At that moment the two wakes were fairly crossed, and instantly, then, in accordance with their singular ways, shoals of small harmless fish, that for some days before had been placidly swimming by our side, darted away with what seemed shuddering fins, and ranged themselves fore and aft with the stranger’s flanks. Though in the course of his continual voyagings Ahab must often before have noticed a similar sight, yet, to any monomaniac man, the veriest trifles capriciously carry meanings.

“Swim away from me, do ye?” murmured Ahab, gazing over into the water. There seemed but little in the words, but the tone conveyed more of deep helpless sadness than the insane old man had ever before evinced. But turning to the steersman, who thus far had been holding the ship in the wind to diminish her headway, he cried out in his old lion voice,-“Up helm! Keep her off round the world!” Round the world! There is much in that sound to inspire proud feelings; but whereto does all that circumnavigation conduct? Only through numberless perils to the very point whence we started, where those that we left behind secure, were all the time before us.

Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could for ever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in tormented chase of the demon phantom that, some time or other, swims before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they either lead us on in barren mazes or midway leave us whelmed. –Herman Mellville ‘Moby Dick’

And let me in this place movingly admonish you, ye ship-owners of Nantucket! Beware of enlisting in your vigilant fisheries any lad with lean brow and hollow eye; given to unseasonable meditativeness; and who offers to ship with the Phaedon instead of Bowditch in his head. Beware of such an one, I say; your whales must be seen before they can be killed; and this sunken-eyed young Platonist will tow you ten wakes round the world, and never make you one pint of sperm the richer. Nor are these monitions at all unneeded. For nowadays, the whale-fishery furnishes an asylum for many romantic, melancholy, and absent-minded young men, disgusted with the carking cares of earth, and seeking sentiment in tar and blubber. Childe Harold not unfrequently perches himself upon the mast-head of some luckless disappointed whale-ship, and in moody phrase ejaculates:—

“Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! Ten thousand blubber-hunters sweep over thee in vain.”

Very often do the captains of such ships take those absent-minded young philosophers to task, upbraiding them with not feeling sufficient “interest” in the voyage; half-hinting that they are so hopelessly lost to all honourable ambition, as that in their secret souls they would rather not see whales than otherwise. But all in vain; those young Platonists have a notion that their vision is imperfect; they are short-sighted; what use, then, to strain the visual nerve? They have left their opera-glasses at home.

“Why, thou monkey,” said a harpooneer to one of these lads, “we’ve been cruising now hard upon three years, and thou hast not raised a whale yet. Whales are scarce as hen’s teeth whenever thou art up here.” Perhaps they were; or perhaps there might have been shoals of them in the far horizon; but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Crammer’s (Thomas Cranmer) sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over.

There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists! –Herman Mellvile

An abbot from a Benedictine monastery near Bologna visited Troupe Tripudiante in order to witness the acrobatics of Beatrice. Word spread throughout the region of the strange camp of performers traveling with Man Tower. Wanderers, especially performers, actors, were viewed with suspicion, however times were changing and traveling men were becoming more common in the region of Lombard, the northern lands leading to Frankish and German territories. Men moving about were becoming associated with trade, the exchanging of goods. It was good for all for men to travel and interact.

After confessing her sins to the abbot, Beatrice spent timed conversing with the priest. Cassandra joined them, enjoying the sunshine and the absorption of conversation.

“Father, do you enjoy my tumbling?”

“Yes. I have a special place in my heart for such activity. Beatrice you are so graceful and skillful with the body God blessed you with.”

“You honor me. Yes. It is God I thank for my joy and abilities. I see that so clearly. What did you think of the children singing? I saw you listening.”

“Their voices are those of angels.”

“Yes it will be a grand show. You must return to the abbey, retrieving your monks. The more the merry. Bring all the consecrated men in order to bless and witness our show.”

“We will see my child.”

Cassandra joined the conversation. “Father there is more to your admiration. Please speak.”

