter.”

He lifted his hand to my face and I closed my eyes.

“Peace…” The moment his fingers touched my eyelids, a blinding flash filled my mind.

“Be still…” Immediately the wind stopped. In one breath the boat became still. As if it had never been, the storm was gone.

Only blinding light remained, filled with a word that echoed through my mind.

Forgive. Release any offense, not only against others but against the world. Find no offense in the waves. Trust Yeshua instead.

I was thinking of the wonder in that word—forgive—when the dream was taken, leaving only darkness.

My eyes fluttered open. My vision was still blurred.

I’m awake, I thought. I’m awake and it’s dark and olive branches reach for the sky above me, like fingers crawling from the dream.

I gasped and jerked up my head, straining for view. I was in the grove, under the tree where I’d fallen asleep. The eastern sky was only just beginning to gray, close to morning.

Nothing had changed here in the grove above Bethsaida, where my world was falling apart. My mind had found expression in a dream written from all I had heard Yeshua teach. All that Stephen had spoken under the tree.

But a dream of my own making.

“You sleep deeply, Daughter.”

My heart leaped and I twisted to the sound of his voice.

He was there. Yeshua! His face turned toward the graying sky. How long he’d been with me I didn’t know, but surely during my dream of him.

I scrambled to my feet, now fully awake. No one else was near.

“I come here often to be alone with my Father while the world sleeps,” he said. “I find the trees calming and the silence comforting. It’s here that I pray his kingdom come. His will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. It is here that I learn of forgiveness.”

The kingdom within and among and at hand, even now.

He turned his head to look at me and, though my sight was not clear, I imagined the same spark of wonder in his eyes I’d seen in my dream.

“You are still blind, are you not?”

He said it with such compassion. His voice did not accuse me. He only pointed out my state of being, for I was blind in more ways than one.

“Yes,” I dared to whisper.

“But to follow the narrow path ahead of you, you must be able to see.”

I nodded. Tears rose to my eyes, unbidden. A part of me was still on that boat tossed by the storm, which had become all the challenges and fears I faced. Yeshua alone was my savior, now offering me sight.

“Yes,” I said. I wanted to say more but could not.

“You must remember… what you will see now is only the half,” he said. “There is far more to be revealed in time. Only then will you be able to follow where I will go. This is the way, and even so, it will become forgotten.”

Yeshua turned to me and stepped forward. And with each step he took, my anticipation quickened. I knew. I simply knew. I knew faith, for in that moment I would do whatever he asked without the slightest question.

“Today you can only follow where I have been. But then, you will follow where I go.”

I could not keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks now. His every word was water to my scorched soul, the bread of life itself.

He stopped before me. “Daughter…”

There was such tenderness now. My knees were too weak to hold me and I felt myself sinking to my knees, trembling under his power. With everything in my being, I was desperate to reach out and cling to him. To offer my life to him. To trust him without reservation.

“Master…” I breathed.

“Now you see already.”

His hand touched my head and I felt heat rush over my crown and spread down my spine, then through my arms and legs.

There on my knees I closed my eyes and wept like a child. The sorrow I had carried for so many years was washed from my mind and heart, which were flooded instead with light and love. I knew without a shadow of doubt that I had found not only myself, but in Yeshua my master, and through him my Father.

A groan broke from my throat and I began to shake with sobs, overwhelmed by such exquisite relief, for I, like the son in his parable, had been lost, but now I was found.

Waves of light seemed to sweep over and through me, filling my veins and my bones with warm love. I was awash in the kingdom of heaven. And there was no end to those waves of light… they were eternal. Time had vanished.

He was gone, I finally realized. And yet he was still with me, as near as my own breath.

I don’t know how long I wept; I only know that when I then sighed a great breath and opened my eyes, morning had come.

The sight offered to me by my two eyes was still blurred, but this was of no consequence. I was seeing with new eyes. Eyes that did not require the light of the sun in this sky.

The light of the kingdom of heaven was bright within me.

I stood unsteadily, slowly gathered myself, looked once more about the grove to see that I was still alone, then walked down the hill.

The time had come to save Judah.