out of chaos, life is being found

He gritted his teeth, willing his eyes not to betray his hatred of the man in front of him, the man who took his sister, ruined her, and now dared look her brothers in the eyes and ask for her hand. A single glance at his closest brother, and he knew exactly what to do. He stilled his quivering muscles, stuffed down the fury and smiled, spoke his own oily words.

Yes, of course you may have her. Only fulfill these conditions.

Three days later, he took his brother and a sword and slipped into the city. The air was heavy with sweat and the stillness of agonized healing. There was no need to be quiet once they were past the gates; there was no one capable of fighting back. He gripped his sword, squinted his eyes, and kicked down doors, facing incapacitated men and terrified women and children. He shattered homes and hacked and maimed and slaughtered. He destroyed human life with a rage known only to the wronged. He snatched his sister from the rapist's arms and slit his cowardly throat. As he watched the man's blood seep onto the ground by his feet, he felt a terrible satisfaction.

I have avenged my sister and restored my family's honor.

But no.

"You are a disgrace!" his father shouted. "You and your brother have brought shame and terror to the household! What have you done to me?"

And the shame was repeated in his father's dying words, like the thudding of a weary heart.

You are a violent impulsive man, one who is untrustworthy and unpredictable. Curses on you! You will never have a place to call your home.

~*~

He gritted his teeth, willing his eyes not to betray his disgust at the chaos surrounding him, his own brothers and sisters who ran rampant days after being freed from slavery, who spit in the face of their God. A single glance at the prophet, and he knew exactly what to do. He stilled his quivering muscles, stuffed down the fury and clenched his hand by his sides, listened to the horror of the order.

If you believe the LORD, slaughter them all, the very ones you love.

The air was woven with lust and the wailing of immorality. There was no need to be quiet; there was no one ignorant of the violence of the day. He gripped his sword, set his jaw, and entered the fray, facing his own brothers and neighbors and friends. He stood firm and swung with strength and drew blood and slaughtered. He destroyed human life, those lives so precious to him, with a rage known only to the warrior of God. He snatched his nation from the false lover's arms and bled away the shame. As he watched the idol burn into powdery dust, he felt a terrible satisfaction.

I have avenged my God, and restored the LORD's honor.

And it was so.

"You are holy to the LORD," the prophet whispered. "You and your brothers brought peace and healing to the nation. What can He do but bless you?"

And the honor was repeated in the prophet's dying words, like the skirling of a battle cry.

You are a strong warrior, one who is reliable and fierce. Blessings on you! The LORD Himself will give you posterity and stand against your enemies. The LORD sets you now in the place of honor, as mediator between Himself and His people.

So the LORD chooses who He will,
the most unpredictable, the most untrustworthy, the most impulsive of violent men;
and He makes them priests and prophets and healers.

Amen.

[Genesis 34, Genesis 49:5-7; Exodus 32, Deuteronomy 33:8-11]

what have you come to do?