“It was when I was a younger monk, long before I was an abbot, although even during those times I strayed toward the abbacy, being a leader amongst the consecrated. I sought the friendship of the abbot above all others. He was a man of power. Now, I see it was the errant behavior of a young man enamored with authority, an individual glorifying hierarchy onto itself. I wanted to lead not for God, rather for vainglory. I valued the abbot because he was an abbot, someone who surpassed his peers. During those early days in the monastery, I reported to the abbot the things I observed, events and behavior I noticed as I watched my brothers. Through nervousness, I became a judge. Why waste words? I know the truth. I was a self-appointed spy. I never felt I fit in with my brothers so I secretly turned on them, defensiveness causing me to take offense. Ignorantly, I tried to prove my piety by overseeing my brothers, wielding hidden authority. One brother, I determined, demanded severe immediate attention. He was dumb, hopeless with his horrendous Latin. The novice was a dunce, a disrespect as he previously tramp about the earth as an acrobat and actor. His behavior had been suspicious for some time. I did not like the dumb looking brother the first moment I set eyes upon him. My first impression denouncingly convinced he was an absolute lowering of standards. He was not participating in prayers properly, appearing gloomy and downtrodden, missing sessions. I had my eye severely upon him the whole time. The man was desperate and did not belong. It was obvious. Then suddenly to my chagrin, his demeanor changed. His participation in prayers and chanting did not improve, yet he was smiling, losing the dismal nature everyone associated with him. The hopeless man somehow gained hope. I was dumbfounded. I keenly noticed he was missing matins regularly. Mysteriously, none of my brothers or superiors made an issue of the fact. I determined the abbot must do something. Underhandedly, I conducted every effort to ensure proper action was taken. The abbot, whom I considered my best friend, decided the two of us would follow our wayward brother. We saw him enter a private storage area, a large room of no consequence, simply used for storage. The following day we investigated the room, discovering the deeds of our puzzling brother. Behind crates and items in storage, he created a secret open space with a forgotten statue of Our Lady overlooking matters. The abbot and I created our own space, a place for hiding. We would uncover matters completely. We occupied our spying spot that night. We hid ourselves well, waiting for the appearance of our mischievous brother. When he showed himself, we watched. Our stupid brother dropped to his knees in prayer, begging Our Holy Mother for forgiveness. His inability to master communal prayers disturbed him. His memory was miserable. His lessons were impossible to keep in his head. He admitted he would never learn Latin. He moved on to plead for understanding regarding his difficulty in learning, his poor reading skills, apologizing for his overall intellectual inferiority. I admit it was difficult to observe, especially in regard to the fact, that I was one of the harshest critics of the brother. My poor brother was falling apart at the seams. Addressing the Holiest of Mothers, my pitiful brother explained that the only thing he was good at was tumbling and acrobatics. He told the Virgin Mary that he would perform for her as he did in the carnivals for men. He dedicated his deeds and heart to her Immaculate Heart, the loveliest of women as he named her, expressing the desire she find joy in his efforts. He shed so many tears during this difficult to witness confessing. Then to our astonished amazement our brother began flipping about, turning summersaults in the air, walking upon his hands. His deeds from the traveling carnivals, he performed for the Mother of God. We knew not what to think, and then things advanced to the supernatural. The most Blessed Lady stepped down from being merely a statue. Angels appeared from the very air. Our Lady was a lady before us. The angels danced about with our brother, performing the tumbling and gymnastics along with our brother. The angels laughed, rolling about upon the ground in sheer delight as our brother threw himself about the room. The angels who were not tumbling with our brother were flying about conducting applause. The Blessed Lady, in awe, stood clapping, her mouth radiating with the most beautiful smile. She elegantly laughed. Our brother noticed nothing of the heavenly amusement he was creating. The abbot and I could only watch, spellbound, overwhelmed with humility. When our brother finally completed his blissful performance and departed, we sulked back to the abbot’s office, falling upon the ground begging for mercy. We both shed many tears of sorrow. We prayed throughout the night, until morning came, when the abbot had our acrobatic brother brought before him. We begged forgiveness from our brother. We told him of everything we observed. He marveled at the vision of the angels and Blessed Mother adoring his performance. We assured him they loved his efforts, and the abbot promised that from now on the brother would be granted every moment he desired to perform for the Holy Mother. I was fortunate to be allowed to watch our brother every now and then as he entertained for his heavenly audience. From the night forward, he was the one I desired to have as my best friend. Someone in such favor with Our Blessed Lady I wanted as close to me as I could establish. Never did I see the fantastic again, yet I knew they were enjoying. A Divine ambiance adorned the space. One morning, about seven years later, our tumbling brother was found dead in the space of his performances. There were no signs of death, and most mystifying, the smile upon his face expressed sheer joy. The abbot whispered to me that he was positive Our Holy Mother took our brother up to heaven so he could perform for all of the attending.”

