Author’s Note: Bible Backstories stories follow an almost journalistic pattern — a straight narrative line that strips away whatever extraneous, maybe emotional, reverberations. Consequentially, even heroes rarely seem conflicted about what they are told to do, or what someone else was told to do that has a direct effect on the other guy. As a result, it gets harder to think of Mary or St. Paul or Elijah as neighbors, people in the store, or getting gas. Hence, a series of re-imagined, familiar stories about people who live next door.
[todaysdate]
By Judith Shadford
What do you do when your miracle child disappears…and you weren’t paying attention?
Auntie Elizabeth looks so old. All the glow she had after Johanan was born and even while he was growing up is now all gone. She’s just…old. Her body is stooped and leathery, and her eyes that used to sparkle in delight or mischief or love are just dull, staring off into the vineyard. She called for Zachariah any number of times, and then she would remember that he has gone to our fathers, and her head would drop. Sometimes she even fell asleep that way.
It’s not like Johanan is any help, either, living in the caves above the Jordan, communing with… Yahweh, the ravens… I don’t know. I know that Yeshua had hoped he would meet us in Jerusalem this trip. But nothing. No word. Those boys should be close. Both so miraculous. But they haven’t played together since they were little.
There is a great deal I don’t understand—mostly why, after such beginnings, our lives are so ordinary. So uninterrupted by Bright Lights.
***
The afternoon winds out of the desert are pulling my robe every whichway. We’ll have to stop and camp for the night along the hillside just before we get to Jericho. At least we’ll all be together for supper and the night. Yossef took the little boys with him today, just to give me a break. The whole way from Nazareth, Yaakov was so desperate to stay with Yeshua, hanging on his arm, chattering at him a mile a minute. Yeshua looked at me—that teenage, “Mom, do something!” look. And Yossef saw what was happening and took Yaakov to check on the donkey. Actually, Yeshua hasn’t walked with us all day today.
Six families make the trek to Jerusalem every year. This year, there are forty of us, what with four new babies. It was nice not to have to carry Dina anymore. When she’s not napping in our little wagon, she’s off with Rebecca and Hannah.
I had gotten our evening fire started and was patting some little pitas when Yossef and Yaakov appeared. I could hear Dina singing at the next fire…but where was Yeshua?
“I haven’t seen him,” Yossef said. “I thought he was walking with you—without his little lizard here.” He stroked the side of Yaakov’s face.
I started off through the camp, looking for my son, trying to see his tumbled dark hair and the way he crouched and talked to our friends; trying to hear his sudden ring of laughter. But the group that seemed so large just an hour ago had shrunk into a cluster of raggedy people from up in Galilee with a few donkeys and a few wagons. It was like no one was here because he wasn’t here.
“Yossef, he isn’t here! No one has seen him since we left Jerusalem this morning.” And that discovery launched a dozen conversations until our friends, the Ephraims, came to our fire. I wanted to turn and run all the way back to Jerusalem right then. But we all knew that was ridiculous. No one travels the road at night except bandits. We were safest in a group this size, even at night. Then who would go back, what about the little kids? We couldn’t all go back. Deborah said she’d take the boys home to Galilee, if we didn’t catch up by the time they crossed the Jordan. Micah said the group would travel more slowly, but even that was dangerous. By the time we unrolled our blankets, we’d decided that Yossef, Dina and I would take our wagon back to Jerusalem and start the search. If only we had those little text boxes we used before Yeshua was born. If only a raven would take him the message: “Where are you?” Eventually, I fell asleep.
Check back for part 2.
