Holy Saturday

I never intended for short stories to be part of my Holy Week practice, but this year I realized that I nearly always have a story about Holy Saturday percolating during this season. I thought I'd share for your experience and enjoyment.

Best read on Saturday night before Easter, or Sunday morning before you arrive at church.

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When the sun ceases to shine, it is hard to distinguish the end of one day with the beginning of another. Still, as I stand in the yard, the breeze brushing my face, I can feel dim turn to dark, and I know the day has finished. I go inside, face tingling from the chill air, and find only meager comfort in the lamplight.

                  The trickling sound of water greets me. My mother sits on the floor before a basin, washing supper dishes by rote. She moves like a wooden doll, joints stiff, eyes unseeing. She hasn’t cried yet, has barely spoken since this afternoon. Though it twists my stomach, I know I am the one who must draw her out.

                  “Eema.” I go to her, stilling her hands with mine as I sink down by her side. “Look.” I nod out the window.

                  She follows my gaze. In the west, the outline of the hills is no longer visible. Whatever was left of the sun has slipped behind them. Sabbath has begun.

                  Resigned, she sets the cup and the rag in the basin. Then she simply sits there, staring into the dishwater as it swims with crumbs. No tears wet her eyes. No sigh escapes her. She is perfectly still, lost in her reverie. I’ve seen her lose herself in her thoughts like this many times—but I’ve never seen her quite so pale.

                  “Eema,” I say again, touching her arm, breaking her trance.

                  Her throat bobs as she swallows, sighs. She lays a hand over mine and finally, she looks at me. In her eyes, I see grief so deep I am afraid to enter in, lest I be consumed. I look away.

                  She speaks. My mother, woman of stalwart faith and devotion, whom I have never known to falter, says in a ragged voice, “I don’t know what to do next.”

                  And in that moment, I know that we are lost.

 

                  I don’t know how long we stay that way, but we are still there when John comes. I have failed in my duty; my mother has fallen into silence once again. John’s heavy footsteps on the threshold are a welcome interruption. I look up at him in desperation when he enters, unsure what to do. His brown eyes are rimmed in red; unlike my mother, John has not found it difficult to weep. He crouches in front of her.

                  “Eema,” he says in a husky voice, hesitating slightly.

                  His single word stings me. The past three years, they have traveled together, their growing bond truly akin to one of mother and son. Meanwhile, I have been in Nazareth, living with my brother’s family, with no one to call “Eema.” My reunion with the woman who bore me arose out of necessity, when it became clear that my eldest brother’s fanaticism would get him—and likely whoever was with him—into trouble. Once before we tried to retrieve him from his madness. His response then was to disown us. This time, we came only to rescue our mother from the consequences of his actions.

                  It did no good. Within days of our arrival in Jerusalem, Yeshi was arrested, his followers scattered and some even calling for his execution. This morning, when my other brothers left to see to his release, James insisted I stay inside. As he is the closest thing to a father I have and he also possesses a temper which always boils under the surface, I had no choice but to obey.

                  They returned hours later, faces ashen.

                  “Where’s Eema?” I asked.

                  “With John,” James clipped, striding in to pour a glass of sour wine. He drank the stuff in one gulp, with not even a grimace, and set the glass down hard.

                  I looked between them. “John? Why?”

                  Simeon sank down next to me at the table. “Yeshi gave her into John’s care,” he said, running his fingers through his hair.

                  I frowned, looking again at James and repeating my question: “Why?”

                  James worked his jaw. “’Who are my mother and my brothers…?’” he murmured, quoting Yeshi’s words from the last time we game. When he faced me, his eyes blazed. “We weren’t enough for him. I wasn’t enough for him.” With that, he strode out.

                  “Where are you going?” called Jude, anxiety raw in his voice.

                  “To walk!” came to the terse reply, already out the gate.

                  “Leave him be,” said Simeon, rubbing his hands over his head again.

                  “But the Pharisees…” Jude’s pallor deepened.

                  “They don’t leave their houses this close to Shabbat.” Joses dragged out a chair and planted himself next to Simeon. “He’ll be fine.”

                  “But—But Yeshi…”

                  At Yeshi’s name, I met his eyes. “He was released, wasn’t he?”

