Never Too Late
Drama
Bit Players In The Big Play
Pamela J. Tinnin
A young girl meets John the Baptist and faces the questions we all face. Will we truly repent and choose the way of Jesus? Is it ever too late?
When your years grow long, a thing of great mystery happens. In your dreams and memories, every day becomes like yesterday. That is the way of it when I think back long ago, back to the time of the crazy one. People said he lived in a cave down by the Jordan, but we heard tell that he traveled all over that region. He talked like a prophet of old. There were many who said he was possessed, that he was in the grip of a demon.
I was just a girl then -- a pretty one, too, even if it is me who says it. Ah ... beauty comes and goes, but back then it seemed like I would be young forever. My sister Anna and I spent our days helping our mother, but we found enough time to go down to the well, to smile at the boys as they passed by, each of us waiting for that one who would come to our father to ask for us in marriage.
We knew husbands would not be easy to find. Our father was a fierce trader, known for driving a hard bargain. He was also wise and knew the Torah like a rabbi. The men of the village would seek him out for conversation over a cup of wine -- debating this law or that one long into the night.
I remember the morning that it all began, Anna and I beating the rugs out against the east wall, the morning sun warm on our backs. Our mother was inside gathering up the laundry. I looked up the street, shading my eyes against the sun. Papa was coming. He had been to the rabbi's house to talk about the crazy one, the one they called John the Baptizer. I watched my papa make his way down the street. He carried his walking stick and his face looked troubled. When Anwar, the sandalmaker, called out to him, he didn't even look up. He walked past us without saying anything and went inside. We could hear his voice, my mother's soft answer, but we could not make out the words.
My mother came out and told us to bring the rugs inside, that we were going on a journey. The rabbi had chosen my father to go to the camp of the Baptizer. The rabbi had dreamed that this son of Zechariah and Elizabeth would bring word of the Messiah -- that somehow, crazy or not, God would speak through him. Of course, the rabbi could not go -- the elders would think he had lost his own mind. But he trusted my father to see the truth -- or the lie of it. And Papa wanted us to see for ourselves.
It would be a day and a half walking, so we packed up bread and dried fish, the last of the dates, and a few figs. My father took two skins and filled them with water, and slung them over his shoulder. We carried blankets and wore our winter cloaks. The days had grown colder, and we could hear the wind crying in the leaves.
We walked all that day, stopping only when the sun was at its highest for a bite to eat. My feet grew sore as we set out again, but Papa would not let us stop, not until it was almost dark. Just at dusk we saw the flames of a fire against a small hill. My father stopped us and called out, his hand on the handle of the knife he had hidden in his belt, "I am Martin, merchant from the village of Mizrah, with my wife and daughters."
A voice came back from beyond the fire. "I am Simeon, son of old Simeon. My brother Asher travels with me, going home to Naphtal. You are welcome to share our camp." We were glad for the company and opened our bags and spread our food on a kidskin. The two strangers -- not much more than boys -- offered dried olives, bitter and salty, and some cakes that had grown hard and a little musty, but still tasted of spice.
As we ate, we listened to the brothers speak of how they had taken a flock of sheep to sell in Jerusalem, and of the wonders of the city. They told of the market where a poor man could buy a ragged dove for sacrificing, or a rich man a slave to do his bidding. They said beggars and magicians and acrobats crowded around, yelling for attention; that there was a man who swallowed flames and another who could pull gold coins from your hair. Anna and I laughed at the thought of it.
The hour grew late and we went off to our beds. I remember looking up at the stars and wondering how such things could be. The last thing I heard was the sizzle of burning pitch, and my mother's high, sweet voice singing an old song.
We women slept until the sun woke us. We were not far from the Jordan. Simeon told us that he and Asher would go with us. They wanted to see what went on when the Baptizer preached.
The land was nothing but sand and dry grass, rocky hills with a few withered trees. Ahead we could see the dusty green of the bushes along the river. As we made our way down to the shore, I remember we could hear something in the distance. At first, I thought it was nothing but the hum of locusts, but when we got closer, I could tell it was the voice of a man, and the sound of people singing and chanting.
When we got nearer, we saw many gathered there. There were tents and little huts; you could smell the smoke of the cooking fires. Some people went on about their work, women cooking, men gathering up thin sticks of wood, children running and playing. Hundreds stood near the edge of the river, some up to their ankles in the brown water. Some on the shore danced; others fell to their knees offering prayers to the heavens; but mostly people watched the man who stood farther out, the waves rippling around his middle, his hands raised to the sky. He was not old, but as withered as the trees, thin and browned by the sun, his hair a tangled mass around his face.
"Repent in the name of the Lord," he cried, over and over. "Make your ways straight." I saw a boy younger than me step into the water and stumble toward him. The Baptizer spoke words we could not hear, and then pushed the boy backward into the water, calling out the words of a prayer. First one, and then another came, rushing out of the muddy swirl, choking and gasping, but praising God and crying out their thanks.