He settled back into the truck seat, blinking to keep himself from falling asleep at the wheel. It'd been a long and rather shitty day, beginning with the irate customer that burst in the door as soon as it was unlocked, and ending with unexpected overtime. He'd never been more glad to see the lights go off in the little shop.
Every day his hands got a little bit softer, his skin a little lighter, and he hated it. He missed the wind, the chafing salt waves, the biting cold of the coastal dawns. He missed the breathless dance of dragging out the clawed creatures without getting pinched, the involuntary cursing when a wave crashed over the gunwales, the salt invading every crack in his coarse dry skin. Hell, he even missed the furious banter that bordered on harassment. Now--now--he realized what it really meant.
Tears stung in his eyes, but he bit his tongue and swallowed hard. Lobstermen don't cry, he shouted at his own weak self. But it was too late--his heart felt the tightening in his jaw and throat and refused to contain the grief any longer. The road blurred in front of him, and he yanked the steering wheel into the first open parking spot he saw.
Damn.
He'd parked directly in front of the footbridge, and the area still teemed with pedestrians. Even as he tried to swipe at his eyes without making a scene, an elderly couple hobbled by the passenger door, peering with unhidden interest into his truck cab. He swung open his own door, sliding out and slamming the door shut behind him. Striding past the now open-mouthed couple, he set his eyes ahead, determined not to be engaged by anyone else. He passed romantic-eyed couples, holding hands; boisterous families, attempting to curtail energetic children; calloused natives, keeping their eyes fastened on the ground.
When he realized that he'd escaped them all, he stopped, resting his arms on the railing and his eyes on the horizon. Somehow, though he'd grown up on the sea, the sunsets never failed to capture his attention. They always, somehow, seemed to be making a promise. Red sky at night, sailors' delight, he thought, echoing his dad's saying without even trying. 
Dad.
Putting his head down, he wept, the salty tears dropping down and mixing with the ocean water below. He hadn't believed the words, when he left--you'll miss this place, son--but now he knew them to be true. And more than anything, he wanted it back. The back-breaking work, the cramped grey-shingled house, the rough coarse fiercely-loving camaraderie--he missed it all.
Oh, Dad . . . I want to come home!
But as he lifted his head, he knew with certainty that home-coming dream was just a fantasy. The man he knew and loved against his own will would never take back the person his son had become. Even as he wiped the tears from his face, he despised the hands without callouses, the arms without a tan. He had become weak, soft, and the tears proved it.
Lobstermen don't cry.
Damn straight, Dad.
He'd never go back home until he could prove that he was a real man, worthy to be called that hallowed name, lobsterman.
And by the looks of the tearstains on his shirt, that wouldn't be happening any time soon.

**

A year ago, she'd walked into his life, one night close to the sea. He'd seen her, swinging her skirt a little bit and laughing as she walked, and he'd walked right up to her and said hello. Looking back, he couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking--or maybe he was not thinking at all.
It'd only been a year, but already he knew most things more clearly than in all the twenty-seven years preceding. He knew that she loved starlight, and moon-risings over the sea, and rocky beaches. He knew that she liked to dance, but wasn't very good; that she sang with a peculiar unique sweetness, but was shy about her voice; that she hated wearing sneakers. He knew that her hand was small and often cold in his grip, that she tended to look down right before she said something brave, that she usually laughed right before she burst into tears. He knew that when she was angry, her eyes turned the colors of a hurricane sea, all green and grey and terror. He knew that she loved daisies of any sort, and could make a chain of them in less than a minute. He knew that she kissed like she meant it, that she preferred to hold hands and walk than make out. He knew that when she laughed in the sunset light, it looked like she was going to float away and become part of the sky itself. And he knew, at those moments, that he wanted to hold her just a little bit more tightly, to be sure, because it was then that he knew he wanted her to be with him for the rest of his life.
He knew exactly how, and when, and where, and what he wanted to ask her.
Parking his truck, he slid out, shoving the door closed behind him and striding onto the footbridge. He was too much focused on his own thoughts to notice the sideways glances of the people he passed. There was only one spot that would do, only one time, and that was where he'd very first seen her.
Right in the middle of the bridge, he stopped. This was it--the place he'd been standing when he saw her dancing toward him. He turned his head, leaning forward to rest his arms on the railing. This was the time, too, right between sunset and dusk. It was as if the sky itself was working to make his choice perfect, for as he watched, the sunset burst into flames. He stared at the horizon, not really seeing the beauty before him, but wrapped up in his plans.
Soon, he knew, he would come back here, but not alone. Next time, he'd come holding the hand of a girl who laughed and wore skirts while climbing rocks and gripped his arm like she'd never let go. Next time, he'd have a tiny treasure box hidden in his pocket, and next time, he'd turn her face toward the sunset and ask her the question that would change their lives. He knew it, knew it perfectly. He'd never known anything else, anyone else, so well in all his life.
He knew this was what he wanted--exactly what he'd always wanted.

Tell me, baby

What's your story

Where do you come from

And where you wanna go this time

condensing

Original (two hundred words)

            He had been hungry for as long as he could remember; even his first word testified to it—“more?” Born number four of eight, his father in and out of work, he’d never known what enough meant. His tearful mother made him leave at age sixteen, telling him that it was for his good and the good of the littler ones squalling in the house. It wasn’t true, and they both knew it, but he went with a cheerful goodbye and kisses for everyone.

            Now here it was, a chance at something different. He stared at the sign in the window, blinking to be sure it wasn’t another hallucination. The words seemed unreal— Work available. Pay: room and board. He swayed, light-headed just standing still, and his stomach cramped, demanding to be filled. He had to take this chance and risk his hopes being dashed again.

            With a deep breath, he opened the shop door and stepped to the counter, explaining to the owner that he had seen the sign. The next moments were all a blur. He answered the questions, signed his name over and over, but he left with the beautiful words ringing in his head—You’re hired.

***

Nineteen words

Hunger was always the master. “More?” the boy begged.
Now a man, he triumphed through new words. “You’re hired.”

Happy Hoarding

It happens whenever I pack, but I never expect it. I’m missing a green tanktop and have no idea where it’s gone. I sigh and leave my bedroom, avoiding the stacks of newspaper in the hallway. Leaning over the banister, I hear Mama in the kitchen, tapping back and forth in giggling rhythm. She sounds so happy that I decide not to bother her. Twenty-five years of living with Mama have taught me much, but I haven’t yet learned the pattern to this scene.

If asked about my mother, I say one thing. Mama is a disposophobic, a packrat. It’s the only constant in my tumultous life— my mother, joyous as a puppy-dog, tip-tapping around, stockpiling whatever catches her eye. She doesn’t realize she’s doing it, but her behavior traumatizes me and my daddy.

Daddy—at the thought of him, a lump rises in my throat. He’s been gone ten years, and died believing his inability to provide pushed Mama into “keeping,” as he called it. No matter what, Daddy could always cheer me, but now I’m alone with this woman. Over the years, Mama hears the diagnoses, listens to the suggestions, and changes nothing.

“Those doctors,” she confides to me. “Are very nice, but they know nothing about helping people.” She denies anything is wrong and dances on. I don’t blame her; sometimes I, too, disbelieve the diagnoses.

I grab a pair of jeans, then freeze. Along my wall lies a stack of newspapers. An exasperated sigh escapes me. I have one rule for my mother— no keeping things in my room. She remembers, until she fills her “normal” places; then things creep into my room. I keep the door locked when I’m gone, but sometimes I forget.

At the moment, I don’t have time to deal with the newspapers, since I have a half-hour to pack. My work demands frequent travel, which is fine. As long as I can be home monthly to check on Mama, I prefer being away. In the kitchen, Mama’s singing intensifies; I close the door.

#

In thirty minutes, I’m lugging my bags down the stairs.

“Mama?” I call. “I’m ready.”

“Just a minute,” she trills. I roll my eyes. Her “minutes” often become hours as she rearranges piles.

“No, Mama, now,” I insist. She sighs.

“Oh, all right. I’ll just leave this project.” I grin at her terminology, but my smile fades when she comes around the corner, beaming, and asks, “Now, have you seen my keys?”

“You don’t remember where you put them?” I gasp, and she looks bemused.

“Why, no,” she says. “If I did, would I ask you?”

Mama trips off to check the kitchen, living room, and entryway; I race to search the dining room, bathroom, and bedrooms. Rushing through the hallway, I play slalom with decorative doorstops. I tiptoe around precarious stacks of broken radios, fax machines, obsolete computers, and other electronics on the dining room floor. Shifting papers on the table, I find the warranty for an ancient refrigerator, a construction manual for a portable greenhouse, and French game instructions. I peer between the seventeen chairs crammed around an eight-person table and rifle through piles of Happy Meal toys. There are no keys, so I run upstairs, ignoring the seven motion-activated fish serenading me, but pausing to search the baskets along the steps.

I check my watch— fifteen minutes to get to the airport. Turning into the bathroom, I discover a mound of empty toilet paper rolls and five model ships, along with a myriad of old cleaning supplies, stuffed under the sink. A tangle of barrettes and expired medications greets me when I open the medicine cabinet. I find some lost glasses, but no keys.

It’s time to search the most dreaded place— Mama’s bedroom. As I touch the doorknob, I remember something. Months ago, I bought Mama a key-ringer that chirps to answer a remote. Both of us have a remote. I dash through the hall, wreaking havoc on the newspapers, fumble with my lock, and fling open the door. To my tearful relief, the remote is on my key-rack. I snatch it and run back. As I open Mama’s door, clothes tumble out, but I wade in and press the remote, straining to listen over my gasping breath. At Mama’s dresser, I glance through the mass of sticky notes and photographs adorning her mirror. Beside the bed, I hear a muffled chirp. Stooping, I push aside used tissues, empty hangers, and dirty socks. Then I see it— not Mama’s keys, but my lost green tanktop. As I grab it, something tumbles out. It’s the keys.

For a long moment, I am limp with relief. Then I glimpse the time. We have five minutes to make a twenty-minute drive. Flying to my room, I replace the remote and lock the door behind me.

“Mama!” I shriek, pounding downstairs. “I found your keys! Let’s go!” She emerges from the living room, surprised.

“So fast? Do you have everything?” I grab my bags and toss her the keys.

“Come on, Mama,” I urge, trying to be kind. “I can’t be late!”

I shove my suitcases onto the bottles in the backseat, and try to catch my breath. As Mama drives and sings, worries clutter my mind. I tell myself I should have left extra time in case of such emergencies. Inside, I seethe at Mama. Eventually, I stop both; it’s not helping.

We arrive at the airport forty minutes after I’d hoped to be there. Mama pulls to the curb and gets out as I yank at my bags. She smiles, and I look down at her, still annoyed. As I meet her gaze, though, I am struck by the sparkling beauty of her eyes. There I read her exuberance for life, the pain she’s borne, and the fear that haunts her. As I try to speak, she laughs.

“Go on,” she says, tiptoeing to kiss me. “You don’t want to be late.” I smile and tear up all at once.

“Bye, Mama,” I whisper, hugging her. As I let go, she pats my cheek.

“Stay out of trouble!” she calls as I rush to the door. I laugh and wave.

Next time I’m home, we will replay the frantic last-minute search. But right now, everything is okay. I’m at the airport, and Mama is happy. It strikes me that her joy has been another constant in our lives, and the thought is a relief. Until now, I thought of Mama as a hoarder who was somehow happy. Now I see my inaccuracy.

Someday, maybe Mama will see the truth and she’ll change. Until then, if asked about my mother, I’ll say three things. First, Mama is always happy. Second, I love her more than anything else. Third, she just happens to be disposophobic.

Ice Maidens

in-class writing prompt

“I’m cold,” she whined.  I rolled my eyes, trying to keep calm.
            “I could have told you that would happen,” I snapped, digging even deeper into the locker I was half inside.  “If you would have worn practical clothing, something warmer—”
            “You never said it’d be this cold.”  Her tone was on the verge of tearful, and I sighed, rolling back to squat on my heels.
            “Listen.  It’s been a very bad, very long day for both of us, all right?  Your complaining is not helping anything.”  As I ground out the last words, I glanced out of the corner of my eye at her.  In a few seconds, her face went from crumpled and weepy to furious.
            “Well, excuse me, Miss Grumpy,” she snarled.  “It’s not my fault that my poor excuse for a sister—”
            “Like you’re one to talk!”
            “—my sister drags me all the way out here, to the middle of God-knows-where—”
            “I told you where we were going!”
            “Whatever!  You didn’t explain worth anything!”
            “Lissie!” I barked.
            “Hannah!” she shrieked back at me.  Her voice was as piercing as it’d ever been.  “You’re the one with the brains, the education!  You know I don’t know peas about geography!  When you said you had to make a quick stop at Antartica, I thought you meant somewhere exotic on the European mainland!”
            “What?!?”
            “Well, excuse me.”  She made a juvenile face at me and crossed her legs.  “It is somehow my fault that I happen to work in a job where beauty is the most important aspect?”  Tossing her perfect hair back from her eyes, she pursed her lips.  “You’re just jealous.”  I felt myself flush as I rose.
            “Jealous?  Of what?  Of a sister who can’t support herself in a legitimate employment situation?”
            “Oh, please.”  Her eyes rolled to the ceiling and she heaved a dramatic sigh.  “Here we go again.  The Mama speech.”
            “Maybe if you’d listened to her, you’d be better off!”
            “I’m doing fine for myself, thank you!”
            “Lissie, no one in their right mind thinks that undressing for a roomful of strangers is ‘doing fine’!”
            “Not true!”
            “Yes, it is, and you know it, or you wouldn’t be arguing with me.”
            “I can’t believe your arrogance.”
            “My arrogance?  My arrogance?”  Everything about her enraged me.  “What makes you even say that, Lissie?  Shame?  You know as well as I do that if you hadn’t gone into your ‘profession’—”  I made exaggerated quote marks in the air.  “—if you had listened to Mama, to Papa, to me, that maybe – maybe- maybe Mama would still be alive!”  The last words slipped out of my mouth before I could reel them back.  I stopped, horrified, and stared down at my sister.  Her lips went white, then red, as she pressed them together.  I watched her eyes narrow as they’d done when we were children.  I braced myself for her wails, the tears.  Instead, my little sister got herself to her high-heeled feet, looked me straight in the eyes, and slapped me across the face.
            “That,” she said between her teeth, “is for looking down on me.”  She slapped me again, on the other side of my face.  “And that,” she snarled, “is for telling me lies and trying to shame me.”  My face smarted, but not as badly as my heart.  Lissie turned her back to me, displaying the long shining hair and slender waist that made her so famous in her profession.  “Did you know,” she said, apparently addressing the wall.  “That Mama called me before she died?”  I blinked, shocked.  “Oh, yes,” she added, turning a little sideways and sliding her eyes toward me.  “She did.  And where were you, Miss Hannah?”  She turned all the way around, her red lips curving in a mocking smile, revealing her perfect shining teeth.  “Off running some errand for the president, is that right, sweetie?”  She laughed, the sound beautiful even though I hated her.  “Yes, Hannah, your stripper sister was the one cooling Mama’s fevered brow and holding her hand in her last days.  Papa—yes, your papa!—even sat and talked with me.  Imagine that!  And you know what they said to me, Hannah, dear?”   She stopped, blinking her large green eyes at me.  I waited.  She waited.  The silence lengthened.
            “What?” I croaked, surrendering.  She nodded, as if proud of a puppy for learning a new trick.
            “They told me they were proud of me.”
            “You’re lying!”
            “Oh, no, Hannah.  They did express regret for the way my life turned at the beginning, but they saw that I’ve made a name for myself.”  She smiled, her eyes glinting with pride.  “And you, Hannah, darling?  When have you ever heard that from them?”  I was all too familiar with the disdain her face flashed at me, and I turned away, swallowing the lump in my throat and trying to hide the traitor tears that welled up without warning.
            “Lissie, you know my job is mostly classified.”
            “That’s what you say.  But I believe you do nothing of importance.”
            I was silent.  She took my silence as surrender and changed the subject.
            “I’m hungry.”  At the words, my stomach grumbled.  I knelt back down, sticking my head and shoulders back into the locker I’d been searching before our argument.
            “I thought there should be something in here.”  My voice echoed back into my own ears, but I kept talking, wishing to block out the snarling of the past few minutes.  “The doctor told me—”
            “The doctor!” Lissie snorted.
            “—the doctor,” I persisted,  “told me that the base tries to keep some food on hand at all times—ah!”
            “What?!?  What did you find?!?”  The eagerness in her voice was poorly masked, and I smiled to myself as I drew myself out of the locker.
            “Meat,” I told her, dangling a cage in my hand.  Her eyes widened in horror as she took in the situation.
            “Hannah, you can’t mean—”
            “Lissie, what else is our choice?”
            “But the poor little bunny . . .” Her eyes misted as she reached out a manicured hand, and touched the soft fur through the wires of the cage.  The pink nose, surrounded by gray fur, twitched as she stroked his fur.  I ignored her eyes and the rabbit’s.
            “We’re going to starve,” I insisted.  “We’ve been stranded here three days already, with no radio signal, no food, minimal water—”
            “This is all your fault!” She lashed out at me, and I felt a stab of satisfaction. My sister had always been in control of her life, perhaps, making it go how she wanted, but my secret victory was always being able to manipulate her.

