sat under such a sky with a roaring fire between us. Weary and needing sleep, I wanted to lay my head on the ground and dream, but the voice on the other side of the flame was insistent.
“Tell me your story, Jesus.” The voice appeared to come from the flames that pierced the darkness and dispelled the cold.
“My story? What do you mean by ‘my story’?”
“Tell me who you are, Jesus of Nazareth, son of Joseph and Mary.”
“You know who I am.”
“Perhaps. But do you?”
My response surprised me, “I’m not so sure anymore—who I am.”
“So tell me your story, from as far back as you can remember.”
Selah
Mystery was no stranger to my mother. She saw the world through eyes of wonder and by doing so made life wonderful. To her nothing was ever simply as it appeared. There was always something else behind, in, and through what most people saw as plain, ordinary, or even dull. Sunlight sang, plants and flowers danced, water played, and the moon and stars held secrets of time. There were times when she looked at me with the same wonder. She had reason to know the world this way.
Mother worked hard at taking care of our family. She cooked, sewed, cleaned, shopped at the market, and brought water from the well. Not only did she work hard she did everything with a joyful spirit, even the most difficult tasks, as if she carried a secret deep within that permeated her life with joy.
When preparing the food for our family, she was particularly joyous. One day as she prepared flour for baking bread she took a small jar from a hole in the earthen floor. From the jar she pinched a small bit of powder, sprinkled it in the flour, and then began mixing.
“Mother, what are you putting in the flour?”
“It is yeast, son. It leavens the dough.”
“Leavens?”
“Yes. You know how sometimes our bread is flat like the bread we eat at Passover. That bread is just flour, water and a little salt. Then there are other times when we have the bread you like so much.”
“Yes, the light fluffy bread in a large loaf.”
“This is what yeast does. Just a tiny bit mixed in the dough makes it grow into a nice, light, round shape.”
“How does it do this?”
“I really don’t know. I just know it does.”
“Like magic!”
“Maybe,” she laughed.
“But why do you hide it?”
She smiled broadly and chuckled at my childlike questioning, “I’m not really hiding it. It needs to be kept in a cool dark place in order to stay fresh and keep its ‘magic’ as you call it.”
“Is yeast like salt?”
“Not really. Salt is used to make food taste better and to preserve it. But yeast and salt are very much alike in two ways. It only takes a tiny bit of either, and both can lose their ‘magic’ if not cared for properly.”
She smiled and put her arms around me. The secret joy of her life spilled into the room surrounding and holding us both the way she was holding me. Her smile, her joy, her touch was the yeast and salt of my life. And just like yeast and salt, the magic of her love filled and encompassed my soul.
Selah
Rarely did I ever know my mother to be overly anxious or afraid. However, on those occasions when she was anxious the joy that she normally exuded was transformed into intense determination and persistence.
One night I awoke to my parents’ voices.
“Mary, what are you doing?” Papa whispered so as not to wake my brother, sister, and me.
“I’ve lost something.” Her voice was hushed and deliberate. I saw her sweeping the floor by lamplight.
“But what could be so important. Wouldn’t it be easier to find in the daylight?” Papa asked.
“It probably would. But I dropped a coin to the floor just before lying down to sleep and after putting out the lamp. It is the only money we have and will buy our food for several days. I cannot rest or sleep until I find it.”
“Can I help?” Papa sighed.
“You go back to sleep. There is no need for you to worry. I will find it.”
From the shadows, on the edge of the lamplight I saw her search for that lost coin. As anxious as she was, she remained calm and focused. My own anxiety began to subside.
I had seen that confident belief before and could hear her saying to me, “Jesus, if you believe something with all your soul and mind and body you will see your belief become reality.”
“How do I do this, Mother?” I had asked.
“First you feel it deeply, next you think it thoroughly, and then you take action as if it is already done.”
I fell asleep knowing she would find the coin because she believed she would.
I awoke to laughter in the courtyard outside our house. Mother told her friends about sweeping for hours in the lamplight and finally finding the lost coin. Her voice filled the air with joy.
I breathed in the joy of her laughter and also the strength of her faith, and secretly thought, “That coin was never lost because my mother always believed it would be found.”
Selah
There was a passing phrase my parents would say to one another when they thought no one was listening. “Remember the angels,” one would say to the other, especially when an important decision loomed before them. The first time I remember hearing it I was twelve years old and we had gone on our annual Passover trip to Jerusalem.
When the festival was ended they started home, but I was left behind in Jerusalem. Assuming that I was in the group of travelers, they had gone a day’s journey before noticing I was missing. They looked among our relatives and friends, but didn’t find me, so they left my brother and sister with family and returned to Jerusalem.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив
