Narcisse Diaz de la Peña, In the Forest, 1874

Or so they counted him.

How much work can a man do in a field with one hand? People whispered. Perhaps he had committed some secret sin. He wondered about this.

And he thought of the law. If an animal had a defect, it was unfit for sacrifice.

The synagogue was full of familiar faces. They whispered about the miracle worker, gesturing toward the man standing at the place of reading. So that was Jesus.

His stomach tightened as he fingered the creases of his useless hand.

There were more teachers of the law than he had seen in years. They were watching Jesus.

And suddenly Jesus was calling to him.

His head felt heavy as he walked to the center of the gathering, hand tucked beneath his cloak.

Jesus turned to the religious leaders and asked,

“Is it lawful on the Sabbath to do good or to do harm—to save life or to kill?”

He looked to the teacher he had listened to since boyhood, waiting for him to speak.

But the teacher said nothing.

He searched the other faces, silently pleading. None of them met his eyes.

Surely even the children could answer this.

He turned to Jesus. In His face was the expression that lacked in all the others. Jesus asked him to extend his hand. He lifted it into the light.

The hand was thin and folded, curling in on itself like a withered flower.

And then,

it opened.

The tight creases loosened. Strong fingers stretched outward.

He left a whole man, his eyes on the fields ahead, his hand opening and closing at his side.

The leaders knew the law.

The Sabbath was not for healing.

But it was a fine day for plotting

I spent the cruise soaking in the hot tub and eating all-inclusive chocolate ice cream brought in by room service. My parents were somewhere else on the boat, and we were free to roam. My 13-year-old sister and I shared a room, and it was adjacent to my sister’s friend and her 21-year-old brother.

On the last night, he challenged me to stay up the entire night. He said I’d never make it, so of course I agreed. But I’m not a night owl, and I’d never pulled an all-nighter.

We walked around the ship, and he gave me his gin and tonic drinks. I had never had alcohol, but I didn’t want to say so. I ignored the tug at my conscience. Surely a drink or two wouldn’t be a big deal. My heels began to pinch. Time blurred. And then my room key was lost. But it was too late into the night to get a new one. He said his sister was sleeping in my room.

I was locked out. Everyone was sleeping, and I was dead tired. So we went back to his room.

Once inside, he immediately started kissing me. I was drunk and tired. Then he said he had to go to the bathroom, which was next to the door out.

And suddenly I knew.

I had to leave.

I walked out to the balcony and looked toward my room just on the other side of the glass partition.

I climbed onto the banister. I held onto something above and I prayed.

God, if I die, it’s okay. I deserve it.

I don’t remember the logistics, only looking down at my heels, holding onto something above my head, feeling the breeze cut across, and knowing that what would be, would be.

And then I was on the floor of my own balcony. The door inside was unlocked, but I didn’t open it.

I made myself sit in the cold. I stuck my nails into my calves. I dragged them up my legs hard. And again. Tears ran silently down my face. I was so angry at myself.

And that is the most vivid memory from that night. The terrible burden of shame. The self-loathing. Scratching my legs while my fingers went numb. It’s the part of this story I’ve never shared.

I was overwhelmed by the weight of failing God. But the real story is that He kept me safe.

And that is my eternal story, not of a good girl, but of a good God.

The stall was filled with heavy basins and bowls. He ran his hand slowly along the rim of one smooth piece. It was beautifully pale, like the temple. Just touching it made him feel clean.

He paid in silver, weighed and counted.

At home, he sat at a table, dividing dried fennel with a wooden scraper. The small balance tipped; he removed a few leaves and dropped a pinch onto another pile.

Ten little mounds were formed.

If he could measure right, he would be right.

In the morning, he set out again for the temple, choosing his route carefully. The sick lay in dark corners; the unclean pressed close to the walls. The gates were crowded with beggars and thieves.

He began the Shema with a voice pure and full. The words echoed through the stone and open air.

At the gate a woman listened. Ragged and dirty, her feet were bare and cracked, her head uncovered. She did not lift her eyes.

She spoke over his words in a whisper,

just as she had

when he was a baby at her breast.

A memory returned to the man unbidden—scent and warmth from long ago. His breath caught mid-phrase.

He collected himself and continued.

Her prayer rose as sweet-smelling incense.

His fell like dust in the wind.