Levi

            The room was hushed as the messenger rose and strode to the front of the room.  Pausing for a moment to glance toward the door, he reached into his robe and pulled out a parchment scroll— dusty, travel-stained, yet precious.  He balanced it in his fingertips as he glanced around the room, a smile playing around his lips.  Opening the scroll, he cleared his throat and began reading in his deep, rolling voice.
            “The beginning of the gospel of Yeshua ha’Mashiach, the Son of God . . .”[1]

            Levi was miserable.
            And hot.  He was very, very hot.
            As the sun beat upon his back, Levi sat, head bowed over his table, and tried not to think about the state of his life.  Deep in his heart, he mourned over the many sins he had committed.  When the Baptizer was at the Jordan, many of his friends had gone down to the river to repent and be cleansed, and Levi had almost gone with them.  But somehow, much as he told himself that was what he wanted, he could never make himself join them.  He saw the way their lives had changed— how they no longer overcharged taxes to make a profit for themselves, how they lost their wealth and popularity, how their favor with the Romans plummeted.  Once they had lost their greedy edge, they were nearly useless as employees, and were often replaced.  Slowly, these repentant men lapsed into their old way of life— lying and cheating and stealing, just to get ahead— or lived their new lives and faded out of memory.
            Being forgotten— that was exactly what Levi feared.
            Though he wanted more than the life he had—a life defined by amounts and numbers and records— he saw no way out.  To turn his back on Rome meant losing all he’d accumulated, and any chance at any future employment.  He had nowhere else to turn; he had burnt all his bridges with his family, his people, even his synagogue.  His only friends were other tax collectors, and if he left their ranks, he would be viewed by them with high suspicion.
            There was nowhere to go.
            There was nothing else to be.
            Levi slumped in his seat, feeling the hopelessness wash over him.  A shadow fell over his table, and he glanced up, squinting and shading his eyes with his hand.
            It was a man standing there, gazing down at Levi.  He said nothing, at first.  Levi looked back at the man.  He was a holy man, wearing the tassels; a working man, with calloused large hands and strong arms; a kind man, marked by compassionate twinkling eyes—and as He looked at Levi, really looked, He opened His mouth and spoke to Levi as if to someone worth the breath—the first time in years that any good Jewish man had deigned to do so.
            What else could Levi do, but obey the words He said?

