Just Man, Enough: A Different Kind of Warrior for a Different Kind of Fight

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Introitus

1. In the beginning…

2. a time to break down… a time to weep

3. a time to build up… a time to embrace

4. Two are better than one… : Day 1

5.  . . . they are new every morning: Day 2

6.  . . . they will bear you up… : Day 3

7. At the mouth of two witnesses… : Day 4

8. By the rivers of Babylon… : Day 5

9. behold, a caravan of Ishmaelites: Day 6

10. He restoreth my soul: Day 7

11.  . . . for there was no room at the inn:

12. Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise:

13. And at the end of eight days… :

14.  . . . they brought him up to Jerusalem…

15.  . . . everything according to the Law of the Lord…

16.  . . . there came wise men from the east…

17. Rise… flee to Egypt, and remain there…

18. And the child grew, and waxed strong…

19. Rise… and go to the land of Israel…

Postlude…

. . . and Epilogue

Endnotes

Advance praise(!) for Just Man, Enough from people who really know their books:

. . . more advance praise for Just Man, Enough!

An EXHILARATING read with a storyline good in the FAMILY demographic, but its mature themes put it in the PG-13 market all the way. The outright belly laugh pita wrapped around a falafel of pseudo information gives it huge HOLLYWOOD potential. It hinges around cataclysmic events near the time of BEN HUR, with an ominous force in the background like the MATRIX but without the need for a lavish special effects budget. The love stories it co features read like TITANIC. Buy, read and PRODUCE this story soon, I need the money. Talk at ya.

Yours truly

Mr., or Major or whatever, Dundore, obviously needs to go back to school, if he ever went in the first place. He certainly didn’t graduate from any seminary with which we are familiar, and this work clearly ranks him with the Vulnerable Beavis, not the Venerable Bede. If I need a river guide I go with Dundore, Mark Twain being indisposed: but for a guide to the venerated, long held opinions by which many a reputation and living have been made I’ll look elsewhere. In terms of doctrine I see nothing harmful, but the author’s clear disdain for orthodoxy, historical accuracy, sound theology and tradition leave me as cold as they found me. I give this book two crosses out of five, saving a sixth for its creator.

Colicky Cloistered Theology Quarterly, an opinion journal

Uhhhh, I don’t get it. To many big words hurts my self esteam. Is there going to be a test? Oops, my bad. Let’s party like rock stars!

University and High School Kids United Weekly (a teacher-edited publication)

Of all the inane, inept and quirky works of literature past and present I have ever laid my hands on this one beats the band. Besides, Dundore, it was my idea!

A (former) friend

Well, like so much literature out there today that is putatively Christian it has its good points and it has its bad points. As a work of imagination it’s good, as work of theology not so good, huh. But then nobody’s perfect, let’s just all keep working at it. But buyer beware, and don’t let the names fool you. The main characters are not the ones you think you know, but as an alternative history or ‘historical fiction’ novel they fit. Gotta admit, it’s pretty funny. We give it three out of five ‘mazeltovs.’ Come over for a nice glass of wine, we’ll talk about it.

The Ecumenical Judeo-Christian Citizens Council of Cape Coral (Let’s get out the vote!)

This book is an outrage! It is blasphemy at its most shameful. It is an insult to Islam! This book and all books except the Holy Qu´ran should be banned and burned immediately, for they offends Allah. As for this Dundore khaffir infidel, as for all whose displease him, Allah the merciful, the compassionate and the compassionating one will rip out his guts and feed them to swine before his children’s eyes then put the sword to his softly pulsating throat in tender pity.

Modern Imam Magazine

Well, we’re just not sure what to say. At any rate, it’s all out there in the open now.

Mom and Dad Dundore

What surprises one in this book is its ostentatious public display of rank, vainglorious dilettantism. The author’s ostensible purpose, from whence we derive a work’s raison d’être, remains, a posteriori, enigmatic. This leaves the utility of the work shrouded in dubiety although it has its redeeming features and uses. Keep it in the bathroom if you catch my drift.

WFB

You can skip this page.

No, I mean it. You won’t miss anything.

Really. There’s nothing to see here.

Go on.

Scram.

Shoo! Just get on with the book.

Still around, huh? Ok, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. This is where I’m supposed to say something like, Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version, copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. Used by permission (Thank you). All rights reserved. I have to say that or else someone gets sued, I think, and I’m afraid of provoking my Christian brethren. The problem is, I can’t say it because it’s not true. Yes, I used the ESV (trademark, marca registrada, etc, used without permission) primarily, but in places I mixed it up with the King James Bible and the American Standard Version, with some KJV-flavored Jewish translations. I tried to use what would best suit the ear and fit the purpose. And, since I’m giving out mad props to the publishing industry, I must thank the good brothers at WordSearch® for keeping the ASV alive. I appreciate it. While I’m at it why don’t I just give a shout out to the folks at Gateway®, Mozilla®, and WordPerfect® as well, rounding out the depersonalization and making the ‘product placement’ complete? Thanks folks.

Quotes of the abiding Greeks are taken from Great Books of the Western World, Vol. 5: Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes; Encyclopædia Britannica, ©1952, William Benton Publisher

I think it is also here that I am to insert a disclaimer saying something like This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This should not be construed to mean that the work is irrelevant.

And of course it goes without saying that the views expressed herein are exclusively those of the characters to whom they are attributed, which the author merely reported. They do not reflect the policies, official positions or philosophy of the Department of Defense, the US Army, or anybody the author knows or has worked with. The author begs any and all involved in the distribution of his active duty or retirement income to ignore all passages concerning the Roman soldier Sylvestris and his sentiments on sensitive topics.

Dedication

To the many readers as yet unknown to me whom this book is meant to help.

Preface

From Home, Sept. 2011

My Dear Son,

I believe you are aware that I completed this work in early 2007, that terrible year for me in Iraq. I hope that you recall the pages of it I sent you. If so, then you might well wonder at the long delay in finally bringing it to press. Let me first say that there were several reasons, but I will expand on only the most important. Secondly, things have simply reached the point where any further delay is impermissible. And now I will explain the major cause, as briefly as I can, and in doing so re-introduce you to the story

I hesitated because I wasn’t sure how I should present a story that is ultimately very personal to the public at large. I invented a variety of devices and wiles to disguise its purpose and make it appear that I undertook and completed the project as of general interest for anyone and everybody, but that was simply not true. I have decided at last to adopt the truthful explanation as the best so that there be no misunderstanding about the design of this book. The truth is, it is for you.

By admitting that to be so I place it within an ancient and grand tradition. Do you know that Aristotle wrote one of his famous works, his Nicomachean Ethics, for his son Nicomachus? Didn’t St. Augustine write The Confessions with a similar instructional purpose in mind? "Thus, my son, take the books of my Confessions . . . He did, just as St. Paul wrote to his dear son" Timothy. And how many times, in a variety of ways, do we encounter the formula, ‘My son, incline yourself to my instruction,’ in one form or another in the Word? And what is that Word but an extensive letter, written from the Father to his many children?

In that vein this book is for you in particular. But like those other works it also contains much for a general audience, which I hope embraces it. It is my prayer that in seeing the life of the man at the center of the story others will follow his lead and live their lives differently than the new barbarism, so evident and dominant in our society, would channel them—and you. You will also see that now, with this introduction, it is a letter within a letter, from a man who we have heard about to his own son. Complicated? You’ll see that it is not.

With that off my chest I will prepare you for the tale. I found the manuscript, in its original languages, during my time that Middle Eastern kingdom where the story had been suppressed for ages. I took it with me to Iraq where I got invaluable help with the translation. The Chaldeans gave me eager and apt assistance. The Kurds did their best to aid me but were limited, and the Iraqis I tricked in to it.

I know that it is long, and a generation and a boy so conditioned to read nothing lengthier or more complex than a text message will have trouble with. But the words, phrases and story that follow belong to another time and other people, and I had to let them have their say. Listen with patience and you will be rewarded with laughter, wisdom and joy. Love, Dad

Introitus

To my son in exile, living where he may in the hinterlands far outside Judea.

I write of our times, and how I have longed to do so. I have missed you, and what I hear of your circumstances brings me to the depths of an anguish hitherto unknown by me. I have it on good account that you find yourself living among swine, physical and spiritual, nourishing yourself with the slop and slime they leave you in the wake of their snuffling, destructive rooting. How different things might have been for each of us, and we together, with the example of this marvelous tale I now present you. How different a man and a father I might have turned out, and how different a son you, under the exampled influence of a man once in our midst whose story I believe grows in importance. For tidings have reached me of his son, now grown, and the works he does, which I come to believe will have significance far beyond the confines of our narrow horizons. Attend the story well to see if you agree. May it somehow restore sense to us both, and it works in me even now. I begin it with those two men as they worked together some years ago.

They labored mutely, each seemingly absorbed by his task and the handling of his instruments, but not in any silence. The very loud, irregular, hammering rap and clack of a cutting tool as it was worked against a cylinder of rough-hewn stone became a thing unto itself, and so jangled the nerves that anyone having heard that noise would hear it again at the mere sight of a pillar or column. As the crude pounding and snapping at the resistant stone material continued, removing any possibility for conversation or even thought, it also became evidently unendurable.

Watch how you handle that piece, will you please? snapped the older man. I can’t afford to replace it, and if you burn that piece of bread you burn our dinner with it. I’ve taught you a finer touch than that; won’t you please use it?

The boy quickly withdrew his tool and slowed his pace on the treadle, the whirring of the leather belts and wheels quieting as he brought the machine to a stop. He looked at his elder blankly, bringing the cutting stone to a rest in his lap. The man clutched at the moment to continue, saying, And this is how it’s been for days with you now. Tell me, is work become a trouble or inconvenience to you?

No, the boy responded quietly, it’s not the work that troubles me, nor has it ever been distasteful to me. It’s my thoughts that interfere with my concentration and one recurring question in particular that hinders all other direction and intention on my part.

And what that is I’d like to know, the older man said testily, if by addressing it I might enable you to properly get on with the job.

The boy’s expression became dreamy and he said, I’d like to know, since we’ve returned from Jerusalem, what you might be thinking. You saw me there, in close engagement with the priests and scholars, and I wonder—since you might see me differently now—I wonder how that might be affecting you. And I would like to know, he added hurriedly, then slowed again, since you’ve been rather cross of late—if there is anything you’d like to ask me.

The man huffily said, Anything I’d like to ask you? Well, I thought I had already asked two or three fine questions, but perhaps they weren’t clear to you, or the noise of that unbearable racket you’ve been making all day while nearly ruining that costly block of raw stone hadn’t left your ears and allowed you to hear me. Let me repeat myself, he said, then emphatically however rhetorically asked, Jesus, where is your mind, and won’t you apply it to doing better?

The boy puffed a sigh then said, No, not like that. I mean, don’t you have some real, very serious question for me, or a series of them? In Jerusalem…

The man firmly patted his forehead some three times in perturbation, drew a breath, looked aside a moment and then said, Jerusalem. My limp will long be gone before I forget what we suffered in Jerusalem. Very well. Since you seem to insist on emptying this day of it’s worth in accomplishment, I will pose to you the best question I can. I’m no temple scholar, but I will ask you the most difficult thing I can conjure to mind. The great pause that followed his declaration, if measured in mental agony, would have sufficed for all the lawgivers, poets, prophets, priests and philosophers of his and all ages. Then, at the last moment of prolonged suspense it seemed any recess short of death’s eternal slumber would allow, he rather importantly asked, What is it that walks on four legs in the morning, on two in the afternoon, and on three at the night’s quiet falling?

The boy’s cheeks blew full and rosy before he burst out laughing so that his tonsils were nearly visible in the dimming light of the shop, eventually regaining his composure and previously somber tone.

You and I both know the answer to that, and we have for years. Really now, your japes and capers aside, wouldn’t you like to press the moment to discover whether there’s something you might learn from me?

The man looked only mildly deflated when he responded, saying, "Well, I have always thought that a good question. I didn’t suspect you’d remember the answer, memorable though it be, for you were so young. Well and good. Here is another.

‘If the Lord our God is almighty, can he make a stone so large that he can’t lift it? And if he can neither manufacture nor lift such a massive weight, is he then truly omnipotent?"

Again the boy laughed, this time as the peal of small bells, and infectiously so. It seemed to soften something in the older gentleman’s disposition, and he laughed too, while saying, See, I have you there. I too studied among the learned in Alexandria, and I perceive your mockery for the stalling you disguise at the intended expense of my dignity. This is a stubborn one. Come now and approach the daunting knot of logic, thick and tight, I dare challenge you to unravel.

The boy Jesus continued to chuckle softly for a moment before saying confidently, if not fully authoritatively, I meant no ridicule, but the answer seems easy. He has already laid before the eyes of the world to behold an unalterable, immutable, immovable object which not even he can one whit budge or dislodge: it is his word, his will, unshakeable and eternally enduring, without remove. Now then, should he choose to apply it some old stone, the boy continued, his tone now more serious, then any pebble, particle or speck fits the purpose and description, should he so determine. The boy paused to let the man briefly consider the answer before asking again, Please. Is there not something different, I think I really mean more relevant, substantial or even consequential, that you’d like to ask of me?

I’ll try one more if you wish, the man said quietly, almost reverently. How hard it so often is for a father and son to enter in to a genuine exchange, and the enterprise was evidently entirely new to the man. Finally, after winning some inner struggle, he ventured on.

Look at me. I am lamed for you. I am like that quarried block on which you’ve been working; molded and formed into something I never sought to become, and in the process I have been, like that stone, nearly fragmented into shards and shatters: chipped, battered, damaged and gouged, and I have often not known whether I was acting in pursuit of something magnificent or out of fear of a pursuing terror. He looked intently at the boy before resuming, saying again, Yea, look at me. Can you tell me that I’ve been sculpted, shaped and crafted, or have I become misshapen, disfigured and deformed? And tell me, have I fulfilled my mission or have I merely survived the attempt? he asked, wiping his hands before continuing. And then tell me, if you would, is it over? I tell you, the finished product can never become anything finer than the raw material permits of, and I think I’m done. I’ve never been certain that I was the right man for the job anyway, and my present situation and condition give me little assurance. Can you answer me, Jesus, these things and one other: why me?

Jesus nodded to himself then shook his head as if aroused from a daydream, his intent to answer momentarily doubtful to the man. Then Jesus said, "There. Those are the kinds of questions I meant. Many before you have asked them of the father and there is no recorded answer to my knowledge, only a demand of trust. In your case, however, I believe I can be helpful without being hurtful.

Any man more wise would have been too skeptical of the ways and means of the father, and perhaps cynical enough to reject them. Anyone more intellectual and learned would have been too reliant on his own powers of resolution, and perhaps insistent on them. A very strong man would almost certainly have been too inflexible to depend on God for his strength and to allow Him to carry the battle, trusting to his own might. I could go on through a host of attributes, but you get the idea. What he must clearly have seen in you were the marks of obedience and diligence, for what does our God promise to reward but those two invaluable qualities. In you it would seem he found them in quantity sufficient for his purposes.

‘Now, before you feel bad or misunderstand, don’t take me to mean that you have none of the wisdom, intelligence or raw masculinity without which I suppose your task would have been harder or even impossible. Yes, you do possess some of each, and enough of each. I suppose, to accomplish all that you have to date, and overcome whatever challenges you might have encountered. I say that what God required he found in you, and I think the way you would phrase it would sound something like, ‘Smart enough to get the job done, but too dumb to quit.’ Yet you shouldn’t think of it like that. How invariably trust and faith in God is mistaken for foolishness. Yea, every time.