“So my friends, this is the reason I am so found of the art of gymnastics. One of the children, visiting the abbey, described a young lady, in company of a troupe of traveling actors, who possessed the gymnastic skills of Brother Andrew. So grand are my memories of my brother that I had to witness the young woman myself. I will positively affirm that Beatrice, you do possess talent on par with my blessed brother.”

“Thank you father.”

“I should thank you. You have ignited exceptional memories.”

Cassandra spoke. “Father please come watch the children sing some more. They have practiced diligently for days. They are getting quite good. I have them positioned properly so their tones and pitches harmonize, creating a unified voice of beauty. They will perform for their families and neighbors during the upcoming show. We have performed only a few times since departing from Assisi. This will be our first series of performances. We are sinners who now find pleasure in teaching children, performing for people of good will, and even those of complex will. The crowds grow bigger. The attention our leader, Man Tower, attracts is substantial. I am nervous, yet confident we will prove worthy. You must come hear the children sing, and then I will describe some of our acts. You have not met Jacopone. He is amazingly gifted in all the arts of performance; skilled in the most simple and complicated practical tasks. The plays our elder writes, especially those of a Biblical nature, you will find enlightening. I hope that is the case for there is nothing heretical in his ideology. He is an intelligent layman of the church.”

“Young lady you say many things at one time. Please let us return to the children. One matter at a time. From there we will allow God to guide our steps.”

2 Samuel chapter 6

12 And it was told King David, “The Lord has blessed the household of O′bed-e′dom and all that belongs to him, because of the ark of God.” So David went and brought up the ark of God from the house of O′bed-e′dom to the city of David with rejoicing; 13 and when those who bore the ark of the Lord had gone six paces, he sacrificed an ox and a fatling. 14 And David danced before the Lord with all his might; and David was girded with a linen ephod. 15 So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the Lord with shouting, and with the sound of the horn.

16 As the ark of the Lord came into the city of David, Michal the daughter of Saul looked out of the window, and saw King David leaping and dancing before the Lord; and she despised him in her heart. 17 And they brought in the ark of the Lord, and set it in its place, inside the tent which David had pitched for it; and David offered burnt offerings and peace offerings before the Lord. 18 And when David had finished offering the burnt offerings and the peace offerings, he blessed the people in the name of the Lord of hosts, 19 and distributed among all the people, the whole multitude of Israel, both men and women, to each a cake of bread, a portion of meat,[g] and a cake of raisins. Then all the people departed, each to his house.

20 And David returned to bless his household. But Michal the daughter of Saul came out to meet David, and said, “How the king of Israel honored himself today, uncovering himself today before the eyes of his servants’ maids, as one of the vulgar fellows shamelessly uncovers himself!” 21 And David said to Michal, “It was before the Lord, who chose me above your father, and above all his house, to appoint me as prince over Israel, the people of the Lord—and I will make merry before the Lord. 22 I will make myself yet more contemptible than this, and I will be abased in your[h] eyes; but by the maids of whom you have spoken, by them I shall be held in honor.”