            “. . . and as He passed by, He saw Levi, the son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax booth, and He said to him, ‘Follow Me.’”[2]
            Out of the corner of his eye, Levi glimpsed a sudden movement.  He turned his head to find a small girl staring at him from where she sat, wedged between two of her brothers.  As Levi met her gaze, she blinked hard, then glanced at the reader.  Looking back at Levi, she furrowed her small brow, her mouth moving as she puzzled over this information.  Stifling a laugh, he smiled at her and nodded, pointing a finger at his own chest.  The girl’s eyes and mouth opened wide, then she grinned.  Turning her face toward the reader, she focused all her attention on his words.  Her small hands clenched in her lap, and Levi smiled again.  He could almost read the burning thought running through her mind.
            This is a true story.

Levi froze at the man’s angry voice, unsure of what he should do.
            “Tax collector,” the scribe sneered, the phylactery on his forehead bobbing with each jerk of his head.  “Sinner!  That’s all you’ll ever be, and yet this rabbi sits and dines at your table?”  The man shook his head in disapproval, waggling his finger in the other’s face.  Levi flushed brilliant red and spat on the ground at the man’s feet.
            “Get yourself off my property,” he growled.  “Before I beat you within an inch of your life.”  Surprised, the scribe fell back a step, toward the others huddled behind him like a flock of vultures, but Levi followed, crowding into the man’s face.  “You have no business here,” he continued.  “Any of you!  I certainly did not invite you, you arrogant, self-righteous—”
            “But why?” the man hissed, his pride and irritation overcoming his uncertainty.  “Why is He eating and drinking with tax collectors and sinners?”[3]  Levi opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
            “What is going on here?” a voice demanded.  Whirling, Levi felt the blood drain from his face, shame coursing through his body at what he had been about to do, about to say.
            Yeshua.
            There stood the carptenter-man, the rabbi, His stance relaxed, but His eyes stormy.  He gave Levi a tight smile, then turned the fury of His gaze upon the group of religious men crowding the doorway.
            “I heard your question,” Yeshua continued, stepping past Levi to confront the Pharisees’ scribes.  His hands fell to His sides.  “You asked why I choose to associate myself with ‘sinners.’”  A deep, rolling laugh sounded from behind the religious men, and a young Jewish man, dressed in Roman robes, pushed his way through the other men.
            “Associating with sinners?  A rabbi?”  The man laughed again, his wide grin nearly hiding the birthmark on his left cheek.  “You have come to the right place, then, Rabbi,” he said, giving an exaggerated bow.  “Because Levi is the worst of us all.”  Levi flushed again, but this time with guilt.  Yeshua glanced at Levi as the other man plunged on.  “Oh, yes, brother Levi— we can always count on him for a good time.  He knows just the right places to get wine, food, women—”
            “Stop!”  Shocked, Levi realized it was his own voice that had shouted.  He felt the eyes of everyone present staring at him, but he ignored them and flung himself to the ground.  “It’s true, Rabbi,” he cried, pounding his fists in the dusty earth, tears coursing down his face.  “What he says is true.  I— I— I’m not worthy to have You in my house.  I’m not worthy to follow You!  I’m not even worthy to speak the name of the LORD!”  Levi buried his face in his hands and wept.
            For a few moments, the courtyard was silent except for Levi’s sobs.  Then Yeshua flung Himself to His knees at Levi’s side, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.
            “Levi,” He said.  “Levi!”
            “Yes, Rabbi?” Levi choked.
            “Listen to what I say, Levi.”  Yeshua raised His head and met the eyes of the scribes’ spokesman, His voice rising in a challenge.   “Here is My answer to your question!”

“. . . Yeshua said to them, ‘It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick.  I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners’”[4]
            The reader paused, his gaze roving the audience.  In his seat, Levi bowed his head and wiped tears from his eyes, thankfulness and awe overwhelming him once again.  As he lifted his face, he met the gaze of the reader.  In a moment, a wide grin split the reader’s face, nearly hiding the birthmark on his left cheek.  Levi returned the grin, knowing that his own thoughts were echoed in the other man’s mind.
 
            This is indeed a true story . . . and thank God we are part of it.

---

[1] Mark 1:1

[2] Mark 2:14

[3] Mark 2:16

[4] Mark 2:17