‘What you do have in a degree found wanting in so many others, to my observation, are your twin senses of duty and justice. I think the latter—your sense of fair play—is your foremost quality, and that which will invest your legacy when you are gone. You gave my mother and our father a fair hearing as he gave you a fair chance when you answered the highest calling of all, to fatherhood. Say, what earthly title greater than ‘father,’ when god calls himself by it? And there is one other thing, maybe the most important after all: Who else would have been better suited for, and loved my mother, as you have, if love be known by her works and permanence? So, it was for those things you could do, and for those that you wouldn’t do—like quit God or my mother."

The boy apparently finished, the two stood looking at one another for some time as nightfall more closely approached in the darkening workroom. Jesus then asked, Is there anything else you’d like to ask of me?

The man shook his head saying, No, thank you. I think that is enough for now. Aha, but I perceive that you disagree.

No sir, I object not at all if you decline to inquire of me further.

Then why do you seem still troubled if satisfied that our discussion, for now, is at a close?

It’s that there is something more, if I may.

If you may what? the man warily queried.

If I may ask you to tell me something I don’t really know, Jesus answered. Something I must know to help me answer those other questions you put to me, concerning your mission, your person and your performance.

And what might that be? What important, lofty lesson could I possibly have to teach you, aside from work in stone and wood? the man impatiently asked.

You could simply tell me, Jesus softly replied, what happened.

Suddenly a tempest broke over the man’s face, leaving in its trail freshets in his eyes and rivulets on his cheeks.

After settling himself and regaining his calm the man said, Then I will tell you what happened when you became my life. and he began. Nothing ever happened in Nazareth until that time when something happened to me.

*     *     *

I can tell you why the fountains of the deep burst within him, and it is for the same reason that I wept as I wrote: every father longs to tell his story to his son, but how rarely that chance falls, and how difficult for the working man, unskilled and awkward in narrative, to seize the visitation of that singular opportunity should it come. Our great fortune is to find that he, out of the great oral tradition of our society, did respond and right well over the ensuing weeks; and to discover that his story is in many ways every father’s story. It is not unlike my own at any rate, though elements so bountiful in his, missing from mine, I confess in the end. I share it with you hopefully in dreamy prospect that it will affect you as it has me, mend our brokenness and grant us a future united.

For his own particular and unique answer I return to the orderly course of his story, patiently crafted from first-hand sources and the accounts of those who knew him well, who enthusiastically say…

Matthew 1:18-20

King James Version (KJV)

18: Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise: When as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost.

19: Then Joseph her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a public example, was minded to put her away privily.

20: But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the LORD appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife: for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost.

Matthew 1:18-20

English Standard Version (ESV)

The Birth of Jesus Christ

18: Now the birth of Jesus Christ[a] took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been betrothed[b] to Joseph, before they came together she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit.

19: And her husband Joseph, being a just man and unwilling to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her quietly.

20: But as he considered these things, behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, "Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.

Footnotes:

a. Matthew 1:18 Some manuscripts of the Christ

b. Matthew 1:18 That is, legally pledged to be married

English Standard Version (ESV)

The Holy Bible, English Standard Version Copyright © 2001

by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers.

1. In the beginning…

The wooded hills of the rural district surrounding Nazareth once produced a lustrous jewel from within their hardscrabble confines and the primitive town that lay in their midst. She was a demure, discreet and modest young maiden busied only by the routine of her daily duties. By ‘young’ we mean her teens, it being the custom for women to wed early. But she was not yet wed, nor even promised through the usual family arrangements. Without compromise or pledge of commitment she continued with the family in its small, cramped quarters, promptly and conscientiously performing her duties with the willing obedience that is the sure sign of a humble and grateful heart.

There was little outwardly remarkable in her that clearly distinguished her from the other village gals. She had no more education than they, she was no more accomplished, and she had no remarkable skill or talent that would catch the eye of even a local man of means or distinction, let alone one more affluent from another community. She was pretty enough, sure, but in that land of raven haired, haunting beauties and deep-set, glittering eyes overset with thick, arched brows and olive complexions it took a real standout to snag a catch like that. It would seem odd to the eye that she would be set apart at all, but she was.

What distinguished her from the others was invisible to the casual observer, for despite the true value of her finest assets and attributes they were hardly enough to draw attention to itself and attract the notice of wanton stares and eager desire in the carnal eyes of men. It was a voluptuous beauty; a bearing just saucy enough to get you noticed but tame enough to keep you out of trouble; a hint of swagger with a dash of sway that lured a man in those days. Not enough to draw the unwanted attention of those stern, authoritarian, self-righteous religious types who were in everybody else’s business, but some targeted, well-timed extra swish in the robe with a little laxity in the veil could be just enough to influence the match and get you the one you wanted.

Poor Mary, that just wasn’t her way. What the other girls might have lacked in modesty, restraint and composure she more than made up for. Piety came easily, almost naturally to her, whereas it was so forced, or less of a force anyway, in those around her. Shy, quiet and contemplative she was prone to introspection and a slow, methodical, almost meditative way of deliberation on nearly any given issue. Timid she was not, though her outward bearing might lead you to think so if you mistook respect, courtesy, deference and modesty for insecurity. No, her integrity granted her a self-assurance that most never know, and today cheaply trade away so early in life that years later they can’t even remember having had it, though they are still young. Her supreme accomplishment was subduing it to such a degree that it never even remotely approached arrogance, haughtiness, or the level of derisive contempt for others that she found so repugnant when expressed by others with far less claim to it than she. Watching her draw at the well, herd the family flock, gathering eggs or collecting tinder for the fire you couldn’t have known that the mind of the maiden so engrossed in such common matters soared on another plane, occupied by distant thoughts and dwelling in other realms.