                  Three gazes turned on me, all of them pained in their own way. Simeon drew a deep breath, taking on the look of a man about to explain a difficult truth to his children. “No, Zemira….”

                  My pulse quickened. I searched his face. “He’s still in prison?” Surely, it was only a matter of time before Yeshi’s release. If my brothers could not free him today, the Romans would let him go eventually. He had committed no real crimes, other than stirring up the people. With a few days to cool off, everything would return to normal. Surely.

                  Simeon remained silent, hesitating, hardly able look at me.

                  “Simeon?” My heart was pounding now, and I looked from Simeon to Joses to Jude, begging for answers.

                  Finally, Jude spoke up, hanging his head. “Miranush,” he husked, using my nickname. “Yeshi is dead. They killed him.”

                  Ice cold shock slithered into my belly, and I began to shake. “No.” My breath came in ragged gasps. “No, they can’t have killed him. He did nothing wrong!” Desperately, I looked between them, waiting for one of them to break the nightmare and tell me it was a lie, a joke, a mistake—anything but the truth.

                  No one did. Instead, Jude came and wrapped his strong arms around me. “Oh Miranush,” he said, his voice full of tears. And then all of us were weeping.

 

                  I watch John put a hand on my mother’s shoulder, bending his head to look into her eyes. I can see his grief is set aside, if only for a moment. He has taken seriously my brother’s charge.“Eema, you must rest.”

                  She meets his gaze, eyes heavy with despair. “I can’t.”

                  Tears fill John’s eyes again. I imagine he feels much the same. “You must try,” he whispers. “He would want you to.”

                  I swallow hard to keep my own tears at bay. Suddenly, this room feels very small. I stand. “I’m going to the roof,” I say quietly. John nods: there is understanding in his eyes.

                  As I slip out the door, he is helping my mother to stand, leading her to the guest room and to bed.

                  He will not come to me. As a single woman, I am safe here above ground from that man who somehow became my brother’s brother, without blood or law permitting. I miss my sisters. When we were young, they were the only people with whom I could be silent and still feel understood. Now, they have husbands and homes and children, but there are still moments when the understanding surfaces. Here, I am alone, with no one to know my grief, my confusion.

                  As I wander with my thoughts, I stumble upon the aching memories of Yeshi. Three years now, they have ached, but today the pain is deeper. Today, it is irreversible. In another moment, when composure might be asked of me, I would rush past the memory. For now, though, I have the luxury of privacy, of coming undone.

                  I enter the memories.

 

                  I was born sixteen years after Yeshi and almost as much of a miracle. No one was ever sure what to make of my parents’ stories surrounding Yeshi’sbirth, but there were witnesses to mine. I came out blue and silent, looking for all the world like a corpse, and my mother was certain I’d been stillborn. The boys had been told to stay well away from the house that day, but Yeshi came in anyway as soon as he heard the women weeping. He picked me up, held me close, and blew on my face. I started squalling immediately.

                  Or so the story goes. One never knows for sure with all the strange talk in my family, but I do know that as a little girl, I clung to Yeshi. More than my father or mother, he was my hero. If I was with him, I was safe.

                  It was a good thing. Four years after my birth, my father died, and Yeshi became the head of our family. I have few memories what Abba looked like--little snatches of his face, his hands--but I remember the warmth of his presence, and the shocking chill that came when it was gone. But Yeshi was bright as the sun in Abba’s wake, and my mother was strong, so we survived. In many ways, my life carried on uninterrupted. Despite the sorrow of my early days, my childhood was a good one, filled with freedom and light and the sweet scent of sawdust on Yeshi’s strong hands. I grew up content.

                  My brothers and sisters married, all except Yeshi, and our family was blessed with an even greater abundance of children. Some brows quirked and rumors spread over Yeshi’s celibacy, but he was a good man, righteous and wise in his dealings, and no one in Nazareth could find fault with him. Our nieces and nephews adored him. Yeshi and I spent many an afternoon playing with them in the fields and terraces, making shelters for them out of rocks and soil and branches. He had an easy laugh and a quick wit. He told the best stories.

