Memorial Weekend Memory (True Story)

On Memorial Day weekend in 2010, I had a fun adventure I'd like to share with my readers. While I hope to share the smiles, I also hope one can see how one can be guided to help another anywhere, any time, in more ways than we may realize.

That year, my husband and I decided to spend the long weekend apart; he'd do things that he liked, and I'd drive out to visit friends of mine in Northeastern PA. For some reason, my boss decided to let the employees leave by noon that Friday. So, given that I wanted to avoid the holiday traffic on the drive from New England, through New York State to the Northeastern corner of PA, I found myself heading out a few hours before my planned time.

While I plan things, I love improvidence too. So I decided on the drive out to stop by for a surprise visit with other friends in Carbondale, PA before I went to the home of the friends I had planned to visit out in Wayne County. After all, I had quite a few hours to kill before my anticipated arrival of 9 pm that evening.

I was on the "new highway" (Route 6) where it bypasses downtown Carbondale when I happen to notice a broken-down car, a group of four people, and the tow-truck driver with his truck. So, given I was only minutes from where my friend lived and knew the neighborhood intimately (as I had lived there a number of years myself), I stopped to see if they needed a lift.

It turns out, the four young (18-21 years of age) people were on their way from Brooklyn, NY to some camp in Wayne County PA when their car broke down. As the tow-truck driver only had room for one person, I took the other three and, knowing the location of the tow-truck's shop, said we'd meet them there.

At the garage, they were disheartened to discover that the fix was not an easy one. The car would not be ready for a couple of days as the part needed to be ordered. It was amusing and sad to watch as they tried offering more and more money to get the mechanic to fix the car sooner. They didn't understand that the part really was NOT there in the shop, and no amount of bribing would get them on the road sooner. I also had to argue with the youths several times that the people working on their car were honest; that almost everyone in that area was honest and hard working. They were not "trying to pull a fast one." Ironically, I later discovered the reason their car stopped working was because the young driver didn't believe HIS mechanic in New York when he was told they needed more coolant for the engine; so they cooked it on the drive to PA...

They called several people they knew at this camp, and, to their dismay, discovered only one who would give them a ride from Carbondale to the camp - for $300! Both the tow-truck driver and I were horrified by this, and we both offered to give them a ride. Wayne County was just "over the mountain" and not worth $300 in gas. The tow-truck driver, however, has an appointment near Scranton, first, and could drive them out in his car afterward. It would be another two hours before he returned.

It turns out, the youth couldn't wait that long as they needed to be at the camp by sunset, for religious observations. So, I loaded all four and an amazing amount of luggage for just a weekend into my Jeep with myself. I noted, though, as I'm playing a manual version of 3-D tetris with the four youth and their belongings, that if my husband HAD been with me on this trip I would never be able to help them now. I had only myself and one bag and we barely squeezed in with stuff on everyone's laps save mine.

The next several hours were interesting, especially given that a point-to-point drive should have only taken a half-hour or less.

First, the youth discovered that technology is only as good as the signal; and there was absolutely NO AT&T signals in northern Wayne County then. My Verizon cell was iffy at best, but I only own a cheapie flip phone, with no GPS or internet like their newest iPhones had. And my '99 Jeep was far older than that. Thus with the GPS and internet maps gone, I asked them for directions as we navigated the rural back roads past cows, woods and open pastures that looked quite reminiscent of Farmville to them. They tried to decipher some limited directions via email but kept referring back to the last GPS coordinates they had. We finally get to the bottom of the email where it read, "Do not use GPS coordinates as they will not get you to the camp."

So, about 3 miles south of PA's northern border, I pull the car aside and ask the young woman in the passenger side to pull out one of many PAPER maps I had of PA. I wish I had taken a picture of the look on her face at that moment. No one considered the antediluvian method of looking at a paper map to find where they are and where they want to go! Worse, when I read off the cross-roads of the two rural route numbers where we had stopped, plus the last "four-corners" town we passed before, she didn't have a clue how to read the map. So I spent the next five minutes teaching four "kids" how to read a paper map, how to find where we were, and an approximation of where we need to go, knowing the name of the private camp will not be listed on the map.

It turns out we had gone about 20 miles too far north, and while turning around, discovered they had entered the wrong "Lakeville" into the GPS. So we drove back to the nearest four-corners, which had an open-air Bar-B-Que. I pulled in and suggested we get out and get some directions. There was a bit of hesitation, which I didn't understand right away. But when I started to get out, one of the young men bravely leapt from the Jeep and ran ahead of me. I approached the nearest table just in time to hear the last of the directions. ".... then once you pass the church, it's the next left, if you come to the fire house, you've missed it."

This was vague but typical directions from the area. There was no street name, also typical. I asked the young man if he understood the directions and could get us there; he nodded. We were off again. Twenty minutes later, we found the turn, which turned out to the be back road into the camp, but it wasn't marked on the paper map. Thus, my four passengers were VERY uncomfortable with taking this unpaved, unknown road that disappeared very quickly into dense wooded area like something out of a Blair Witch movie. So I continued with our map toward where we believed the front entrance to the camp is.

 It was then that my Jeep pointed out that I have very lousy gas mileage and, as I last filled the tank in New England, she was pinging me to remind me to feed her.

Aware that I had limited range, and the nearest gas station known to me was Honesdale, about 20 minutes south of the camp, I took matters into my own hand. I saw a house where there was a pick-up in the driveway and the inner front door was open. I pulled into the driveway, much to the dismay of my passengers and marched up to the front door. They rolled down the windows and called from safety of the Jeep that I was insane to walk up to a stranger's house like this. While I also grew up under the shadows of New York City skyscrapers and understood their fears, I also lived a decade in this part of the world and knew the people here. I was fine.

An old lady called out for me to enter, and my passengers nearly had a conniption as I opened the screen door and calmly let myself in. Remarkably, I had chosen just the right place to stop. While they did not recognize the name of the camp, the old man was once a volunteer firefighter in the area. While he only knew the local roads by local name, the old lady pulled out a detailed map. Voila! We were able to see the property marks of the camp and backtracked down the local roads to where we were. So I now had very accurate directions, which I wrote down with a pencil and piece of paper the old lady was kind enough to provide.

The next ten minutes were the most amusing of all. I was able to follow detailed turn-by-turn directions, right down to barn silos and major bumps in the road. The youth were amazed that someone not only let a stranger into their home - an old defenseless couple at that! - but gave such great directions without asking for money. In addition, they kept asking me, at every "ping" from my low-fuel warning system, what happens if I run out of gas. They realized - with growing dread - that the last time they saw a gas station was way back in Carbondale. They could not grasp the fact that a stranger would not only stop to help us if we ran out of gas, but would most likely give us some gas so we could get to the nearest station.

The bigger issue would be they had a time deadline, and there was no guarantee we'd be able to get them to the camp before sunset if I ran out of gas. The sun's angle was getting quite low; we were cutting this close. I didn't need them to worry more, so I simply kept telling them, "have a little faith."

On the final stretch, we encountered several other cars pulled on the sides of the dusty unpaved road, while one person or another was out of the car holding up their iPhone or similar device trying to get a signal that wasn't there. The youths and I told them, car by car, "Follow us, we have the good directions." By the time we pulled through the gates of the camp, we had nine other cars following us, and many happy people who all needed to be there before sunset.

As the youths, thanked me, they asked for my FaceBook or Twitter account so they could "friend" me. I didn't give them my FaceBook name, and was a bit hesitant to give them my Twitter name as well. But, just as I was pulling away, a bit of mischief tugged at the corner of my mind and I thought, why not... I pulled aside, jotted my Twitter account on a piece of paper, drove back and handed it to them.

I knew they were young Jews, and this was a Jewish camp; the Hebrew letters at the camp's entrance confirmed that as much as the yamakas on the two young men. But that really didn't matter as I was just one human being helping another, a "Good Samaritan" one would say. My young passengers took the slip of paper and read it. And as I drove away, I wondered if they would recall their adventures to others that night around a campfire. And when asked who helped them, they may or may not say that I'm @JesusSister on Twitter. :D

In case you're wondering, yes, I somehow managed to get to Honesdale for gas. It was after sunset (about 8:30pm) by then. While I was pumping gas, my friend who was expecting me called to see if I was nearby and if I wanted dinner. I arrived just a few minutes before 9pm - the expected time.