So it was with her, and only the most sordid types and basest minds dispute her integrity or dare arraign her virtue. Little more may be said of the early character and nature of the youthful poetess of Nazareth, and this story tells no more of the topic. Though she is a worthy object of further study and discussion, the record abruptly departs from a topic so wholesome and edifying, leaving the lady at her chores to center on a object as much of clay as she was of gold.

Know then also that there was in the village a young man, an enterprising and earnest sort, generally readily obedient and honest almost to a fault. Let it be known, however, that the latter trait was not so much innate as adaptive, as he himself admitted. He wasn’t one to take credit for righteousness, for self-righteous he was not. His honesty was principled but the record of his life (as well as certain insulting asides in the texts, I’m sorry to say) points to a more a practical, adaptive foundation for it as well. This young fellow, you see, recognized that he had trouble enough leading an uncomplicated, straightforward life, just learning his profession, let alone keeping up with any stretchers, fibs, tall tales or other such inventions. He learned early that accounting for their numerous complications, spin offs or sequels proved overwhelming. Therefore he kept his mental and moral lives simple and free of the clutter introduced by fabrications.

This simplicity of thought, and both his principled and pragmatic aversion to lying, all combined to produce a wonderful character trait in the man. You see, for some of the same reasons he avoided lies he was also uniformly, studiously and rigorously just. It was much easier to be so than to contain in his head the hundreds of irreconcilable rules he would have needed to calculate how he should treat various individuals and react to the many different situations that arise daily in one’s life. Therefore, for the sake of ‘intellectual efficiency,’ shall we say, he was honest and just. In the funny way the world has of categorizing people, some thought him an ‘unrefined’ thinker, single-minded, oblivious to nuance. Others thought him simple, naive, innocent. Others still just labeled him thick, dense and dull, but a good worker.

None of these things bothered him, however, so long as he had work. For what he was, in his own mind, was a God-fearing apprentice carpenter who tried to be honest and just. To be good at the three was the highest of his aspirations, and work allowed him no end of opportunity to struggle at perfecting the triad in his life. Fulfilling the three was his greatest source of satisfaction. What did trouble him was something else altogether, for he caught it in himself over the course of days as he sought and completed work in the small hillside village in which he lived.

His job took him down narrow lanes, and past sheep pens where he would see the ram doing good service to the ewes. He sometimes crossed fields where his eye might inadvertently light on the stud with filly or mare discharging nature’s contract. He worked on barns and corrals where bulls immodestly fulfilled their duties to herd and master in their cumbersome way. And sometimes he crossed paths with flocks of goats milling about in the open fields and doing… well, all that goats do in the undirected, chaotic promiscuity that marks their breed. On his way home, in front of Mrs. Zedekiah’s chicken coop, he watched the roosters ply their trade and even a gentle dove sweetly pinning his mate, reaping the fruits to which his hurried steps with extended neck and the ruffled feathers of his nape had borne him.

These observations seemed to resonate within, and he noticed for the first time in his life a new, strange and haunting sensation. It was hard to believe, but there was a creeping realization dawning within his soul that something was missing. He couldn’t identify what, for whatever was ‘missing’ was something he hadn’t known before. How do you miss something you’ve never had, he asked himself one day. But there it was all the same, a feeling that he likened to leaving the shop forgetting your tools, or to returning from an errand only to realize you’d left or forgotten what it was you were to fetch.

He was wrestling with that odd, nagging notion one day as he stood under an Acacia tree, watching two swallows in their swift and acrobatic flight of courtship. It was an amazing display of agility and mastery of their medium as they dove, swooped, arced, plummeted and climbed, switching directions in cuts and turns nearly too fast to follow with the eye. It was a breathtakingly beautiful act of choreography beyond the repetition or imitation of any other beasts. Whatever it was that drove them to such feats and exploits of aerial daring and incomparably complex rites, he figured, had to be worth it. But what was that, he asked himself in his typically, rigidly just and honest way. And what it is it they pursue, in preference to work? If only he could put himself in their skins for a moment, he thought, it could help him to understand.

At that moment he heard a voice, which he thought audible, say, Oh, to fly that way. He was sure it was audible, and that had anyone been with him they would have heard it, too. But the words had come to him so crisply and well pronounced despite their softness that they could have come from within as well. Worse, were they in fact spoken by another who had actually read his thoughts and then injudiciously, discourteously spilled them out into the street for all to hear? He snapped his head around and saw two long robes going up the lane with baskets perched and perfectly balanced on their heads. If the voice had belonged to one of them, which would it be? The one in the blue and white stripes, perhaps, who would have been nearest when they passed. No, her gait was perfectly simple, modest. Maybe the other, the one in tan with the saucier walk. He’d take a chance, sort of feel things out. Maybe he had identified that intangible source of vague, longing ache.

I’m sorry, he called after them, did someone say something? Miss Blue and White bent her knees down as if to gather up her skirt, subtly half-turning to give him a wave as she stood back up. Miss Blue Stripes. He thought he knew her for she looked more than faintly familiar, but now he was curious. The dictates of nature, unstoppable and dominant in field and farm, were finally asserting themselves in our quiet and heretofore unassuming young man.

