Today is the result of the passing of yesterdays into the encroaching past. I now reckon time’s
passing by the number of Tuesday’s. Tuesday is the day my beloved died. Today has replaced
Tuesday 57 times, yet there is no distance between the first and the 57th.

Time? Yes, time marches on but it doesn’t heal all wounds as advertised. It can’t, really, it’s just
time. Unique to our sun and planets as far as we know. What heals, for lack of a better word, is
distance and we confuse that with time.

In math, (yes, math – forgive me but it is my favorite subject and germane to this exercise) word
problems often use rate, distance and time as variables to solve for an unknown. E.g. A train left
the station at 2:30 PM and travelled West towards its destination at 86 MPH. At the same time an
East-bound train left the destination station … Ok, I’ll stop, but you get the idea – the
relationship between rate, time and distance. That relationship has been reduced to a formula:
D=RT or Distance equals rate times time.

That same formula loosely holds true in many individuals experience of grief in the loss of a
loved one. I say loosely because it is not a hard formula like we see in math. A partial reason for
that is that everyone experiences grief differently so it’s virtually impossible to develop a
formula that encompasses all. Part of that difference can also be attributed to the rate that grief
moves in an individual. For some it’s a slow process and others it’s fairly quick. What do I
mean? Just in my own experience, I have had individuals tell me that they were over their grief
in a relatively short period of time – they didn’t experience grief any longer. For others, grief is
long-lasting. One Facebook friend told me that she still experienced intense grief eleven years
after her loved one died. My own mother’s grief at my dad’s dying lasted over 20 years until her
own death! So, there is no formula to determine either the distance or the time. It depends on the
rate and that is subjective. So, what do I mean by distance? Just this: how close one feels to the
one who died as time passes. For example, in the first case I mentioned, that person’s grief faded
over time until it was over.

May I suggest in that situation there was no longer a feeling or experiencing of closeness to the
one who had died. I’m not being judgmental. That is just how some people experience grief. In
those cases, the old adage “Time heals all wounds” applies. The more time that has passed the
more whole the survivor feels. I am sure that such individuals still have and can recall memories,
but perhaps they don’t feel the tug or overwhelming of emotions like at the beginning. That is
why some individuals talk about it being time to move on e.g. “You should be over your grief by
now, it’s time to move on.” That may well have been their own experience, but it’s not mine nor
the experience of my mom nor the 11-year veteran of grief. Hence, for us grief is still intense
even years later and the loved one is still a vital part of our emotions. I guess we could say that
there is no distance between us and the one who died, regardless of the passing of time. And for
that there is a formula. Math’s formula works just fine in those cases because the rate is zero. In
other words, we’re not moving on. At all! Therefore, there is no distance! Math tells us that
anything multiplied by zero equals zero. So, in our formula, when the rate is zero it doesn’t
matter how much time passes, the distance will always equal zero – again, by “distance” I mean emotional ties, the closeness of their love and memories. Those have not decreased and are as
real and meaningful as ever – perhaps even more precious! It is possible personally, to a limited
degree, to experience the heart of G-D in this: “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of
His saints” ~Psalm 116:15.

In my growing knowledge of grief, I have come to understand that it is not a wound that needs to
be healed. Neither is it a cross that I bear. Grief is now a vital part of my existence that I embrace
in the absence of my beloved!

Thomas Ernst
February 12, 2025

There was a wedding in Cana, and the mother of Jesus was there… And when the wine gave out the mother of Jesus said to Him, “They have no wine.” – John 2:1-3 New American Standard

Thirty-three years after
my miracle of his birth
we see his big debut:
catering.
My son turns
water into wine
like any bartender.
For this, my son is
an overnight sensation.

Thirty-three years of hiding
secrets and miracles in my heart.
Thirty-three years of a mother’s
essential nudges.

Giving any explanation but the real one.
The dirty-faced child
with the something-hidden smile.
Women clucking condescending clichés:
“Isn’t he special?”
I’d match his smile, just say:
“Yes, he is.”
And they’d never know
the revelation they’d just heard
from me.

After all the ordinary years,
fussing at Joseph for wasting
my son’s time with carpentry.
But the two of them loved making
something beautiful from ordinary wood,
so my silence stretched on for years.

Through all the whispers:
When will Mary’s boy grow up?
Move out of the house,
make something
of his life – like the others.
I’d try to match his smile
and not say
things that couldn’t be believed.
Remember: Rocks in the desert
have waited ten thousand years
for my son.
This will happen
in his time.

And now he’s taken his place,
finally.
And they’re amazed
at a cheap parlor trick.
And I, like any mother,
think, “Can’t he do more
with his talent?”

I look across the room,
catch his eye.
A flickering little boy smile.
This wine is sweeter
for the aging.

Michael Guillebeau stares out at the sea in Panama City Beach, Florida, and rides his bike in Portland, Oregon.

Come, the stone church invites.
Linger, pause, cease that ceaseless wandering.
Wonder at this creation, this celebration of man’s permanence and devotion.
Grateful for this welcome welcome,
I pause behind the sturdy fence, pondering, wondering about the need for pointed steel spikes to be guarding a place of sanctuary, of worship.

Worshipful,

instead I bow my head
to Nature’s softness, its beauty, its quiet joy. To this timeless, expectationless gift offered in exchange for nothing.
Nothing more than time. Captivated, time stops,
as I bury my nose and smile
at the prayer not spoken within, but inhaled, without.

Chris Wardle (Hamza) works at being happy and grateful, while writing with an eye for wonder, a taste for questions, and a sense of proximity to the Sacred. A relative newcomer to sharing his poetry, he has been published in: Blue Minaret; and Pandemonium (2022); and Green Ink Poetry (2023).