He turned in our direction, and I could hear his raspy whisper above all the other voices. "Do not wait," he said, "Now is the time to choose, to prepare yourself. I baptize you with water, but there is one who will come after me who will baptize you with fire." Then he raised his finger, pointed, and spoke again. "But do not choose lightly -- for if you choose to follow him, you must change your life." Perhaps it was just the sun shining off the water, but when he looked up, there was such light in his face. I knew then he spoke the truth, that the one he proclaimed was the Messiah.
I wish I had listened that day. I wish I had stepped into the water and felt his heavy hands on my head, pushing me under. I wish I had spread my blankets there on the banks of the Jordan and waited for the one who was to come.
But in that moment when I moved toward the water, my papa's voice rang out, echoing all along the river, just one word, over and over, "Blasphemy ... blasphemy...." We left then, and the brothers with us. We walked away from the river, across the wilderness, and back to our lives. Anna and I did not know it yet, but we had found our husbands. Not long after, on a Sabbath afternoon, Simeon and Asher came with their father and an agreement was made. Before my next birthday my sister and I were brides. We went to live in Naphtal, neighbors and a comfort to each other all our days.
Through all the years, we lived by the rules, followed the rabbis; we paid our tithes, made sacrifices on the holy days. We did well -- look around you. But some nights when I cannot sleep I feel an ache -- an emptiness that nothing seems to fill; a feeling that all this wealth and comfort stand for nothing. Certainly it did not protect us -- the plague that took our parents; Anna, a widow most of her days; me with three babies dead before one lived, and of the two who survived, the youngest gone to fight with the rebels and lost to me as surely as if he, too, were dead.
John the Baptist told of a different way to live, a way of living for others, a way where death would not matter. He said that the one who came after him would teach us. But I was afraid. One time I heard the man Jesus was preaching in the next village -- I stayed home and kept the shutters locked. No use asking for trouble.
Oh ... I haven't been a bad person. I give alms to the beggars who pull at my cloak; I have never been cruel. But each of us knows in our hearts what kind of life we have lived ... me most of all, an old woman whose years are as worn down as a candle on its last burning.
There are some who say Jesus will come again. That it could be any day, this very night. There are some who say we will find him if we keep looking. That there is nothing beyond his forgiving. But I cannot put that day out of my mind -- the air filled with a hundred voices singing and praying, a man waist deep in dirty water, telling me to choose. I remember wanting to speak, to step into the river -- and all I did was walk away -- just walk away.
Do you ever wish you could turn back the years? That you could do it all over? Do you ever wish you could go back and find the courage to change things? But we cannot begin again ... can we? Can we?
A young girl meets John the Baptist and faces the questions we all face. Will we truly repent and choose the way of Jesus? Is it ever too late?
When your years grow long, a thing of great mystery happens. In your dreams and memories, every day becomes like yesterday. That is the way of it when I think back long ago, back to the time of the crazy one. People said he lived in a cave down by the Jordan, but we heard tell that he traveled all over that region. He talked like a prophet of old. There were many who said he was possessed, that he was in the grip of a demon.
I was just a girl then -- a pretty one, too, even if it is me who says it. Ah ... beauty comes and goes, but back then it seemed like I would be young forever. My sister Anna and I spent our days helping our mother, but we found enough time to go down to the well, to smile at the boys as they passed by, each of us waiting for that one who would come to our father to ask for us in marriage.
We knew husbands would not be easy to find. Our father was a fierce trader, known for driving a hard bargain. He was also wise and knew the Torah like a rabbi. The men of the village would seek him out for conversation over a cup of wine -- debating this law or that one long into the night.
I remember the morning that it all began, Anna and I beating the rugs out against the east wall, the morning sun warm on our backs. Our mother was inside gathering up the laundry. I looked up the street, shading my eyes against the sun. Papa was coming. He had been to the rabbi's house to talk about the crazy one, the one they called John the Baptizer. I watched my papa make his way down the street. He carried his walking stick and his face looked troubled. When Anwar, the sandalmaker, called out to him, he didn't even look up. He walked past us without saying anything and went inside. We could hear his voice, my mother's soft answer, but we could not make out the words.
My mother came out and told us to bring the rugs inside, that we were going on a journey. The rabbi had chosen my father to go to the camp of the Baptizer. The rabbi had dreamed that this son of Zechariah and Elizabeth would bring word of the Messiah -- that somehow, crazy or not, God would speak through him. Of course, the rabbi could not go -- the elders would think he had lost his own mind. But he trusted my father to see the truth -- or the lie of it. And Papa wanted us to see for ourselves.