~ Had I not gotten out early
~ Had I not gone without my husband
~ Had I not previously lived in that area
~ Had I not, on a whim, decided to visit a friend
~ Had I not made plans to arrive late that night at another's
~ Had I not randomly stopped at that particular house for directions
~ Had I not had faith in God and other good hearts of the people there

None of this adventure would have happened as it unfolded.
But I'm glad it did.

- ESA

Let We Forget...

This weekend, America celebrates Memorial Day.

While there is ever-increasing focus on the military, I'd like to take a moment to also note - and thank - others who give life and limb in a different line of service.

Firefighters

Both paid and volunteer firefighters are the primary responders to fires, accidents and many other calls, ranging from routine to bizarre.

They put their life on the line many times, from entering blazing buildings and forest fires, to working at roadway accidents on rainy nights, to entering icy waters.

In addition to helping fellow man, they are also called to rescue animals from family pets, to farm livestock, to a wide variety of wildlife.

Some leave loved ones in the middle of dinner or the dead of night to answer the call, and never come home again...

Police

Police officers and auxiliary volunteers, put themselves at risk, from high-speed chases and gunfire, to domestic fights and bomb responses, from mass evacuations to search and rescue.

Many officers are killed in line of action; some even when they simply walk to help a disabled motorist and are struck by a distracted driver.

EMT and Paramedics

These ambulance crews are mostly volunteers across this country, yet they put themselves at risk on a regular basis.

They race through traffic, where impatient drivers may ignore the siren and jump out into their way; they work roadside at accidents with cars whizzing past.

Many don't realize that these dedicated men and women also go into very dangerous situations, such as over the side of a cliff or into dangerous neighborhoods to help the fallen or sick.

I didn't realize the extent of danger until a New York City Paramedic friend walked up in bullet-proof vest. She told us that on many calls where someone was shot, the bullets are still flying when they arrive...

Rescue Workers and
First Responders

This includes those who go into dangerous situations immediately following a tornado, flood, hurricane, tsunami, earthquake or similar.

They brave churning waters, collapsing debris, open gas lines, and/or flames to help complete strangers. 

In times of emergency, often these people are NOT the trained emergency responders, but simply caring hearts who first arrive on the scene and realize that someone needs help! 

And the most important...

The Peacemakers and
Human Rights Activists 

These bold hearts who stand up for others, often those who cannot do so themselves. Some face ostracization, job loss and prison; some pay the full price with their lives.

Over these recent years, there are many reports from around the world where people die protesting against unfair or inhumane leaders and/or laws. 

 We in United States should not forget our own similarly fallen. Our largest generation, the Baby Boomers, lived through a time when many people ~ men and women, black and white ~ were injured and died simply because they stated in words and non-aggressive actions that treating another human being differently is WRONG. 

Some, likewise, died on American soil while protesting for Peace during a time of war. 

On this Memorial Day Weekend, in addition to fallen military, may we remember those who have NEVER raised a hand to harm another, but lost life or limb in helping others and in making this a better world. 

Not just those in the United States, but all those around the world...

In Memoriam

~ESA

Squish!

Among the appointments I had in a very busy work-week, I squeezed in my routine mammogram. Or as I like to joke among the ladies at work, "I took a break from the office to go SQUISH!"

Between my personal biology and family history, I've a number of medical "factors" that create high breast-cancer risk, so I dutifully go at least once per year - often once every six months, as they continually find new and exciting things in those black and white images - starting with my baseline when I was 35 years of age.

Am I worried that I'll get breast cancer? No.

Odds are I will get it. It's a matter of when rather than if. But I'm not worried at all. Really!

My mother, in her 70's, is a breast cancer survivor, both breasts; she was diagnosed in her very early 40's. It's actually one of the most treatable forms of cancer; one just needs to go for checkups and routine exams. The earlier anything is caught, the better the chances. The rest is all about attitude!

Do I have it now? I don't know. They are watching suspicious masses that bounce along with me on a daily basis. I await the official reading from the medical techs at the hospital and the standard letter that indicates if they want me to follow up the breast surgeon (again).

There are women that panic and swear they are going to die from the minute anything remotely suggests breast cancer. This is even before the first biopsy. In my family, we look the doctor in the eye and say, "OK. What are we going to do about it?"

If something does come of this or any new malformation, God and family will see me through.

I may suffer for a time; I may become sick. I may loose my hair. But it is something I can live through. I can get through acute chronic pain and sickness; the last few years have proven that.