Black smoke
Clouds encircle
A crowd of revellers
Stood outside a church
Hall, fumigating the wounds
Of the past, cigarette ash falls to
The earth, like the embers of the lost
Souls who never made it back to the front
Line of recovery, many men die before taking
The first step towards the upper realms of paradise,
To freedom from bondage of self, to pure white bliss,
Blessed are the sick who surrender their lives over to Him

Paul Hughes is an English poet. He found God in 2021 after he started to work the 12-steps of recovery in Alcoholics Anonymous and soon after returned to Church for the first time since his childhood, having wandered dangerously far away from God up until that point.

Growing up I had a gentle cello teacher.

She wore cashmere sweaters and sipped tea,

though I hated every second of our lessons,

grew calluses on my fingertips the size of hurricanes.

As I bowed and plucked each string,

the kickback from the coiled metal ran through me like a chill

and the notes hovered in the air like a swarm of gnats.

At every entangled melody, every stiff-arm staccato,

my cello teacher would stare as if to turn me into stone,

her mouth no wider than a coin slot.

But when she played, there were no entangled melodies,

no stiff-arm staccatos, only song. She skated across the strings

with angelic ease, for she was fluent in octaves and

chords and scales, her first language Vivaldi,

her greatest love the sound

of stick against steel.

Born and raised in Seattle, Washington, Maddy Hoffman is an emerging poet based in Virginia. She has a poetry Instagram, @penny.poetry, where she writes poems about the beauty of the mundane.

First light strikes the tip of the pines
as they wave in the cutting wind

while the cyan creek below
freezes over like a vein.

Across the road,
the old barn in the field
is bowled over in gold,

and my boots squeak in the snow
like bare soles in dry sand.

Why is it that I want to cry?

The trees and I stand on the edge
of it all, my eyes now fully alive,
and the locusts only pale to the view

Peter Ivey is the father of three pre-adolescents, a lover of trees and all places mountainous, an aging trail runner, and the director of Thrive NC, a Christian soul care ministry based out of Asheville, North Carolina.

Not feeling worthy
to approach any alter
I slip in unobserved,
but by Thee

Dear Father,
hear my cry
forgive my sin
give Mercy,
mercy,
one
more
time.

My heart lifts
like a dove
released
from a cage
with Power’s
freedom flurry
through morning
light window’s
rising upward,
heavenward
secured by
Thy love.

Michael Shoemaker is a poet, writer and photographer from Magna, Utah. His full-time job is working as a Vocational Rehabilitation Counselor where he assists people with disabilities to find meaningful employment. He lives with his wife and son where he enjoys looking out on the Great Salt Lake every day.

One of the most precious memories I have before my beloved Carrol died was her oft repeated
words to me: “I love, love, love you”! Oh, how I miss hearing those words. Even though I am
predominantly deaf, Carrol’s voice was one I could hear via reading her precious lips. Perhaps
the most difficult truth I’ve had to grapple with in my faith, is that while I know I will see her
again, it won’t be the same. Yes, we’ll know each other and perhaps even remember our
memories; but, it won’t be the same – and I long for the same!

Jesus’ Disciples grappled with the same truth shown in Matthew 22:24-30: “24-Saying, Master,
Moses said, If a man die, having no children, his brother shall marry his wife, and raise up seed
unto his brother. 25-Now there were seven brothers with us: and the first, when he had married a
wife, deceased, and, having no issue, left his wife unto his brother: 26-Likewise the second also,
and the third, unto the seventh. 27-And last of all the woman died also. 28-Therefore, in the
resurrection whose wife shall she be of the seven? for they all had her. 30-Jesus answered and
said unto them, You do err, not knowing the scriptures, nor the power of God. 30-For in the
resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in
heaven.”

Marriage and love in the same are earthly contracts. When death happens, that contract is
dissolved, it’s over! Even though there is definitely a spiritual aspect to marriage, that too ends in
death. However, my love for Carrol has not ended. In fact, weird as this may sound, I love her
more today than ever! I love, love, love you!

Memories of her; and her words of love to me, comfort me in my unrelenting grief. I know that’s
as it should be, but my grappling is not with that fact. I grapple with the Christian-speak, often
uttered to the grieving, “you’ll see her again”. Yes, I know, but it’s with the connotation of those
words that I grapple with. The connotation lends itself to the hope that we will be reunited with
our loved ones. Yes, we will. Just not in marriage. Just not the same as we enjoyed and
experienced here on earth. We, like Jesus’ Disciples, do err, not knowing or perhaps not wanting
to believe the Scripture that tells us there is no marriage in Heaven.

So, I struggle with accepting that because I’m still here on earth even though I’m heaven-bound!

Thom, November 15, 2024

What is resurrection?
A grand passion play
or ancient sacrifice of innocence betrayed,
before rising from cold, cracked stone.

A manger foretold the tomb
where swaddling clothes smelling of burial herbs
were unable to hold back bright light of shining star
that went dark on a hill of crosses,
but not dark enough
to hide the hint of what is to come.

What is to come?
A marching band of resurrection saints,
of waving flags and golden banners
and hallelujahs exploding throughout the universe?

No marching band,
but a flute in the woods
like a whisper in leaves;
no proud trumpet and thunder of drums,
but the gardener calling one’s name
or breaking bread on Emmaus road.
or appearing in our midst without announcement
taking form in the formless
here then gone.

No crescendo of chorus
or stadium applause;
only the sound of light
like a drop of sweat on the tongue from Golgotha.

Michael Braswell is a former prison psychologist and professor.
He has published books on ethics, human relations as well as several short story collections.