It came as some surprise to him when, just a few weeks later, his father invited him to join him for lunch at the home of one Ben Moshe. The family was distantly related, but he couldn’t recall the two men having been friends or much more than acquaintances in the past. The conversation, stilted and stiff at first, suddenly took a weird and dangerous twist when the young fellow’s father said, Our Joseph, you know is young—maybe too young—and just getting on his feet. Our families are of similar social standing, but let’s not forget that there are some celebrities in our bloodline. Don’t worry about, though, for our boy is not to brag, like an onion, that his best parts are in the ground. The two elders laughed, the mother in the home joining in. The setting and the topic were both strange to Joseph. He had hardly been paying attention. His eyes had drifted toward the alluring bundle in the corner and his mind begun to entertain certain hypothetical scenarios, when his father’s words jerked him back into the present.

Dad, why are we making this about me? he asked abruptly, surprising even himself. Even he could recognize that the implications of this drift in the talk were enormous. He needed no one to tell him that the gulf between reality and the harmless fantasies born of his crush was wide. The thought of making that leap shook him, and he felt a chill as he thought of making that leap, for it was done only through marriage, and the landing was final. He looked from his father back to the figure in the corner, which had now drawn a scarf over her face.

It seemed no one had heard him for the other man, Ben Moshe, then said, Well our girl, she just seems so… I don’t know. Indifferent, I think, is the right word. She has no notion of the need to compete, and I’m worried that what I take to be her willful inattention to these matters will cost her. She’s a smart girl, he said teasingly, looking to the corner. Can it be that she thinks no one in this town is good enough for her?

It may be, his father replied philosophically, that two halves can make a whole. What you must note in my son, however, is that he is industrious. Oh, and he’s kind, in a way almost completely contrary to our culture. I don’t where he gets it myself, for where are chivalry and gentleness dictated in the books? He’s just naturally so.

As the two men continued talking they little realized that they were generating hope and feeding curiosity within the two hearts seated at opposite ends of the room from another. Or did they? When the espoused two later compared notes she often repeated that what she heard that day played over and over in her mind, giving her an assurance that they would make it. He was kind, they had said, and he didn’t have to be. That alone led her to feel sure that she sensed in him a kindred spirit, that of one who prized his name, his reputation and his standing before God way ahead of easy riches, cheap glory or any kind of fast ticket to the top. He wasn’t compromised by any sort of alliance with the occupiers, though he could have ingratiated himself with them. Nor was he one of those who sought power within the religious folds, and protection behind them. No, his was a quiet strength, a reserve and self-confidence that, like hers, could have supported conceit but that in him was masculinity itself.

All their integrity and independence virtually assured that their going would be tough, but they each felt certain that the trajectory of their love and match would lead upward. Regardless, they had that which so many arrangements lacked: they shared a trusting love in one another which covers a multitude of defects, eases strain and helps lighten burdens. They didn’t know one another really well just yet, but they each had a mutual assurance that they knew what was truly important to know about the other. No, they didn’t spend the years together that couples do nowadays, and cohabitation was not only culturally inconceivable, but also out of the question for these two characters in any day and age. In their case they knew that from their integrity would follow commitment, from commitment compromise, from compromise patience, from patience respect, and from respect love. That’s how it almost always happened in these arranged matches, but they were ahead of the game, because a smoldering love was already there, waiting for that certain something that would kindle it into a blaze. Besides, the match seemed all but a foregone conclusion. Why not think optimistically?

For Joseph’s part, as he found himself unmolested in the small room with time to think and eye her while the fathers talked, he became impatient. Right then and there, upon seeing her, he knew there was little question of his desire. There was something about that little girl that sent his emotional donkey cart skittering downhill fast with no brake and no driver. He was swooning on the inside, and he wondered if it showed. He knew it was always best to go slow at these preliminary meetings, like bargaining at the market, but something inside him told that this one peach was worth the whole basket—the whole produce section, even. His feelings now were a complete reverse of the attitude he had carried with him on the way, for he was initially as apprehensively reluctant about the match as any man could be.

By my beard, he thought to himself on the way up, I’ve seen some guys get sold berries but end up with onions, and the kids that come from a match such as that stink to high heaven.

From the moment he saw that diminutive, shrinking figure seated in the corner of the guest parlor of her father’s house, however, he knew he had seen his baby, his cuddlekins, and the one who had been fashioned from his very rib, the kind we would call a soulmate today. He sensed from her positioning and posture that she shared his own apprehensions, and that she was neither eager for a ticket out of her father’s home nor anxious to assert her will over a man she would make her own. It was difficult to tell, from the furtive glances her way he allowed himself, whether or not she was even paying much attention to the current of the conversation running past her. Her air of diffidence made it hard to determine that, let alone how she might feel about him.

No matter her composure and external calm, he told himself, that shy little creature just screams for a protector, a strong tower, a very present help in time of trouble. How has she made it this long without me, without my sheltering arms around her?" he asked himself.

She looked so vulnerable sitting there. Why, in the rough world in which they lived, she didn’t have a pigeon’s chance at the falcon races as he thought. Little did she know that right before her stood her answer. He knew, though, that he had the will to find the way to be the man she deserved, and he vowed to himself at that very moment that there would no harm befall her nor trouble plague her that he would not interdict or end until the very breath of life left him.

He also knew she needed a provider, someone to meet her every need, and that’s where things got a little dicey. As a young member of the guild he was just getting on his feet, and it would be longer than he liked before he could seal this deal. On the other hand, he was a bit in need of a helpmate himself. That was it then. He would put his nose to the grindstone and redouble his efforts in order to win his prize. There seated before the families, he took quick stock of what could be done, and hurriedly sifted through the list in as careful an account as he could make under the circumstances.