“Damn it, what the hell is the matter now?” Dawn muttered to herself. Experiencing automobile trouble, frustration festered. Her headlights were randomly shutting off, staying dark for a short period of time, then suddenly illuminating once again. The reliable car, a fairly new Pontiac Sunbird, never did this before. Things were happening. Beyond the car trouble, Dawn was feeling incurably ill. The unstable and unpredictable headlights were only a part of a greater instability. A depression, a sense of grave despondency internally manifested, becoming a physical presence that Dawn was positive was going to back up out of her stomach and onto her lap. She started swallowing in effort to halt the impeding vomit.

Earlier in the evening, she finished a bottle of wine, and after dropping off her daughter Jessica at the Simon’s home, she returned home and drank a Foster’s lager oil can. She rarely drank beer, purchasing the large cans because they reminded her of ex-husband Shawn. He used to drink the imported Australian beer regularly. Dawn took to keeping several cans of the large imported beer stored in her refrigerator.

As her automobile headlights switched off again, this time seeming as if they were not going to come back on, Dawn panicked, harshly flicking the switch off and on, desperately attempting to produce brightness. Thoughts scattered, focus wavering, she unintentionally pressed down upon the gas pedal. The acceleration sent the Sunbird into a slide. Out of control the car careened over an embankment and struck a tree, forcing it to a violent halt. The car stalled after a morbid belching sound. Steam rose from its crumbled hood.

Soiled and in pain, Dawn felt utter resignation. Her head struck the windshield and she could feel blood flowing down her face, tears quickly following. For some crazy reason however, Dawn’s mind wandered away from the accident and onto her checking account. It had become such a burden. It never was before, but now it was a problem. She was constantly forcing the bank to cover her checks with cash from her savings, the lack of effort costing her twenty dollars per transaction. It was just plain stupid and lazy. She considered herself organized and now she found herself unable to keep the simplest things in order. The pain and reality of the automobile accident was distant, just another problem.

There was a mental block stopping Dawn from dealing with the situation, a fear controlling her that was undermining the basis of her life. She saw it as something else, an evil force that she allowed to take control of her life. Fear ruled her every action and word, every step she took was under the presence of a devastating trepidation, a gnawing uneasiness that caused her to be constantly on guard. Everything seemed wrong. She started to cry hysterically as she saw a reflection of herself in the rearview mirror. She looked horrible, a bloody mess.

A thought struck, a concept recalled. She remembered hearing that as an adult everyone was responsible for the appearance of his or her face. One’s elderly face did not depend upon birth for beauty. Beauty for the aged developed through grace and experience. Some who were considered unattractive in their youth became beautiful through time. Some who were considered beautiful in youth grew only into awkwardness, their appearance becoming distressing. Within imagination, a face emerged.  Dawn recognized the sanctified feminine face. It belonged to a nun she witnessed speaking on television. The religious sister possessed a soothing radiance, humble peace and purpose embodied. Dawn admired the face and disposition, concluding that was how an adult face should appear. The Poor Clare displayed a vibrant confident innocence. Speaking softly, she articulated on the story of Our Holy Mother in Fatima. Dawn scrutinized the nun’s face, searching for signs of inner frustrations or something regarding the results of celibacy, however she was pleased to be confronted with a sincere innocence, ashamed of herself for having putting the nun ‘on trial’. Accepting the integrity of the nun, she identified the beauty of a child within her adult countenance, a retained innocence she had never noticed in an adult face before, a vivacity she admired in her daughter Jessica.

Dawn could no longer stand to look at her own face. It was just another sign of her lack of control. She was nothing she felt she should be, or expected to be as a young girl. Unpredictably confronted with her mirrored image, such as moments when she stood in front of a window or glass doorway with darkness beyond, confronted by her reflection, Dawn instantly turned away, shuddering within insecurity. She could not stand to look at herself. She was positive she looked crazy. Now viewing her bloodied reflection, she started crying. The vomit she was successfully holding back released itself.