No one in church but me and the woman in a veil kneeling before the Cross I can’t see her face but scarlet Converse poke out from her dress what’s beautiful lives in this world yet not in this world I’m in the world walking among wolves when I belly up to the Cross its gore and light and ask not to become a wolf again all the years my eyes looked both evil and vaguely ashamed I ask not again let the wolves become smaller and jump in my mouth because You say so and I will eat every part of the wolf even the part that keeps talking after I think the wolf is dead

Justin Lacour lives in New Orleans with his wife and three children.

ON THE THIRD OF JULY 1997, my friend of thirty-eight years, Steve Short, and his eighteen-year-old nephew were finishing a logging job on the Klamath River in Northern California. A peculiar thing happened on a particularly bad stretch of road — they destroyed three of their tires on the way back from a timber falling job. That morning they had started work at dawn and had to return to finish up about two hours’ work of a falling job and were on their way out. Because the side of the river they were on was remote, the three flat tires meant they faced a twenty-mile walk back to a phone.

Steve knew the river well from drift-boat fishing for salmon and found a place nearby where he thought they could wade across safely, to get to a phone at a lodge on the other side. Steve had on heavy caulk boots as they started across. Caulk boots, called “Cork boots,” by most of the men who wear them, have rows of tiny metal spikes to keep your footing while walking on downed logs, and work very good on slippery rocks as well. The younger man had on conventional Vibram sole boots, which are sometimes like walking on banana peels, when used in a west coast river. The eighteen-year-old also had a heavy backpack with a Stanley thermos, and some logging gear.

The young man was Steve’s wife’s, sister’s son, and had been in trouble and Steve had taken him under his wing. He had been giving him good paying work and teaching him to work as much as teaching him a trade. Steve saw the boy twenty yards away and down river from him lose his footing and then was swept into the current and down towards deeper water.

Steve had been an All-American full back in 1967 at Del Norte High School, in Crescent City, California. He lost a scholarship to UCLA because of getting into some trouble, after high school and was now near 50 years old. He went after the young man in the same manner he followed his blockers at those Friday night games all over Northern California.

Steve Short was my best friend in the small Eagle Point School in a small logging town in southern Oregon from the 5th to the 8th grade. His family moved to Crescent City, California in 1963. Bill, his dad, bought a fishing boat and traded logging for Steve Wilson logging Company in Eagle Point for the open sea.

Every summer after that, I would go to Crescent City to visit; and Steve would return the favor and come to Eagle Point and stay with us on our little farm. We wrote letters and signed each other’s names as “Esquire” for our own adolescent self-appointed nobility and never with a thought of becoming lawyers because we thought we were appointed by virtue of adolescence to make up our own rules. We would get in mild trouble every time we got together. At sixteen, I remember going to a matinee in Crescent City California with Steve and seeing the Sergio Leone, Clint Eastwood, film a “Fist Full of Dollars,” and afterward buying hard and stale Paroudi cigars and choking them down and trying to look tough while driving through town in a 1955 Volkswagen.

Steve liked fighting on Friday and Saturday nights, he’d always win, and he tried to pick guys that either looked or thought they were tougher than him. When we were seniors, I had witnessed a bully beating up a boy half his size and then brutally putting the boot to him as he writhed on the ground in front of Jack’s Drive-up. Steve came to Medford from Crescent City with two friends in a ’63 Impala a couple months after this. They all liked Elvis Presley and had slick-backed hair and the three of them wore leather motorcycle jackets. Somehow, Steve found the Medford bully on his own this Saturday night; he may have played football against him that fall and carried somewhat of a grudge from one of the games. Steve beat him up at Jack’s in a manner similar to what I’d seen the bully do a couple months previous and then chased him in their fast Impala with black California plates to his parents’ home on the east side of Medford and screamed at him to come out and take another beating. I got the whole story shortly after it happened and having figured out who the victim had been I corroborated how richly he deserved it, and then we all drank beer in a motel room until the early morning. Just before dawn Steve and I went for a walk and began to follow a milk truck delivering milk to homes in the early morning hours to homes in west Medford. When the milk truck turned a corner, Steve nudged me, and we went up to the porch and Steve took two-quart bottles of milk—and passed one to me.  The dawn began to light up the Medford streets while we sipped our milk, still a little inebriated and made a large circle back to the Motel and our lives jumped past adolescence and had started to become dangerous.

I’d been in the Army about three years of a four-year enlistment after High School. I had to go to the Presidio in San Francisco, and I went there with another guy who then wanted to visit a friend of his in Letterman General Hospital, which is at the Presidio, which is directly at the south end of the Golden Gate Bridge.

On our way up to visit my buddy’s friend who I did not know, one of the giant hospital elevator doors opened and there stood Steve in a hospital get-up. He saw me and broke into one of those big wide grins he used to have. He’d gotten hepatitis in Vietnam and got out of the country one month early. Steve had got drafted in 1969 and was then married to his high school sweetheart Susan. He then enlisted to perhaps ease Susan’s fear of a Vietnam destination, and had a recruiter talk him into being an Army aircraft mechanic servicing helicopters. In 1969, that eventually translated into the reality of being a door-gunner on a helicopter in Vietnam.

I got him out of the hospital and brought him, with his flight helmet, to our little apartment in Santa Rosa, where I lived with my new wife from Massachusetts.

We were about twenty miles from the base where I was stationed, an Army Security Agency base that went under the cover of a communications facility. In reality we monitored the Russian Navy’s communication in the Pacific. I’d spent most of two years in east Africa where we were on a high mountain plateau where the radio teletype signals of all of the mid-east could be monitored.