Let’s see, he thought, as he sorted through things. There’s the furniture, the doors, the cabinetry and the carts. Maybe I can get a few home repair things going to kind of fill the gaps.

There was the granary going up on the outside of town, but because of ongoing projects he had been reluctant to get involved out of fear of overextending himself. Finally he hit upon a plan.

Alright. If I get going in the morning I can take care of the house projects when people are up and kind of plan them around breakfast. Who knows, I might even get a couple of meals out of it, and that will save me a little. I can get back to the shop to work on those things that need any kind of milling or finish work. I can do my precutting, and it’s best to do the doors there anyway. I can break for chow, get out to the barn and granary project and work almost until dark. Then I can head back in, stop by the folks’ place for dinner (mom should have something on). If dad really wants this for me, then maybe he’ll help me out with the papyrus work and the billing.

Another idea suddenly intruded upon his thoughts. He had subconsciously felt it nudge him for attention earlier, but in the presence of company, and him being such a practical man, he had quickly brushed it away. Now it was back like an unruly kid poking the stranger for attention, and just at that moment Mary shifted in her place in a way that, ahem, intrigued him. Besides just the valiant protector and good provider, this woman would need a lover. That was the kind of talk among the guys that he didn’t normally pay much attention to, but the thought was on his mind now just as surely as the moustache on his face: He wondered if its effects were as visible. The thought prompted him to recognize that he had been rather self indulgent with his free time between 10 p.m. and the dawn, used only for sleeping.

Fine. After dinner I can head back over to the shop, and maybe if I go ahead and get one or two of those really nice lamps I saw in the bazaar the other day I’ll have enough light to do some of those decorative things like I’ve seen around the palace. Maybe I should even just get on one of Herod’s crews and just get through this in one big project. Either way, I think I can make this work. She may never know what it took, but I’ll make sure that every day she knows she was worth it. If she’s the woman I hope she is, then I will be known in the gates among the elders. He then nodded ever so slightly to his father.

Yes, his father then said, We accept this offer of marriage for our son. We will make all the necessary arrangements for the wedding which will be, and here he paused briefly to look at his son, knowing full well the financial requirements. Returning to face the others he continued, Soon. Just As surely as the stars shine in the sky to light our nights, we will fix the date for very soon. Good old dad, he knew how to work a crowd. The pledge was made, and Joseph left that house a happy man. Doing cartwheels out the door like a Roman acrobat wasn’t the thing to do, but even they couldn’t have compared to the spinning going on inside him. Besides, he had a lot on his mind and he was impatient to start.

Start he did. His vivid dreams hardly let him get a single wink as he lay on his tick mattress replaying the whole affair in his mind over and over. He critiqued every aspect of his performance. Was his demeanor just right? Did he come off as too serious, or does she think he’s a solid, stand up kind of guy? Should he have made more small talk, or did he come across as chatterbox. He did see her smile a couple of times. Was she laughing with him or at him? Could they be happy together? He couldn’t answer any previous question, not even the last, but he was sure he would do his part to make it so.

He made himself arise early and started making rounds to see if he couldn’t drum up a little more business, encourage people to let him get at those little things they’d been putting off for a while. A new, slightly larger sign in a spot visible to more people, lent to him by the cartwright, could make a difference. Besides, they helped each other out now and again anyway. He, Joseph, wasn’t so good with the metalwork but the cartwright wasn’t as good with the finish work.

He put most of his plan into execution and things were looking up. Now, the little wallflower that he had barely noticed before as she passed on her way to market took on the brilliance of the rising sun as she worked her way up the streets. It was always strange, He couldn’t tell if the feeling she stirred in him were more like flying or falling off a cliff. Was it his imagination, or was her veil drooping just a little more these days as she passed by? Had she always walked with that kind of a measured grace, or had he just noticed since the match? What was it about he walk anyway? How did she manage to get dignified, springy, sassy, alluring and unaffected all rolled in to one gait? It was as though each step were an individual emerging from a crowd to introduce himself. Was there anything about this young lady that was not perfect?

Things went on this way for a few weeks. Joseph worked his fingers to the bone, but the sight of Mary passing on errands to and fro brightened his days. She was like the sunlight glittering on Sea of Galilee when a soft breeze has made the slightest ripples. Once though, on market day, he missed her. At least he thought he had. He had been outside working most of the day, but maybe when she had passed when he had gone on delivery. In a few days though the caravans would be coming and surely then he’d see.

The day came and went and he’d seen no sign of her. Now he was worried. Could he be so bold as to go to her home and see for himself if anything had happened? Didn’t he have a right to assure himself that everything was normal, and he had just missed her appearance in the market, near the shop and in the dozen other places he had hoped to see her? What to do? How could he answer his deep, gnawing concern and loose the knots that were wrenching his guts? He had to satisfy his curiosity, ease his ache, but he couldn’t divulge his heart’s feverish ardor. Not just yet, anyway. It hit him. He would get his cousin James to casually swing by on an errand for, say, candles. Besides, he was a friend of her family. Yes, that would do it.

James was a good cousin, a real mensch, Oddly enough, Joseph had no sooner decided on this course of espionage than James came jauntily walking up the street. Seeing Joseph he broke into a broad smile, and eagerly hugged his cousin, kissing him on the cheeks. After the usual greetings and exchange of pleasantries, James got to business. He delivered his report gently, in an almost offhanded way, keenly aware of its destructive potential.