                  Then one day, it all ended. As long as I live, I will never forget the moment Yeshi told me he was leaving. We were leaning on the fence behind our home, watching the sunset and chewing wheat kernels from the garden. The silence was easy between us; we had lived together long enough that words weren’t often needed. When he spoke, though, he changed everything. “Miranush, I have to go,” he said, his voice quiet and steady, eyes still on the horizon. He looked so perfectly serene that I laughed.

                  “Where do you have to go at this hour, big brother? Has some girl finally caught your attention?”

                  He chuckled. “No, I mean I have to leave Nazareth.”

                  I frowned at him. “For what? The Passover isn’t for months.”

                  “For God.” He took a deep, easy breath and faced me, grinning. “He told me to go and preach.”

                  For a moment, I simply stood there looking at him, head cocked to one side, trying to understand. Yeshi was nearly thirty years old, had worked all his life as a carpenter. He had studied Torah like all the other boys, but I had never in my life heard him preach. I wasn’t sure he could. “Where?” I finally asked.

                  “Everywhere.” He spread his arms wide, his grin broadening. “All of Israel.”

                  I narrowed my eyes. “Tell me you won’t end up like John.” Our wayward cousin was reportedly wandering like Moses in the wilderness, finding vile names for the Pharisees and baptizing those Jews who repented of their sins.

                  “Little sister, you know you want to see me in camel’s hair.” His dimples popped out, something that always happened when he told a joke.

                  “I want to see you at all.” I gave him a look. “What will Eema do?”

                  “Well…” Now he looked sheepish. “I’m hoping she’ll come with me.”

                  My jaw dropped. “Come with you? Are you mad? I suppose you expect me to come, too, on this mission from God! Honestly, Yeshi…” I looked away from him to where the last rays of sunlight were fading. “Don’t do this to us.”

                  For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The silence was no longer easy. Nothing was. At last, he nudged up next to me on the fence. “You could come with me…”

                  I will forever wonder what might have come from that moment, had I said yes. But I didn’t. Reproach rose up in me and I looked at him with sad eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

                  He simply held my gaze in his own. The answer was already written in his eyes.

                  “I don’t believe it,” I scoffed. Then I turned toward the house and left him in the deepening dark.

 

                  Hearing someone approaching on the ladder, I come back to myself. My mother’s face pokes up over the roof’s edge.

                  “Eema?” I move over to make space for her. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

                  A heavy sigh escapes her. “There is no rest in grief. It takes time to find peace again, ahuva.” She calls me loved one, but it falls flat. I wrap my arms around my knees, not knowing what to say. “Cold?” she asks.

                  I shake my head.

                  The darkness around us is heavy, unnatural. I think of my ancestors in Egypt, who watched the plague of darkness fall upon their enemies but who themselves walked in the light. Where is that provision now, for us? It feels as though we are abandoned, as though God Himself has turned His gaze from us. A shiver passes through me. My mother is right. There is no rest in grief. And in this darkness, Creation is grieving with us.

                  “Was there mercy?” I don’t want to know the answer, but she needs to speak it. To hold all this inside will kill her.

                  She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she gathers me close, resting her cheek on my head. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be held by my mother. Comfort finds me where I did not know it could reach anymore. I cling.

                  “No,” she finally whispers. “There was no mercy. None but his.”

                  I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I breathe. “For all of it.” Whether I am speaking to her or to God, I’m not entirely sure.

                  The lamp sputters out, the oil spent. We don’t move. In the stillness, both of us seem to believe that there is no better place to bear our pain than here, together, holding one another close for comfort. A tear brushes my arm, and it’s not mine. “Eema?” I draw back to see her face and find that she is weeping, silently, trembling with the exertion. I wrap my arms around her. “It’s alright, Eema,” I murmur. “It’s alright to cry.”

                  Her weeping grows, racks and overtakes her, until she is keening, rocking back and forth in time with the waves of grief besetting her body. I release my embrace and grip her hand instead, allowing more space for the pain. I join her in her keening. Through my tears, I see lamps being lit in surrounding windows. In the distance, a dog barks. In our mourning, we have woken the neighborhood. Let them be wakeful, I think. There is no rest in grief.

                  But my mother is wrong. Eventually, our tears are spent, and blessed weariness overtakes us. We fall asleep.