Steve told me of some awful things he’d seen in Vietnam.  Susan, his wife, and Steve’s mother Rosie, a lifelong Sunday school teacher, came down and picked him up at my place in a joyous homecoming. I saw him very irregularly over the years after that, I’d find myself driving through Crescent City and I usually looked him up if the timing was right.

After the army, Steve became a timber faller in pretty much the last effort to harvest ancient redwoods. The notion of cutting down a tree that was alive and growing in a forest back when Jesus walked the earth sets off an alarm bell in not just a few. What men do for a living regionally drives an economy and economy and resources are always changing and often take all the resources too fast and then everything changes. Like the great whales that were struck in the 1800s, the large redwoods came down at the behest of commerce and supply and demand. Teddy Roosevelt came out to the Pacific Coast and to the Redwoods and gave a stump speech, perhaps literally on a stump and proclaimed the majesty of the great forest.

“It will take a thousand generations to cut them all down!” Teddy said. The chain saw had yet to be invented.

“Yep, I chop down the great big fat ones!”  Steve would say with wistful grin, and his head cocked sideways. Steve had what was called a ‘pull show,’ where they’d use two giant winches to lower the great trees to a bed of smaller trees without damaging any of the valuable wood. Steve had each of his winches powered by powerful Ford V-8 engines. Steve would climb to the top of each great behemoth he was assigned, then attach cables from the winches and then he’d personally make an undercut often larger than an American, middle class living room. And with his giant McCulloch chain saw he would sever the largest tree the Lord ever designed and would gently lower each ancient giant down to the earth where we humans, like the eager Lilliputians we are, would go to work on them for the tiny pieces of wood that are now so valuable. In 1978, when they discontinued the model of chainsaw Steve used, the McCulloch Company manufactured the most powerful saw ever made at that time and had sold that model mostly for go-cart racing. Steve bought three of these engines before they became obsolete just for his special line of work.

Susan and Steve had three girls. The last time I saw them altogether they were three little blond dolls toddling around a living room of their suburban house a couple miles from the ocean in a rural area near the always misty Crescent City— all his girls are married with babies of their own now. Steve did well with his business and tried to get out of logging after he turned forty or so, but eventually went back into it, although the “pull shows” were over, after most of the “Great Big Fat Ones,” had been “chopped down,” with a lot of hand wringing when there were not so many of the big trees left. Steve went onto the traditional timber falling that took him inland all over three National Forests and farther away from home.

He worked hoot-owl logging jobs in the summer, starting work at 2:30 in the morning with a meet-up and all-night diner where they had breakfast with the lad he had hired, like he did that morning, to drive inland to remote sections of an ever-decreasing forested landscape to get started at dawn so enough work could be accomplished and the saws could be shut off when the humidity began to plummet—all to alleviate a fire danger because of the possibility that later in the day a when a tiny ember from a whirring piece of metal striking a rock like anger a spark and might smolder and then become a 500 to 5,000 acre wildfire of wrath.

The woods had been worked that way for half a century with less and less being left with each passing decade and the approaching millennium seeing this wide-scale livelihood that fed families and sustained local economies coming almost to a halt.

When I came to the southern Oregon grade school in the 5th grade, I was an orphan, being raised by a maternal uncle and his saintly wife, my aunt. I came into a rough and tumble little school where most everybody’s Dad, it seemed, was a timber faller or a cattle rancher. I think God sent me Steve for a friend. I had no friends, and Steve became the best one I ever had to that point in my life. As the skinny little “four-eyed,” kid I was, and because Steve was my friend, no one dreamed of picking on me. When he was in the sixth grade, he beat up an obnoxious high school kid in front of the little store on Butte Creek where we bought our candy.

We had no particularly high art or hobbies, but model cars, hunting and fishing and bike riding were the holiday arts that we practiced well. When we came of age things were less innocent. Neither of us at that time could be confused with saints.

Decades later, the death of my good friend occurred on a July day, the day the before our independence celebration in 1997, a woman standing on a rock above the lodge side of the Klamath River, observed the two loggers trying to make it across the river. She saw Steve and his nephew’s attempt to wade the river, she saw the boy splash and struggle and swept downstream to deep water with the current, then the boy went under in swift water and saw the man upriver go after him.

There was no sight of either of them for what she later described as several minutes, and then the younger man came out of the water with a mighty force he made it to shore without his backpack. It is assumed that Steve got to the lad and got his pack off of him on the river bottom and then took on water and the weight of his boots kept him from making it the extra feet to the surface for a burst of air.

This happened around nine-thirty in the morning. Steve’s wife Susan heard about it and shortly got someone in a jet boat to roar up the Klamath River to the accident scene. The Sheriff’s Department and Susan and Steve’s friends searched for his body until early evening, when divers finally found him on the bottom of the river in twenty feet of water. The Deputies tried to make Susan leave, but she would not, and stood by while they recovered Steve’s body. Susan then cradled Steve, her husband of thirty years, in her arms in the Sheriffs jet boat all the way back down the river, with the sun setting down to darkness and passing by the great trees they’d loved and lived in, until the boat stopped with its sad cargo and the tide water mixed with the fresh water from all north California and central Oregon.

Steve Short was the finest man, Christian or otherwise, I had ever known. Sadly, to knock my own religion the finest examples of humans in my own life have not always been Christians. I truly know, I do truly know someday I will see him again and he will break into one of those big wide grins he used to always have.

After my divorce, Steve and I exchanged a lot of phone calls. We’d talked about some future fishing trips that never happened, but mostly we talked of God a lot, and how He’d changed both of our lives and how He’d been there all along when we were just struggling through life thinking it was something we were carrying on by our own strength. I do not know why He took him home. But Steve used to talk about knowing that being in heaven was 100 million times greater than being here. However, here he lived finally as an example of what Jesus described as there being no greater love than giving your life for your friends.