There are worries I could have: How do I do my job while going through treatments? What if something were to go wrong? What if the treatment doesn't work? What if the cancer spreads?

What if I die...?

Should I even bother to worry about this? After all, I could get hit by a car walking home today with the same results.

I try to live every moment as if it's my last. I try to Let Go and Let GOD, giving God my Trust. And if I die, should I be worried? I have a pretty good idea where I am going...

No I am not worried. I understand that worry is a part of fear. I know that Fear is a tool of the adversary to hinder our spirits. I do not fear this - at all.

I have seen devastating results when people do fear it.

But I look fear in the eye and laugh at it!

Let's see how far they can turn my double-D's into pancakes before they squish out the other side of the machine. :P

After all, they have already sagged a bit over the years...

~ ESA

Bar-Mitzvah

I want to share an impactful tweet with my readers, sent from Rabbi Joseph Chaim Levine (@Rabbi224). "Full spiritual maturity is a life-long mission. The Bar-Mitzvah marks the end of training and the beginning of battle."

While I saw wisdom in these words when I first read it yesterday, something also blossomed in my mind while I responded to the tweets this morning.

Yeshua/Jesus is Jewish, and likewise had His Bar-Mitzvah after years-long study. The only point of Christ's early years that we have in the Gospels today is a time shortly after His Bar-Mitzvah, or so one may surmise as He was 12 years of age.

Every year Jesus’ parents went to Jerusalem for the Festival of the Passover. When he was twelve years old, they went up to the festival, according to the custom. After the festival was over, while his parents were returning home, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem, but they were unaware of it. Thinking he was in their company, they traveled on for a day. Then they began looking for him among their relatives and friends. When they did not find him, they went back to Jerusalem to look for him. After three days they found him in the temple courts, sitting among the teachers, listening to them and asking them questions. Everyone who heard him was amazed at his understanding and his answers. When his parents saw him, they were astonished. His mother said to him, “Son, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you.” “Why were you searching for me?” he asked. “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?” (Luke 2:41-49)

The first Gospel account where Yeshua/Jesus starts to reveal Who He is and His purpose is following His Bar-Mitzvah. The battle for our souls had begun.

And our part in it continues all through our life.

~ ESA

Awaiting His Return (A Passover/Easter Story)

Amit was jostled by the crowds near the city gate. Short for her nine years of age, she couldn’t see what the commotion was about, but her young ears caught the exclamation, “He’s returned! Rabbi Yeshua (Jesus) returned to Jerusalem!” 

Her heart leapt in joy. He came back! She vividly recalled the last time she saw him: the gentle voice and smile that lit his eyes as he told the children stories. 

Squirming her way through the myriad thicket of legs, she dodged her way through the crowd, toward home. Dashing headlong across the small courtyard, she threw all her weight against the heavy wooden door to open it, stumbling into the cool dark interior. 

Rushing to the hearth where two small bread loaves cooled from the morning’s baking, she carefully wrapped the better of the pair in a clean cloth. Cradling the still-warm loaf, she stepped out of the two-room home into the bright desert sunlight, pulling the door closed behind her. 

She ran through Jerusalem’s narrow streets back to the gate, but the crowd was gone, leaving only dust motes sparkling in the sunlight. With a rising panic, she glanced around and discovered a path of palm branches strewn in the street, clearly indicating the procession’s direction. 

Green branches crunched under her worn leather sandals as she panted up that street. The scent of newly cut palms rose from the dust, mingling with the scents of humanity and animals common to the city of her birth. 

When she finally caught up with them, Yeshua was dismounting the young donkey he rode into the city, and a great crowd of followers and curious onlookers gathered. 

Using her small stature to advantage, she clutched the loaf close to her heart and ducked between the people, pushing her way to the front where he stood. 

When one of his followers stopped her, Yeshua spied her and said she could come forward. 

With reverence and the unconscious grace only the young can exhibit, she approached smiling and held out her gift. “Here, Rabbi, it’s the first I’ve ever made!” 

The cloth was now dusty from its journey, but warm to his fingertips as he accepted it; the aroma of fresh baked bread drifted out from the folds to greet his nose. He smiled kindly with twinkling eyes and lowered himself on one knee, meeting her gaze levelly. “Thank you, Amit.” 