She’s where, James? Joseph sharply demanded.

Away, like I told, you, with relatives. Remember, please, my brother: I didn’t send her away; I’m just delivering the message she gave me. She said she would have told you for herself, but, and his voice broke off.

But what, James? Joseph asked, his voice calmer now.

Well, it seemed like there was some confusion in the house. I don’t know, but from what I could gather this trip came up pretty spontaneously. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if it’s for her cousin, Elizabeth, or for Mary herself. She seemed a little tense, and really serious. I hadn’t known her to be quite like that before. Anyway, at least she did you the courtesy of sending me with the message. I don’t think it has anything to do with you, really, or at least her feelings for you. He let a long, pregnant pause hang for a moment, then resumed. I hate to ask you, my brother, or put my camel’s nose in your trough, but is everything, um, steady with you two? he asked inquiringly.

Of course, sure, yes. I mean, at least as far as I know. You know how it is. I hardly have a chance to see her, let alone speak with her. I mean, it’s all for good. It’s even supposed to help avoid small misunderstandings. It’s still to early too set a firm date yet, Joseph explained, but you have no idea how hard I’m working on it. Why do you ask?

Well, when she gave me the message she seemed to imply that something had gone wrong. Does she want out of the match? James asked rather candidly.

Heaven forefend! Jimbo, please, by the stars in the night… and Joseph’s voice trailed off. Shaking his head and regaining his composure he asked, What makes you ask that? How can you even suggest such a thing? For goodness sake, my brother, please don’t tell me that the sun will no longer rise to greet the dawn, that the dew won’t kiss the earth, that the sea will flee the shore, that no flower will evermore unfold, that…

Alright, I understand, James impatiently interjected. He then regained his calm and said, She pleadingly asked me to tell you—and she was very firm on this point—she implores you to please be patient, and not judge her until she’s had a chance to speak with you later, face to face. In the meantime, she says, she simply must be away at her cousin’s until—well, until she can return. She didn’t give me a date, or even an estimate.

Joseph was stunned, and the misery showed in the deep furrows and knots of his young brow. No date? She simply ‘has to be away.’ Is everything all right with her cousin? Is there something wrong there? Is there someway I can help? James, why am I left with nothing but questions, though she’s sent you with a message that should contain answers? Have you told me everything? You would wouldn’t you? What are you holding back? Joseph asked in a tone suggestive of terror. There was another pause, broken only by Joseph’s fidgeting, shifting his weight from one foot to another and seeming to study the beam against which he was leaning.

James, he finally asked proddingly, is there another?

Please, let’s relax a little. She said she had to go away to her cousin Elizabeth’s house, that’s all. She said she had an idea, or had been told, I’m not sure which—I think she said both, actually—that Elizabeth could use her help. Or was it that she said she needed to see Elizabeth for help? Again, I think she said both. She said she couldn’t be sure when she would be back, but that despite this her heart beats only for you. Then she asked quite somberly for your patience, as I’ve explained. So, my friend, as I think on it, it doesn’t seem like it has to do with you after all, but you’ve got to stand it, James said. Can you?

Heaving a sigh that seemed to empty him completely Joseph said, I’m not sure I can. You can’t tell me for sure that there is no one else. You can’t tell me that I didn’t misunderstand everything and completely misinterpret what I thought she was sending me as signals of affection. Maybe nobody can tell me that she wasn’t just teasing me and toying with me emotions; puffing herself up vainly with my adoration, which meant nothing to her, while she basked and soaked in that of another. You can’t tell me… no, it’s beyond your ability and everyone else’s to tell me that…

To tell you what Jojo, my friend, my brother, my cousin?

He was quiet a moment. To tell me that she loved me. With these matches there’s so much room for people to be emotionally unequally yoked. Now I’m afraid that the worst has come upon me, and I’m feeling something that I’m not sure I can name but it’s leaving me emptying me out and leaving me drained.

What do you think it is, Joseph? James asked with true concern, solicitous of his friend’s well being.

He thought a moment, then said tentatively, Fear, Jamie, outright fear. I’m scared that this heart which had pinned so many dreams to her, which was full of hope inspired by her, and which soared on the wings of the future I envisioned us, is now broken. My love is unrequited, hope is gone, the dreams dissipated, the future shipwrecked at dock in its abortive maiden voyage.

By the greaves of Goliath, Joe, must you always be so melodramatic and rash, hastily jumping to conclusions like the locusts of Egypt? I’ll bet my robe it’s not that way. Look, you don’t know her any better than she knows you, right? Yet you fell for her, hard. Don’t you think the same might be true of her? I think she’s more reserved than you and might have fallen quite as hard, but still the message is promising if she’s a woman of her word. We’ve got to believe that this is the result of something out of her control. My brother, if there were good reason to suspect her allegiance I’d be the first to say ‘dump the vixen,’ but I don’t see that here. She sent you a message out of concern for you.

Hey you monkey, you’re the one that brought it up!

"Joseph please calm down, take a few breaths, and count backwards from some very large number. I’m not going to take that personally because I know you’re upset, for one, and because you’re right. I did suggest that something might be seriously wrong. Now that I’ve thought it through, though, I think you have every reason to hope. Will the time and the distance she’s away be hard for you? Sure,