“I command you to love each other in the same way that I love you,” he’d said in the Gospel of John. “And here is how to measure it—the greatest love is shown when people lay down their lives for their friends.”

James Ross Kelly lives in Northern California. Mr. Kelly is a U.S. Army Veteran (1967-1971), Mr. Kelly has been a journalist for Gannet, a travel book editor, an environmental documents editor for the Forest Service and had a score of labor jobs — the in-between, jobs you get from being an English major.

Sometime after three in the morning, he died of worry. He never saw it coming, and it took him a while to understand what had occurred. He’d never really worried about the possible, the universe of things that might happen, but only, endlessly, about all that had already happened. He considered himself their cause, those things about which there was nothing left to be done. And yet, ridiculous as it seemed, his thought struggled to find ways to reinsert itself into the orderly stream of causes and effects. Thought itself, a kind of residue, it sometimes seemed to him, the brute fact of consciousness, was only life’s untiring attempt to transpose its past into a future, to occupy a place of decision and perspicacity, a land of infinite possibility. But in moments of astonishing lucidity, he’d see the deathless persistence of his so-called life as a world of accomplished fact, a product of the impossible, filled to capacity with what was, what has been, leaving no room for action, no room for anything but this impersonal concern, this unquenchable urgency, this undying regret. As his death began to dawn on him, he realized there was nothing to be done about it. He understood that it had somehow always been there, in the past that stands beside each present moment, and like the past, unavailable to decision, refractory to all initiative, indifferent to action or decisive inaction. And so, without options, he continued on as he always had, continued on as usual.

DB Jonas is an orchardist living in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of New Mexico. He is the author of two collections, both of which, along with other examples of his work, can be accessed at jonaspoetry.com.

            Small wooden houses ringed the Bethany town square. A man sat by the water well in the dusty square. Lucius Varus walked to the house the man said belonged to Lazarus.

Varus stood over an old man sitting in a chair on the small wooden porch. “Are you Lazarus?”, he asked.

He nodded, and beckoned Varus to sit on the chair next to him. Varus could hear people moving around inside the house. “I live here with my sisters Mary and Martha.”, Lazarus said.

The skin of the old man’s thin face was like old leather. But his voice was strong, and his eyes alert. He said, “Who are you, Roman soldier, what can I do for you?”

“I am Lucius Varus, Pontius Pilate’s chief of staff.”

Lazarus said, “Your uniform is bloody. We have heard about violence today in Jerusalem.”

            Varus said, “Our Antonia garrison was attacked by Galilean Zealots. We overcame them, but Roman soldiers were slain. Just before that, the preacher Jesus of Nazareth caused a riot at the Temple courtyard next door. I think the two events could be related. We heard you talked to the Zealot leader, and also to Jesus today. I want to know what you know.”

            “Yes, I spoke with Jesus this morning. And with others. I thought I might be questioned.”

            “You are the preacher’s friend”

            “We have known Jesus and his family for a long time. Jesus and his men have been staying in Bethany this week.”

            “Why does he come to you?”

            “When Jesus was starting his mission, his family thought he had gone crazy. But my sisters and I never doubted his closeness to our God, and his greatness as a teacher. He has not forgotten that.”

            “Did Jesus tell you what he planned to do today at the Temple?”

            “He said he planned to confront the Sadducees, and that this would cause him great trouble.”

            “Did he say why he planned to do this?”

            “Jesus has been in torment since he arrived here. He says his preaching mission requires a confrontation at its end. He says Temple leaders will give him up to the Romans, and that he will then be crucified. What did he do today?”

“He overturned money changer tables, and released sacrificial animals. Many in the crowd did the same, and there was much looting. Temple police had to step in. I think he might have wanted my soldiers to help the Temple police control the riot, and thus be distracted from the Zealots.”

            Lazarus nodded. “I am glad the people rioted. The priests charge a month’s pay for a dove! The Sadducees says they need the money to run the Temple, but we all see how they live.”

            Varus said, “Did Jesus say anything about an attack on the Antonia?”

            “He did not.”

            “Tell me about your other visitors this morning.”

            “A large group of armed Galileans came by. Their leader came into the house to speak to me. He called himself ‘Barabbas’.”

            “What did he say?”

            “He said they all expected to die in a battle with the Romans. A big man. He was weeping. He asked for my blessing.”

Varus said, “This man Barabbas survived the battle, and two of his men. Pilate and I scourged Barabbas. He said he did not tell you he planned to attack the Antonia.”

“He only said there would be a battle.”

            “Did you know Barabbas before this?”

            “Galilee is not a big place, so I have heard of him. But I did not know him. He said he had done many bad things in his life, but that striking at the Romans would be one good thing at its end. The Zealots kill you Romans, and those who collaborate with you.”

            “I know about the Zealots, Lazarus. But, why did he come to you to say that?”

            “Many people have come to see me recently, Roman soldier. Jesus of Nazareth raised me from the dead. People want to know if the story is true, and they ask for my blessing.”

            “Did he say anything about Jesus helping with his battle?”

            Lazarus turned to look directly at Varus. “Jesus help? No, he did not.”

            Varus said, “Did Jesus and Barabbas talk with each other this morning?”

            “I do not think so. Jesus and his men were leaving when I saw Barabbas and his men in the square.”

            “Will you see Jesus again?”

            “I doubt it. He’ll figure you would come here.”