“I’m glad you came back, Rabbi Yeshua. I knew you would return to Jerusalem.” 

His smile broadened and he placed his hand lovingly on her slim shoulder. “I tell you this, child. I will always return to those who believe.” 

She grinned back and replied, “Thank you, Rabbi.” She bestowed a kiss on his bearded cheek and then simply turned and pushed her way back through the crowd towards her awaiting chores. 

+ + + 

The following days passed in bliss; she rushed through chores as her father attended Rabbi Yeshua’s teachings. Then she gathered with the other children to hear wondrous stories. At night, her family listened as their father recounted the Rabbi’s message. 

Four days after the memorable entrance, she helped her mother clean and prepare their home for the Pesach. She loved this holiday and even helped bake the matzo and set the Seder Plate for that first night. Her father read from the Haggadah and asked the youngest child the traditional questions, starting with “Why is this night different?” 

The family prayed together and sang the familiar songs, eating with the dishes reserved for this special holiday. All the while, Amit wondered where Yeshua celebrated the Seder that night, and how long he would be in Jerusalem. 

The next day arrived with a tumult in the streets. Her father departed early and returned quickly, demanding that she stay home with her siblings. “Do not even venture beyond our gate, Amit,” he admonished, knowing her tendency to be headstrong. 

“Honor your father’s wishes, Amit,” her mother added as she draped her head-covering over her head and shoulders, following her husband down the street. 

With her mother gone, Amit drew the water, tended the fire, baked the matzo, ground the grain into flour, and other household tasks she could do. 

Her curiosity grew as the hours passed. At one point, she heard a great crowd moving through the city. Laboring to get the ladder against their home, she clambered onto the rooftop. But the crowd was too distant to see anything of interest as it traveled down the hill and out the gate. The girl sighed disappointed and returned to her chores. 

Three hours later, she shivered and looked up from the small grinder. The sky had grown ominously dark; sunset was three hours away. Fearing a storm, she told her siblings to shutter the windows. She also prayed to God that if the storm was bad, her parents would find shelter; they were away a long time. 

Gathering bowls with wheat kernels and flour, she started across the courtyard. But before she reached the doorway, the ground violently shook, throwing her to her knees; bowls and contents clattered to the ground, spilling her day’s work. 

Heedless of the loss, she shouted to her siblings above the unknown roar and frightening shifting and explosions of stone and mortar from the surrounding buildings as though she suddenly found herself beneath a giant’s grinding stone. Hearing dismayed cries; she pulled herself to her feet and stumbled over heaving ground to the door-frame, bracing herself there. 

Her two siblings inside clung to each other, crying with wide, terrified eyes. Maintaining her grip on the doorpost just below the Mezuzah, Amit threw an outstretched hand toward them and grabbed a sleeve, yanking the pair through the door with a strength she did not know she possessed. 

As the three tumbled to the ground, the earthquake ended as abruptly as it started. An eerie silence surrounded them; their coughing exceedingly loud in the air thick with dust under a dark, ominous sky. As the event began to register in her nine-year-old mind, she clung to her siblings and wept with them. 

Not long after, their parents scrambled up the rubble-strewn street, entering their courtyard. Relieved to find their children alive and their home relatively intact, both parents clutched their offspring to their breasts and thanked God. 

After a while, Amit found her voice and asked, “What happened, Abba?” 

Her father gently grasped both her hands, meeting her curious gaze. “Today they crucified Rabbi Yeshua.” 

She stood there, shaking her head wordlessly; silent tears streamed down her dusty cheeks. She mouthed the words “No” and “Why” but no sound escaped past the lump in her throat. 

He embraced her, stroking her hair as the words sank in. 

After a few moments, she snuffled and pulled her head back, asking, “But Rabbi Yeshua will return, won’t he?” 

He gently shook his head, tears welling in his own eyes. “He’s gone, child. He died today.” 

“But… But he said he’ll always return to those who believe…. He said so….” The last words were a whisper fading into the dusty silence. 

He tried to draw his distraught daughter back into his embrace, but she pulled away. 

With all the determination she could muster, she marched to the side of their home and uprighted the fallen ladder, climbing back onto the rooftop. 

Shaking his head, he mounted the ladder and poked his head above the roofline.