 

                  I awake to voices. It is still dark, but my mother is gone and there are voices inside. I drag myself down the ladder, blinking in the lamplight as I come into the house.

                  John has left, I know not when, and the main room is full of women. Some, I recognize; others I have never seen. I know, though, with a heavy jealousy, that these are the women my brother called his sisters.

                  I also know that I might have been among them, had I listened to him.

                  John’s mother has appeared from her part of the house, bringing with her whatever cold food she had available. There is to be no cooking on Shabbat, and she had no chance to prepare the usual meal. I shudder to think she attended my brother’s crucifixion instead. Many of the others did as well.

                  The women speak in low tones. I take a seat beside my mother, silent. Even in their grief, a few of them laugh quietly over old stories and jokes I don’t understand. Some call my mother “Eema.” I am one of two blood relatives of the dead in the room, but I am the outsider.

                  A girl about my age settles next to me. Like me, she wears no head covering. Her eyes are weary, but she smiles anyway. “Zemira, right?”

                  I nod. “And you…?”
                  “Susanna.” A dimple pokes out on one side of her mouth and I can see that she is a woman of exuberance. In this moment, though, her joy is shrouded by sorrow. She casts her eyes about the room, leaning in to murmur, “I’m the youngest among us. He always talked about you, said we’d be friends if we ever met.”

                  A lump forms in my throat. “He talked about me?”

                  She cocks her head to one side, quizzical. “Of course. He loves…” She frowns, looking away and swallowing hard. “He loved you.”

                  Protest rises in my spirit, but I don’t voice it. Instead, I look at my hands in my lap, unsure how to manage the swirl of emotions tightening my chest. “Thank you,” I husk.

                  I’m surprised when she takes my hand. “Rabbi didn’t have regrets,” she says quietly. “But I think the closest that he came was the memory of leaving you.”

                  I gaze into her eyes, now unable to speak. Tears spill, for both of us. Susanna gives my hand a squeeze and we fall silent.

                  This is how we pass the day: sharing memories, sharing silence. Their nearness is balm. I begin to understand how easily these women became my brother’s family. They are not fanatics or zealots. They are far from crazy. They are ordinary in every way except one: they have extraordinary hope. Even after all that’s happened, some still cling to the cause. “He preached the Kingdom of God,” one says, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Perhaps it was bigger even than him.”

                  There is a murmur of agreement from some. Others look doubtful. But not one of them looks like she will quit. The work—though they no longer know what that means—is still worth it.

                  A few times, the conversation turns toward his death, the horrors they witnessed, and the burden of the memory is lightened as we all take hold. This time, I do not shy away from the details. Through these women, I become present to my brother’s suffering. If only I wasn’t too late.

                  By nightfall, our words and tears are spent. I look around the room at their exhausted faces and marvel at their staying all day. Some of these women have husbands, families. They laid it all aside to grieve with us.

                  “No one embalmed him, Eema,” a woman called Mary speaks up. “There wasn’t time.” She looks at my mother shyly. “With your permission, we’d like to go tomorrow and…finish.”

                  Eema nods. “Tomorrow.”

                  The women show no signs of leaving. It occurs to me that this cobbled-together family might be all they have. What did they give up to follow Yeshi? What did they lose? Shame heats my cheeks as I realize I am not the only one in this room who has hurt because of him. The difference is that they chose it, willingly surrendering their lives for his call.

                  Now, they were willing to continue it, even without him. What kind of people were they?

                  “Sleep, my daughters,” my mother is saying. A few are already lying down. John sent word hours ago that he would stay with Peter and the others. We are the only ones in the house tonight.

                  One by one, the lamps go out and darkness envelops us. I shift closer to Susanna, not wanting to feel alone. Her rhythmic breathing comforts me. It reminds me of my sisters.

                  And then, suddenly, she is nudging me awake and the women are gathering their things. The time has come to visit my brother’s grave. I breathe deeply, steadying myself as I weigh down my pack with incense. It has only been three days; his soul may still be present. Perhaps I will feel him there in that tomb.

                  We set off and I follow them down the lane. They know the way, and I do not.

                  As we go, I see the sun is rising.