            Varus said, “Listen to me, Lazarus. We were attacked today. A full report must be sent to Rome. Tiberius will be angered by the loss of Roman life. We need to tell him that we were ready for the attack, defeated it, and have identified and crucified all those involved. That would be Barabas, and his two friends, first thing Friday morning, after their trial. But I need to know if your preacher had anything to do with the attack. You need to tell Jesus I need to speak with him about that.”

            “If I see him, I will, but I doubt he will comply.”

Lazarus looked sideways at Varus. “We hear that High Priest Joseph Caiaphas brags he has the Emperor’s ear. He might report that Jesus tried to help the Zealots today.”

Varus thought ‘This man knows more than I thought. If Tiberius thinks we failed today, we could be recalled to Rome. Men have been told to fall on their sword for less than this’. He said, “That’s right, old man. His complaints to Tiberius drive Pilate crazy. That is why I need to get the truth of it from the preacher, before Caiaphas can make trouble”.

            Varus looked at Lazarus, and the old man stared back. ‘You have to give information to get information’, Varus thought. He said, “I know some things about Jesus of Nazareth, Lazarus. From one of his men.”

            Lazarus said, “I can guess who. Jesus told me one of his disciples is an informant, and he said that a Roman soldier has been watching him.”

            Varus said, “We are here to keep order and collect taxes. Caiaphas told us Jesus would be disorderly, so we have kept an eye on him. So far, he has caused us no problems.”

            Lazarus smiled. “Jesus preaches against the hypocrisy of our upper class, and the people do listen. The High Priest office is not supposed to be hereditary, but Caiaphas’s family holds it. Debts are supposed to be forgiven periodically, but the Sanhedrin’s money lenders prevent that. Caiaphas fears him.”

“I saw Jesus preach to a large crowd, at Capernaum.”

            Lazarus seemed amused. He said, “Really? What did you think?”

            “Even a Roman can tell he is a great teacher. I remember two things. He told one crippled old man to stand up, throw away his palette, and walk away. The old man did! The crowd went wild. I could not believe the preacher would bet on something like that, and so I was sure it was staged. But later my informant told me no one around Jesus knew the man beforehand.”

            Lazarus said, “I heard about that one. Of course, it was real. There have been dozens of cures and exorcisms, never a failure. Jesus uses miracles to get people to believe what he preaches. What was the second thing?”

            “There was much back and forth with the people. One well-dressed man challenged some things that Jesus had done. Jesus called him ‘a fat Pharisee’, ‘a viper in the weeds’, ‘a hypocrite’, and other insults. The denunciation was total. The anger, coming from a holy man, surprised me.”

            Lazarus smiled. “You think Jesus is just a nice holy man? Think again, Roman soldier.”

‘Angry enough to help attack us?’, Varus thought. He said, “You say Jesus expects to die in Jerusalem. But he is a talented man. Why doesn’t he just go back home? He would live to preach another day.”

            Lazarus said, “Many people have questioned Jesus in that way. Why spend your life traipsing around the countryside? Why spend time training ignorant disciples? Why not marry the beautiful Mary of Magdala and raise a family?”. Lazarus shook his head. He said, “We have a saying: ‘Jerusalem is where prophets go to die’. This is the moment his message gets heard by all. You will see him preaching at the Temple each day this week.”

            “Then I will arrest him in the courtyard.”

            “You would start another riot. Why don’t you have your informant arrange a private meeting?”

            Varus said, “You might be right. I can contact the informant, or Caiaphas can.”

The two men sat in silence, taking in the sun’s last rays. Varus could hear the old man’s breathing. He turned in his seat to look at his face.

“Lazarus”, he said. The old man opened his eyes. “How old are you?”

He smiled. “When I died, I was 76 years old. Now I am two months old.”

Varus laughed. Lazarus said, “You must be tired. I have been a poor host. Would you like some water?”

“It has been a long day. A drink would be good”, Varus said.

Lazarus called to his sister. “Martha, bring water”.

An old woman brought out a jug and three mugs. She filled them, then she drank from hers.

Varus drained his. “Thank you”, he said. He said, “Too bad this is not a jug of wine.”

“It might be, if Jesus was here”, Lazarus said. “That was his first miracle, you know.”

“What was?”

“Turning water into wine. Early in his ministry he was at a wedding in Cana. The wedding was large, and the wine ran out early. Jesus was told that by his mother, who was concerned that her nephew the groom would be embarrassed. Jesus told his disciples to fill six stone water pots. Jesus blessed the water, then told his men to take some to the wine steward. The steward went around praising the groom for saving the best wine for last.”

“You saw this happen?”

“Not exactly. I was at the wedding, with my sisters”, Lazarus said. “His disciples told me about it later. They said Jesus did not want publicity, thinking that his first known miracle should be about something more high-minded. The story has become a great parable among his faithful: Great news comes to us only now, after a thousand years of our experience. His message is the better wine, don’t you see?”

Varus said, “The men who run the Temple are happy with the wine they already serve. Right?”

Lazarus smiled. “Exactly, Varus. The priests also do not like it when he says ‘You don’t put new wine into old wine skins’.”

Varus said, “I saw Jesus enter Jerusalem yesterday, riding on a colt. Some in the crowd called him their ‘messiah’ and a ‘king’. There will be no messiah, and you Jews no longer have a king, Lazarus. Pilate said I should have arrested him on the spot for sedition. But the preacher did not call himself a messiah or a king.”

Lazarus frowned. He said, “Jesus talked to me about his entrance beforehand. He said a horse would signify defiance, but the colt would signify a peaceful attitude, as our prophet Zechariah had foretold long ago. But I reminded him the well-known prophecy was also about the coming of a messiah, and a call for purity in the Temple. I told him Caiaphas would not cooperate, and would tell Pilate Jesus wants to be king. I could not talk him out if it.”