The child stared toward the city gate through which Yeshua was escorted to Golgotha. Evening fell early under the dark sky, but there was an inner light shining in his young daughter’s eyes. 

He gently asked, “What are you looking for, Amit?” 

“I’m watching for Rabbi Yeshua’s return, Abba.” she quietly replied. 

Tears rolled over his cheeks into his beard as he climbed onto the rooftop, standing beside her. Wordlessly, he placed his hand on her slim shoulder, watching with her as the environs slowly grew darker. Sunset approached; it was time for his wife to light the candles and for them to recite the Kiddush. He helped his daughter down from the roof and inside. 

+ + + 

All through the Shabbat, Amit was quieter than usual, much quieter. She was deep in thought with a determined look that never left her features. 

When the first three stars appeared that evening, she approached her father, “Rabbi Yeshua has been gone for over a day now,” she started matter-of-factly. “He’ll be hungry. Let’s prepare some food we can leave out for him to eat when he returns.” 

Her mother was about to countermand her wishes, but her father solemnly nodded his assent. She practically skipped to the chicken coup in the courtyard, gathering the eggs to boil. As the hearth fire cooked the eggs and slowly heated the baking stones, she helped her mother prepare the matzo and the evening’s meal.
A few hours later, Amit wrapped a warm shawl around her head and shoulders and gathered the basket containing a skin of wine, the hard-boiled eggs and freshly-baked matzo. Her father held a lit lamp aloft, illuminating the dark road before them. 

While she had been out after dark before, for some unknown reason this night felt different, and her skin pimpled with a chill as the words of the first Pesach question echoed through her mind, Why is this night different?  

The familiar streets and known lamps in their stands, as well as the flickering light in the unshuttered windows and open doorways did not appear changed, but it felt as though she was seeing it all for the first time. 

He escorted her down several streets; the aromas of the evening meals and fresh-baked matzo filled the early night air, mingling with the scents of wood smoke and heated lamp oil. 

Those scents faded as they exited through the city gates lit by smoking torches and made their way into a nearby garden. 

There he paused and placed a firm hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. “Child, I’m taking you to the place where they laid the body of Rabbi Yeshua after he died on the cross.” 

She nodded gravely; her determination only growing stronger. 

So he gestured with the lamp which path they should take. 

In a quiet part of the garden, there was a freshly-hewn tomb with a large stone rolled before the entrance, sealing it shut. Two bored guards entertained themselves with a dice game under the light of fluttering torches on poles to one side. 

Her father gestured for silence and took the basket from her, passing her the lamp while indicating that she should hide its flame. Hugging the ground, he slowly and carefully made his way along the rocky outcropping opposite where the guards sat. 

Still several feet from the tomb, he gently placed the basket in a nearby bush and quietly retreated to his daughter’s side. Firmly grasping her hand, he led her quickly away from the guards. 

When they were a safe distance, she returned the lamp and whispered, “Did you leave the basket where Rabbi Yeshua would find it, Abba?” 

He smiled and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Child, if God in his wisdom led a serving woman to find the infant Moses in his basket among the river reeds, I’m certain God can help Rabbi Yeshua find that basket we left for him.” 

She studied his face in the lamplight as they walked quickly. “You believe Rabbi Yeshua will return too, Abba.” It was not a question. 

He paused and lowered himself to one knee, meeting her gaze levelly. “Amit, my daughter, I have heard of the many wonders Rabbi Yeshua has done. I believe he was, indeed, sent by God to our people. If he told you he’d return, perhaps… just perhaps he will. We shall see.” 

He stood upright, affectionately squeezed her hand in his and together they headed home in mutual peace and understanding through the night air filled with Pesach songs. 

+ + + 

In the darkness before the dawn, someone gently touched Amit’s cheek, awakening her from a deep sleep. A soft voice whispered in her ear, “Be quiet, child, and come outside.” 

Careful not to disturb her siblings sleeping in the same bed beside her, she slipped out from under the warm covers and shivered in the chill desert night air. Barefooted, she left the sleeping room and padded across the main room past the banked hearth fire and out the open door. 

Under a moon only days past its full face, Yeshua stood smiling at her as he stood there in brilliantly white robes. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and drew her unkempt hair away from her face. “Rabbi? Is that you?” she whispered. 

