E
arly next morning before dawn, Jesus arose from his bed and walked outside. He could smell the smell of the lake. Fishermen were beginning to stir and would soon be on the water with their boats and nets. He found an isolated piling upon which to sit and stared out into the water. What thoughts came to the Son of Man at moments like these? What musings? Perhaps he thought of Flavius Marque and his servant. Perhaps he wondered how the lad was doing — if he had had a good night.
Another day in which to serve Thee. How may I best do that my Father? What lies in store for this day? What soldier’s servant, what blind beggar, what leprous boy, what widow’s son. . ? His thoughts stopped for a moment. Waves rippled gently at his feet. Only distant sounds could be heard. That and his own breathing. The sky, yet dark, was beginning to glow in its eastern reaches. Suddenly, he was off the piling, striding toward the house of Peter.
“Simon!” he cried. “Come, we must be off!”
The day wore hot into the afternoon. Jesus and his disciples had walked hard all morning. As he went through this community or that, he was recognized and many followed. “Why is he in such a hurry?” Keeping up was a strain and Jesus didn’t seem to tire. On he pressed, the hills flattening before his stride. More and more curious and hangers-on followed until a great crowd once again stretched out behind him like the wake of a boat under great sail.
At length he came upon a town called Na-im (which some called Nain). It was the ancient town of Shu-na-im, made famous by another prophet many years ago. Its walls had fallen upon disrepair, its gate dilapidated. As he approached, exiting from the town gate, there came a funeral procession. In that moment, he ceased his gait and waited for the procession to come to him. The hoard behind him gathered around as spectators to some curious event.
When the funeral entourage reached Jesus, he raised his hands requesting them to stop. It was an unusual gesture. Who would stop a funeral procession? Why? Yet, the beasts of burden were reined and those black-garbed mourners halted, looking inquiringly at this strange man. Who is he? What does he want? Does he know the deceased? And what means this great crowd?
A woman bent with sorrow, walking immediately behind the bier shook with sobs, dabbing her eyes with a kerchief. Jesus approached her. “Her son,” said her companion. “She is now alone. Her husband is also dead.” Jesus stood quietly as if nothing else existed but this sacred sorrow, the pathetic mother.
He raised his hand and touched her arm. She lifted her eyes to his, “Dear Mother,” he spoke in tones soft and comforting, “Do not weep.” His eyes fixed hers as he reached to touch the shrouded corpse. She heard him ask, “What is his name?” She heard herself reply, “Thomas?” A question questioning unformed hope. Her eyes followed his hand. He is touching my poor son! She did not know what to say, what to feel. Who is this man? Why does he . . ?
“Thomas, I say to you, get up!”
The gray mottled hue of the boy’s skin began to take on the pinkness of life. Shockwaves of murmur throughout the crowd. She heard the words of Jesus but could not accept them. It could not be. This is not happening. The eyes of her son blinked. She saw him raise himself to his elbow and softly, so quiet that only she could hear, this solitary word fell from his lips, “Mother?”
She feinted.