The sun had gone down. They sat in the darkness. Varus said, “Lazarus, I must know. When you were dead, did you know you were dead?”

            “I had been very sick and there was much pain. Then there was nothing, until I heard Jesus weeping. He called me to come out. Many people were there when I walked out of my tomb. My sisters took off my funeral wraps and some men helped me to my house. I have felt good ever since.”

            Varus looked at Lazarus. He said, “One more thing, Lazarus. You said Jesus thinks he will die at our hands in Jerusalem. A few years ago, Caiaphas asked Pilate to crucify a man who had broken one of your religious laws. Pilate refused. He said he would not get into the middle of one of your religious disputes. Pilate told Caiaphas to stone the man himself.”

            Lazarus said, “Jesus is very popular. He even has support in the Sanhedrin. Caiaphas won’t stone Jesus to death, even if Pilate tells him he can. He will get Pilate to do his dirty work.”

            “And just how will he do that, Lazarus?”, Varus said. “You Jews hate the Romans, and you think Pilate is a cruel man. But we are an honorable people, Lazarus. Even Barabas will get a trial, Friday morning. Pilate will not crucify an innocent man. Jesus will get a trial Friday as well. He only needs to deny involvement, and tell Pilate he does not want to be king of the Jews.”

            “Do not be insulted, Varus. I only tell you what Jesus predicted. But I tell you: I am sure there will be a crucifixion. Would you hammer the nails?”

            Varus turned to look at Lazarus. He said, “My Centurian. I would supervise. But I tell you we will not crucify an innocent man, Lazarus.”

            The tense moment passed. Varus had come to Bethany to find out if Barabbas and Jesus were in league. He now doubted they were. He thought `It’s just another chaotic Jewish festival week. We stay for a few more days, we go back to Caesarea, the report will write itself.’

             Varus stood. “Thank you for telling me about the preacher. But I remind you I am here as military. I need to talk to Jesus of Nazareth in the next few days. If the informant cannot arrange a meeting, I will be back, and hold you to account, Lazarus.”

There was no more to say. Varus nodded to Lazarus and Martha, and stepped off the porch. They watched him disappear into the dark.

            A voice from behind the thin wooden wall said “Well done, Lazarus. You got him to talk. My arrest has been foretold, and my sacrifice is at hand. I know what to say at my trial.”

            “This need not be”, said Lazarus. “We can help you escape to our people in Egypt. The evil of this world is too strong. Caiaphas will drown out your message after you are gone, and nothing will change.”

            “Running away would deny my message. Lazarus, have no fear. The cross will embarrass the evil of this world. Then those who have heard will carry on after I am gone.”

Joseph Brady is a retired university teacher who has written textbooks for many years. He is now trying his hand at fiction

Its first sensation was of immense power focused to a fine point from which all being emerged. It was a feeling of boundless energy gathered and organized for the great purpose of moving in a great swell. But the sense and order of the world all about escaped it. Up and down and left and right were a confused tangle of mixing and flow. But it had to move. It mattered not in which direction. Was there ever to be any order or sense to be made of the chaotic, turbulent churn? How could it have known how to set a course to reach its end, its ultimate purpose? There was no way to decide. But on it went.

Its spirit moved upon the darkness. Innocent of form but instructed by a weight it finally felt but did not understand, it gained an inkling of “sky” above and the “waters” below, and its own existence confined in a thin zone between the two. It grew and grew, driven by and driving everything above and below.

The sun itself feared to tread here at this time of year. But it was not dark. Had it eyes, it would have seen immense strobing stabs of lightning arcing across the sky. It certainly felt the jolt of coursing current when a strike occurred nearby. But on it traveled, unimpeded by the mighty bolts raining down all about.

Had it ears, the thunder would have deafened them in its continuous rolling roar. Above the explosions, and under it, and all about was the scream of the wind in a register halfway between terror and menace. The spray and foam and churn resolved itself into a cresting boundary between sea and sky, marking its existence and purpose. Just a few fathoms down there was just the cold and the dark and the current and the teeming life awaiting its fate of being scooped up and strained through great veils of baleen. Below the surface there was only a gentle sway that marked the passing of the great wave.

It gathered energy from the wind, growing to greater and greater heights and depths and heights. Pinpricks of raindrops shot through and about it, careening and sliding, and it outpaced the storm that gave it life. Already the water of its birth was far to the south, the energy in a crest pushing the water ahead downward, the pressure in a trough pushing the water ahead upward. When it passed, those waters were buffeted by the next and the next, but the wave was already rising and falling rising and falling, and always moving away from its birthing.

It felt its might. It felt its strength as an infinite spark of inspiration. But it was also aware that in the absence of the howling wind it was no longer being fed, and that its energy was being scattered and dissipated in one direction and another. And after days of moving along the surface between sea and sky, it finally felt another energy upon it. This was not the sudden spark and stab of the lighting of its nursery, but a vast enlightening across its entire flank. While the winds were not pushing it any longer, it got its first taste of warmth in this, its first dawn. It thought that it was good. And still it travelled, warming and cooling and pushing the seas before it, up and down and up and down. When the warmth receded and the sun set on its first day, had it eyes it would have seen the Moon nearing full and arcing across the sky. A swelling pull it felt toward the Moon (and then away from the Moon), and another weaker pull toward the Sun (and away from the Sun). It travelled in puzzled delight at this.