As Dawn wavered, she felt a strength arise. Within hopelessness, within striking a bottom, a blind subtle hope emerged. Dawn focused on Jessica, her daughter. She had to pull everything together for her little one. Her love and life called to her. She took inventory of herself, realizing she was really not hurt that badly. If she could only pull herself together. As she often did, she pondered what would happen if she simply did nothing. Could a miracle occur? The passing of time would produce results no matter what her actions were, so what if she just sat and did nothing? A miracle would never come. Who cared about what happened or what was going to happen anyway? Here she sat with her head bleeding, chest hurting and depression dragging her down, and for the most part she could really care less. The weight of her life was too heavy.

The Sunbird’s headlights switched back on, the light beams piercing darkness. Dawn laughed. The right headlight’s rays, forced to shine directly upwards due to the accident, appeared mysterious traversing into the night through the branches of the tree. Dawn held on to the image of Jessica. She must move forward. Hope was there. The Simons would help. Denny? She wished she could see him and tell him how shitty she felt, she didn’t care how weird it would seem. Dawn switched the ignition key off, then flipped off the car’s headlights, conceding the fact she would not be able to drive away from the accident. Calmness collecting, she wondered if she was going to receive a DUI.

Putting together a plan of action, she could not determine her location. Tracing mentally backwards, she recalled deciding to take a drive before going to a nightclub in Point Place. She was in Michigan. She recalled crossing the state border due to a colorful roadside sign announcing arrival in Toledo. The sign was decorated with a rising sun. Dawn noticed the sign because she recalled reading an article in the Toledo Blade describing the new welcoming feature announcing her city. It was the first time she saw one of the signs. Thinking about the signs helped produce clarity, providing structure and coherent linear thinking. Looking outside of her automobile, Dawn was surprised to see someone watching her. An elderly woman was standing in her bathrobe, reassuringly smiling at her.

Dawn rolled her window down. “I seem to have crashed into your tree.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. Are you all right?”

“I think so, nothing serious. I don’t think I can drive my car though.”

“Why don’t you just come inside and we’ll get you washed up.”

“That sounds nice. I hope it won’t trouble you.”

“No, not at all.”

Dawn was astounded. The elderly woman was standing in front of a streetlight, glowing as she looked at her. Her thin bushy white hair created the effect of a halo. An angel appeared. The woman helped Dawn exit her automobile. Standing, she felt a rush of blood that almost caused her to faint, the weight of her body collapsing onto the old woman. The smell of vomit was horrible. Dawn was embarrassed. Miraculously, the old woman seemed to pick her up, catching her, carrying her through the snow. Once inside, the elderly woman guided Dawn into her bathroom. The old woman turned her shower on, before helping Dawn strip herself of her clothing, then guiding Dawn into her shower. Before entering, gathering courage, Dawn observed herself in the mirror, shocked by the amount of blood stained upon her face.

“I think it would be best if we got you cleaned up. If you would like I will drive you to the hospital afterwards. I think I have some clothes that will fit you nicely.”

“Thank you for everything.”

“It’s OK. Just get under the water.”

The idea blossomed wonderful. The steam tumbling out of the shower looked extremely inviting. Dawn introduced herself as she stepped into the shower. Once clean and dried, she felt sore, but confident. The cut on her head was really not that bad, it had just bled a lot. On the whole, she realized her wounds were nothing serious. She had taken a blow, but she would be able to go on. The thing she needed the most was a good night’s rest, peaceful sleep to remove the effects of being drunk. Considering the fact she should have been wearing a seatbelt made her realize she should probably call the police. She definitely did not want to. The old woman entered the bathroom with an armful of clothing as Dawn grew anxious about confronting authority figures.

“Here is something for you to wear. They were my husband’s. He passed away just over three years ago. They don’t get much use now. I think they will fit you though. He wasn’t that large of a man. Why don’t you get dressed and come into the kitchen? I made some coffee.”

Dawn was amazed by the fit of the clothes. Slightly large they seemed perfect for her mood. A pair of cotton boxer shorts, a white cotton T-shirt, a cotton sweatshirt, sweatpants, sweat socks, and a pair of white boat sneakers made her feel comfortably warm and protected. Embarrassed, she wondered what the woman had done with her filthy clothes, her attire for an entertaining evening of single adult fun. She wanted to know the elderly woman’s name.