His teeth showed clearly in his beard as he grinned broadly. “It is I, Amit,” he whispered back. He held out the empty basket. “Thank you for your gift.” 

She accepted the basket and was about to reach up to bestow a kiss upon his cheek, but he stepped back. “Touch me not, child, for I have yet to go to my Father.” 

She pouted. “You are leaving Jerusalem again?” 

“For a time, but I will Return to those who believe. I will always return.” With another smile and a friendly wave, he passed through the courtyard gate. 

Racing to the gateway, she looked up and down their street, but he was nowhere in sight. Closing the gate, she clutched the basket to her heart and told herself, “He’ll return someday, and I’ll be waiting.”

Innocence of Eggs (An Easter Story)

The fat hen opened one eye and glared at her husband, “What’s a-a-all that ru-ru-ruckus?” she clucked. 

The rooster pulled his head out from under his wing and stretched his neck toward the wall. “I’ll g-g-go see,” he replied and fluffed his feathers against the cool desert night. 

With a few awkward flaps, he crested the stone and mortar wall and looked down into the courtyard. “I-i-i-it looks as i-i-if they’re br-br-bringing a cr-cr-criminal to the high pr-pr-priest,” he reported to his wife. Before he could turn around to return to their warm nest, the hen was beside him, feathers equally fluffed against the coolness. “Th-th-the eggs!” the rooster reprimanded. 

The hen shrugged and stretched her neck as far as it could go toward the gathering crowd. “I wa-wa-want to see this,” she cackled in reply. 

The majority of the crowd moved into the building, but a number of people remained outside in the courtyard, building a charcoal fire to keep warm.

While the gathering outside remained peacefully quiet, there was a rising ruckus within the building. The rooster fluttered to an open window to witness the scene inside. The sounds of buffets and cries of “Prophesy!” drifted through the window where the cockerel sat. The glint of battle and bloodlust sparkled in the bird's eyes. 

At that moment, a woman left the building on some errand. Spotting the small group gathered near the fire, she eyed one of them closely and remarked, “You also were with Yeshua (Jesus) of Nazareth.” 

The indicated man shook his head vehemently, shrugging his head deeper into his head-cloth. “I neither know nor understand what you are saying,” he replied defensively. 

Seeing a seed of potential for more conflict and violence, the rooster alighted onto the courtyard wall and crowed, “His words are tr-tr-tr-tr-TRUE!” 

The hen was shocked. She knew as well as her husband that those words were a lie. Could his desire for a fight drive him to this? She kept silent, for she didn’t want the fight brought to her nest. What would her friends and neighbors say? No, it’s best to stay silent and let the fight go on elsewhere. She turned her attention back toward the fire. 

The woman spoke to the others; gesturing to the man claiming, “This is one of them.” 

Again, the man denied it. 

By now the rooster was hopping from foot to foot; a wicked gleam in his eyes as he watched the scene unfold below. 

One of the others turned toward the man and added, “Surely you are one of them, for you are also a Galilean.” 

The accused man began to curse and swear at the others gathered around the fire. “I do NOT know this man you are talking about!” he shouted at them. 

With glee, the rooster tossed up his head and crowed again, “His words are tr-tr-tr-tr-TRUE!” 

And the hen remained silent. 

Upon hearing the rooster’s crow a second time, the man paused as if poleaxed and then broke down and wept, fleeing from the courtyard in tears. 

The rooster and hen did not see what became of that man, for at that moment, an angel of the Lord wrapped in the brilliance of Heaven appeared before them both.

Turning wrathful eyes to the rooster, the angel proclaimed, “Because you have crowed such blasphemy not once, but twice, you shall not live to see another sunrise.” Then the angel's glare fixed upon the hen. “Because you knew his words were false and you did and said nothing, you shall also never see another morning.” 

In her horror, the hen finally remembered her nest of eggs cooling in the night air. “I-i-i-if I go, wh-wh-who will ca-ca-care for our ch-ch-chicks? Wi-wi-without one of us he-he-here, how wi-wi-will they sur-sur-survive?” 

The angel’s eyes moved to where the nest lay at the foot of the courtyard wall, and the wrath in those eyes became tempered with mercy. “Your chicks are innocent of these crimes. The children need no longer bear the burden of the sins of the parent. So I will take these with me and they will be kept safe.” With these words, the angel gathered up the eggs, nest and all and vanished. What became of them, neither the hen nor the rooster knew, for they did not see the next sunrise. 