Its first kiss of land was a strangeness it could not let go. It felt a slowing of its pace as nearby the water grew shallow and the sea floor rose to meet it. It reared up higher and steeper. Across its broad front, it felt a terrible tearing and ripping as its center crashed upon a lonely island in a welter of reflections. Its two wings bent toward each other, refracting as the wave passed the island. In its youth, just a few days ago, it was sure it could have destroyed this impudent rock. It was so much weaker now and had to content itself with weathering the jutting stone just a bit, then just a bit more. It felt broken and scattered, but its core hung together as it sped from the island.

As its great strength shrank, it still grew in its understanding of itself. Back on the open sea, it rushed upon lone ships, raising them, and then lowering them, before flying on its way without even a wary and watchful mariner noticing its passage. Its organized core, with all its experience and soul, was growing even as its energy was spread back into the sea to be gathered in a different time, in a different place.

Weeks of day and night and day and night passed, and storms as well (small and silly compared to the immense Antarctic storm of its nursery). It felt the pull of the Moon by night and by day. It was aware that in the depths belowcreatures fantastic, gargantuan, and tiny swam. The Leviathan itself glided upward to greet the great wave, then slowly rolled and receded into the depths without saying a word.

There would not be much more in the way of continuing. It knew this. It still traveled, but it was no longer compelled. It knew its purpose and lovingly aligned its will to the imperative revealed in its scripture of hydrodynamic and thermodynamic prophesy. In its long weeks of life, it felt the fineness of the material carrying its energy, the bubbles and foam. Individual molecules and surfaces briefly held its essence before the logic and momentum of its pressure caused it to move forward, into the next interface between sky and sea. Its existence could be deduced from the fine material that made it up. Patterns in the organization of that watery material indicated its presence, the activity of its mind. But its mind was not contained by the waters through which it passed. Its energy had a purpose, a good purpose. It was sure. Its great purpose had been revealed to it. A voice without sound, belonging to itself and borrowed from the infinite around it urged it forward, whispered to it of the great necessity for it to tell its tale.

=

The core of its awareness grows even more as the wave shrinks into insignificance. It is almost gone when it enters the tree-sheltered lagoon. It is so close, it thinks, so close to writing the words of its testimony upon the page spread out on the foam-specked deckle of the sand. It must go on toward the shore, must lap up onto the grains of land, and write its story there.

It runs up to the boundary between sea and shore and pushes itself in a last gasp upon the sand.

A small child plays there, engrossed in studying a smooth pebble in one hand and a pretty shell in the other. The child squeals in surprise at the gentle lapping at her toes and grasping both shell and stone looks down at the foam. Then, the child raises her eyes to the horizon, and smiles in delight at a whisper perhaps imagined. She looks out upon the great ocean of truth, undiscovered before her, where Wave had been born.

…I was born in far Southern seas, and I bring glad tidings for you, little one, who will grow mighty as a Great Wave in its youth, mighty in knowing and wisdom…

Galen T. Pickett teaches physics at Cal State Long Beach. He lives in the greater LA area with his spouse, four grown children, and several canines. His writing is inspired by the grandeur of the physical world and the absurdity of the academic world, in nearly equal measure.

I look at my hands, the hands of a father,
& Wonder if blood will pulse from my palms.

I touch my skull, from temple to temple,
Wondering when the crown of thorns will come.

I climb my tree, my father tree, & stretch
Wide for beloved creation to scorn & impale me.

Other fathers with their families fully fed,
Immaculate in their middle-class virtue & attire,

Point & jeer at me atop my tower of skulls,
As I sigh & mutter things I no longer believe in.

They are warning their sons & daughters
Of fathers like me; who did not provide wealth,

But vainly sought to wean their bellies of
Jealousy & sorrow; of fear, gluttony, & grief.

He tried to drive darkness from the valley;
To dissolve the shadows as they reach the moon.

Such a father, they assure, can’t be trusted;
Not today or yesterday, & certainly not tomorrow.

Because it is all imaginary, I step down &
Stare my enemies blank in the face, saying zilch.

My tree recedes into the forest & no one
Knows me in the valley where shadows shop in

Shadows that hide from the glare of the sun;
Buying & selling to escape the heat of the light.

This is not the success I desire for my son,
I say, digging fingernails into my fatherly palms.

I have watched generations labor under evil,
begetting more of it; my life work is to undo theirs.

Fathers & sons competing for a plot of soil:
A grave to receive their many superfluous sorrows.

Galen Cunningham is a poet from Boulder, Colorado, where he shares custody of his four-year-old son. He takes his spiritually seriously but lightly.

“I think our pipes froze. What should I do?”
“It was probably that L in the attic. Use your blow dryer and try to thaw it. Then get pipe insulation. You got this. Love you.”
My dad is a carpenter. A scroll through our call log would show calls that are
Quick.
Help.
I need advice.
Love you. Bye.

“Tomorrow is potty training. I’m not ready. Give me patience.”
“Should we take the job or stay here? I don’t know what’s right. Make it obvious.”
“Please, God. Please. Let the kids sleep for even half a night straight.”
My Father is a carpenter. I fall asleep feeling guilty for not spending more time with Him. My prayers are
Quick.
Help.
I need advice.
Love you. Amen.

“How’s the hot water today?”
“Flowing! New insulation helped too. It was -8 this morning and no issues.” A baby screams in the not-so-distant background.
“Well, I know your hands are full, but I just wanted to check in.”
“Thanks. Sorry I need to grab him.”
“I get it. I’m only ever a phone call away. I love you.”

I wear my guilt more often than I wear make-up these days.
I microwave my coffee four times before
giving up, and I get up from my quiet time more
than I spend in it.
I fear my inadequacies will lose my spot at the family table.
But I am the daughter of a carpenter
and he loves me, amen.

Kaitlyn Newbery is an adjunct English professor at University of the Cumberlands. She enjoys exploring questions about her faith through metaphors and storytelling.