Drinking coffee, having learned that the woman’s name was Betty, Dawn avoided talking about the accident. It seemed Betty was not going to bring it up either. Oddly, they were making small talk about a niece of Betty’s who worked in the emergency room at Mercy Hospital. She had not seen her in a while, wondering if she would be working. Although other hospitals were closer, the idea of a relative of Betty’s working at Mercy made it more appealing to travel a greater distance for medical attention. The sound of the doorbell ringing interrupted the women’s conversation. Together, Betty and Dawn answered the door, neither were surprised to see two Toledo police officers.

“Good evening Ladies. We had a call from a neighbor regarding an accident. We were wondering if you knew anything about the car in your front yard.”

Approximately forty-five minutes later everything was settled. Dawn’s car was towed to a garage. The police were satisfied with her explanation about losing control as she tried to get her headlights to work. The possibility of alcohol playing a role was never brought up. Betty acted as if she had known Dawn for a long time and insisted an ambulance would not be necessary. One of the officers found Dawn to be a charming and attractive lady. Dawn perceived his admiration as she settled the matter of the accident. The officer slyly mentioned that he and his partner ate dinner every Wednesday at around seven at a diner on Telegraph Road, just north of the Ohio Michigan border. Dawn caught the intentions of the invitation, complimented by the affectionate attention. It made her feel less ugly. Departing, sitting in the passenger seat, the officer kept his eyes on Dawn, smiling and waving as the police cruiser drove off.

Dawn laughed when she thought about the despairing mood that had overtaken her during the accident. Feeling lighthearted, she found it amusing to turn and see Betty standing next to her also waving at the police car. She tucked her arm into Betty’s and simply smiled at being alive.

“Betty do you know how bad I felt right after I hit the tree.”

“I think so dear. I was standing there for a while watching you. It wasn’t just the accident. I could see that. You were struggling badly with life. I felt very sorry for you. I lost my husband, as I have already mentioned, and we never had children, medical reasons on my part. So I have struggled.”

“So what do you do?”

“Nothing. I don’t want to give evil a foothold in my life. I quiet my fears, trusting God. I believe evil thrives on sadness and suffering. It takes advantage of such things, inducing fear. I let the negativity that is so easy to wallow in go away and then I cherish little things, like offering a young lady who needs a hand a shower and warm clothes. What else can I do?”

Dawn thought about her ex-husband Shawn. What was he trying to do? She thought about herself. What was she trying to do? What did she want to do? Oddly, she recalled her boss, the photographs he had shown her of his recent summer vacation. Her boss, fresh from a second divorce, had tried unsuccessfully to put the moves on her when she first started working for him, causing an initial loss of respect. His vacation photographs were taken during a motorcycle trip to Sturgis, South Dakota for a Harley Davidson rally. The man, a lifelong professional executive, purchased his first Harley Davidson the summer before, then ventured to the rally clothed in leather with a red bandanna wrapped around his head. It was a drastic image change for the man. He undertook the trip with three buddies, all upper class men in their early forties. Dawn found the photographs asinine. All she could see were pictures of men trying to be something they were not. Once again she thought about Shawn.

“We should get you to the hospital.” Betty placed her arm around Dawn as she guided her back into her home.

Without prayer, she still conversed with God, talking gently, asking forgiveness for the fact she despised life, expressing the wish never to have known birth, pleading for an exit, begging for mercy. Nothing more she desired than to not be. Death. It was not hate, rather defeat. She had lost her husband, righteously granted a divorce by the priest from the Tribe of Levi, the descendants of Aaron, brother to Moses. The officials of the Temple banned her from actively participating in the world of her upbringing. The sacred was closed to her. Her family shunned her, convinced she was a curse. None could touch her. She could touch none, and even more the things she touched became unclean, unworthy of others. Physicians who tried unsuccessfully to heal her wasted the moderate wealth her husband gave her in parting. Indigent and desperate beyond hope, she clung to the idea of being done with life as she parted from the life she had known.