On the very next Sunday morning, however, someone very special walked out of a lonely tomb into the rosy light just before sunrise. Nearby, a rabbit nibbled quietly on some greens. This rabbit paused and shyly approached Him. The fact that His feet were pierced, as were the hands that lovingly petted, did not disturb this rabbit at all. 

The man smiled and said to the rabbit, “Because you are the very first of My Father’s creatures to greet me this day, I have a very special task for you.” 

As He straightened, an angel appeared at His side. In the angel's hands was the nest full of eggs, but with additional branches woven in an arc over it.

The Man took the basket and gave it to the rabbit saying, “The world is full of children as innocent as these eggs.

"I ask that you bring these eggs to children everywhere. Do this every year, in memory of this morning.

"In their joy of innocence, they know Me. But as their innocence fades, they must strive to seek Me, for the world will try to hide Me from their eyes.

"So you must hide the eggs so the children must seek them. Perhaps in this way, when their innocence fades, they will remember these mornings and seek me with the same enthusiasm and joy in their hearts. Do this in memory of Me.”

Planting the Seed (Story)

The early morning sun rose gloriously as two walkers strolled down a quiet New England Main Street.

As they passed a new eatery, the woman grinned mischievously when she read the name: Mustard Seed Cafe. 

She sipped her coffee and commented, “That sign reminds me of something. Maybe something you said once, about a seed....” 

The man laughed, white teeth showing through his beard. “And what did you take away from that one?” 

She glanced about, looking for something to inspire a witty reply. “Wasn't there a parable involved...?” 

A little bird dove to the sidewalk before them, picked at the concrete block a moment, and then fluttered away. 

“No,” she admitted with a wry grin, “The parable in mind involved seed being tossed in different places, each failing save the seed that hit fertile grown and produced hundredfold or something like that.” 

He chuckled nodding, “...something like that. So what about the mustard seed?” 

She grinned as she took another sip. “Little seed becomes big plant. Right?” 

His deep brown eyes took on a blend of challenge and mischief, “Maybe you can write a story about it?” 

She smirked, “Yeah, right.” 

He gestured expansively with his arm, “You are a writer; you were given that gift. Write a story about it. Maybe then you'd understand it better.” 

She took a good swallow of her coffee, while she wrapped her mind around the challenge, knowing there was something there that maybe DID make a good story. As the story shifted to her mental back burner, the conversation changed, covering a broad range of topics. 

Before she knew it, they arrived at the topic she needed to broach. Part of her shyly wanted to hold back and digress, but another part knew this is why she asked her companion to walk with her this morning. She really needed his advice, his guidance. She rolled the still-warm metal travel mug between her palms as she searched for the words. 

“I... I really don't know what I should be doing with my life. All these little projects get started, and then... they just seem to peeter off into nothing. I feel like I start so many things and just can't seem to finish them. What is it that I should do?” 

He draped his arm lovingly across her shoulders and smiled gently. “Plant the seeds.” 

“And then?” 

“Nurture them a little until they sprout.” 

Her hands paused as she glanced quizzically at him. “And then?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” 

He grinned, seeing she wasn't getting it, but - with infinite patience - gave her the time to think. “Nothing.” 

She knew that look on his face, she'd seen it before. 

She walked wordlessly at his side for a spell, fingers wrapped around the warmth of the mug and her shoulders snug in his embrace. “But if I do nothing, what will happen to all I started? It would just unravel, wouldn't it?” 

“Not necessarily.” 

Again she shot him an inquiring look, raising one eyebrow in his direction. 

He laughed at her expression, but didn't say a word. 

“Well?” 

He paused and turned to face her, with a mischievous smile of his own. 

She stopped and faced him with a look that clearly read, “Tell me or stop teasing me.” 

He playfully poked the bridge of her nose and quietly replied, “That's my job.” 

The challenge in her eyes faded as comprehension dawned in her mind. 

Smiling, they resumed their walk. 

She nodded and tossed back the last of the coffee. “You're right. I really should trust you more often.” 

Companionably the two continued their stroll down a New England Main Street. Two pairs of sandals tapped quietly along the sidewalk: one pair worn below jeans and a T-shirt, and the other beneath a desert robe from a bygone age.