Life as an exile started to change for Naomi when she began living on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, abiding in a shelter gifted to her by anglers, four fishermen from various families belonging also to the tribe of Benjamin. It was just a small one-room hut, a former place to stow fishing gear, yet it was perfect as it provided the isolation she desired. The men would leave her fish as well as figs, olives, herbs, fruits and vegetables. They had built a bigger shelter a short distance to the north.

The only visitor she enjoyed for a time was Susanna. Susanna, named in honor of the lily—her mother renowned for her love of flowers, was an old childhood friend who sought Naomi out after learning of her fate through gossip. As girls they were playmates, recognized as the best of friends, often decorating one another’s hair with lilies, as well as other flowers. Susanna would now come and tell stories to Naomi about her grandchildren. The stories brought tears to Naomi as it made her think about the grandchildren she had been banished from. Susanna told of her family so lovingly that Naomi understood she wanted her to share in life and the thought of children growing. She acted out of love, not malice. Susanna would come on the Sabbath, or the day after, coming during the evening, bringing something sweet to eat, honey, and plenty of smiles and good cheer to share.

It was during one of Susanna’s visits that Naomi learned about the healer Jesus, a new teacher of God Susanna called him. One of Susanna’s nephews, Bartholomew, was traveling with Jesus having become one of his chosen disciples. The nephew referred to the man as Rabbouni—teacher and master. Whispered words hinted Jesus was the Messiah. Susanna herself heard the man speak, and told of the enchantment his winged words possessed. ’More than a prophet’, she would say. Naomi was not sure what to make of the talk. Susanna even spoke of giving everything up and joining her nephew. She knew her nephew since he was born and she saw the change within the young man. She tried to speak of what she perceived surrounding her nephew and his Master, however she became frustrated with words, disappointed with her explanation, positive it did not embrace matters. She wanted to tell how the teacher’s voice sounded, yet she was lost for words. Her words were not winged. Susanna insisted that Naomi must search out this teacher.

“You must tell him of your affliction. He heals. Miracles blossom about him like flowers.”

“It is useless. I have tried everything. The verdict is final.”

“This man is something new. You must at least hear him speak.”

“Susanna I am feeling old. I am tired. This small hut has become enough for me. I watch the sea and the birds. It is enough. You are kind and your visits mean so much, but please do not bring false hope. The decree is done.”

“I want you to offer prayers. Consider what I say in your silence and solitude with God. Listen with your heart. He will speak the words I desire, yet cannot. Do not take my word. Take His. Listen in silence.”

Naomi did consider what Susanna mentioned. Her friend was a moderate person; a good wife, mother, and grandmother; moral in behavior and thought, always serious about her religion as her father and brothers were Pharisees, proper studying and highly educated in Scripture and the Mosaic Laws. She had to admit she had never seen her friend express herself in a manner such as she did regarding this teacher who healed. Others were speaking about the man also. One could not help, but hear reports of his wandering.

Susanna’s insistence made Naomi think. From a conventional woman came crazy talk. There were many false prophets and religious zealots wandering about. It was nothing new amidst the shores of the Galilee. Never had her friend become enamored with one. Naomi knew this. The women held firm to the proper throughout her life. Naomi considered the matter as she sat on a large rock with a natural declivity that produced a reclining seat of comfort. It was a favorite perch.

This beautiful day, enjoying sunshine and blue skies, Naomi stared out into the wonder of creation. She noticed the odd flight of a particular bird, its path winding around the blinding light of an undeviating sun. In a matter of seconds, the bird was hovering above her, flapping its wings as it held steady aloft seemingly desiring to alight. The brightness of the sun backlighting the bird blinded. An undefinable white dove of splendor it became. Observing the spectacular bird, an internal voice crystallized, vanquishing thought.

“Seek my son. Touch him. Be healed.”