It would be a day and a half walking, so we packed up bread and dried fish, the last of the dates, and a few figs. My father took two skins and filled them with water, and slung them over his shoulder. We carried blankets and wore our winter cloaks. The days had grown colder, and we could hear the wind crying in the leaves.
We walked all that day, stopping only when the sun was at its highest for a bite to eat. My feet grew sore as we set out again, but Papa would not let us stop, not until it was almost dark. Just at dusk we saw the flames of a fire against a small hill. My father stopped us and called out, his hand on the handle of the knife he had hidden in his belt, "I am Martin, merchant from the village of Mizrah, with my wife and daughters."
A voice came back from beyond the fire. "I am Simeon, son of old Simeon. My brother Asher travels with me, going home to Naphtal. You are welcome to share our camp." We were glad for the company and opened our bags and spread our food on a kidskin. The two strangers -- not much more than boys -- offered dried olives, bitter and salty, and some cakes that had grown hard and a little musty, but still tasted of spice.
As we ate, we listened to the brothers speak of how they had taken a flock of sheep to sell in Jerusalem, and of the wonders of the city. They told of the market where a poor man could buy a ragged dove for sacrificing, or a rich man a slave to do his bidding. They said beggars and magicians and acrobats crowded around, yelling for attention; that there was a man who swallowed flames and another who could pull gold coins from your hair. Anna and I laughed at the thought of it.
The hour grew late and we went off to our beds. I remember looking up at the stars and wondering how such things could be. The last thing I heard was the sizzle of burning pitch, and my mother's high, sweet voice singing an old song.
We women slept until the sun woke us. We were not far from the Jordan. Simeon told us that he and Asher would go with us. They wanted to see what went on when the Baptizer preached.
The land was nothing but sand and dry grass, rocky hills with a few withered trees. Ahead we could see the dusty green of the bushes along the river. As we made our way down to the shore, I remember we could hear something in the distance. At first, I thought it was nothing but the hum of locusts, but when we got closer, I could tell it was the voice of a man, and the sound of people singing and chanting.
When we got nearer, we saw many gathered there. There were tents and little huts; you could smell the smoke of the cooking fires. Some people went on about their work, women cooking, men gathering up thin sticks of wood, children running and playing. Hundreds stood near the edge of the river, some up to their ankles in the brown water. Some on the shore danced; others fell to their knees offering prayers to the heavens; but mostly people watched the man who stood farther out, the waves rippling around his middle, his hands raised to the sky. He was not old, but as withered as the trees, thin and browned by the sun, his hair a tangled mass around his face.
"Repent in the name of the Lord," he cried, over and over. "Make your ways straight." I saw a boy younger than me step into the water and stumble toward him. The Baptizer spoke words we could not hear, and then pushed the boy backward into the water, calling out the words of a prayer. First one, and then another came, rushing out of the muddy swirl, choking and gasping, but praising God and crying out their thanks.
He turned in our direction, and I could hear his raspy whisper above all the other voices. "Do not wait," he said, "Now is the time to choose, to prepare yourself. I baptize you with water, but there is one who will come after me who will baptize you with fire." Then he raised his finger, pointed, and spoke again. "But do not choose lightly -- for if you choose to follow him, you must change your life." Perhaps it was just the sun shining off the water, but when he looked up, there was such light in his face. I knew then he spoke the truth, that the one he proclaimed was the Messiah.
I wish I had listened that day. I wish I had stepped into the water and felt his heavy hands on my head, pushing me under. I wish I had spread my blankets there on the banks of the Jordan and waited for the one who was to come.
But in that moment when I moved toward the water, my papa's voice rang out, echoing all along the river, just one word, over and over, "Blasphemy ... blasphemy...." We left then, and the brothers with us. We walked away from the river, across the wilderness, and back to our lives. Anna and I did not know it yet, but we had found our husbands. Not long after, on a Sabbath afternoon, Simeon and Asher came with their father and an agreement was made. Before my next birthday my sister and I were brides. We went to live in Naphtal, neighbors and a comfort to each other all our days.
Through all the years, we lived by the rules, followed the rabbis; we paid our tithes, made sacrifices on the holy days. We did well -- look around you. But some nights when I cannot sleep I feel an ache -- an emptiness that nothing seems to fill; a feeling that all this wealth and comfort stand for nothing. Certainly it did not protect us -- the plague that took our parents; Anna, a widow most of her days; me with three babies dead before one lived, and of the two who survived, the youngest gone to fight with the rebels and lost to me as surely as if he, too, were dead.
John the Baptist told of a different way to live, a way of living for others, a way where death would not matter. He said that the one who came after him would teach us. But I was afraid. One time I heard the man Jesus was preaching in the next village -- I stayed home and kept the shutters locked. No use asking for trouble.
Oh ... I haven't been a bad person. I give alms to the beggars who pull at my cloak; I have never been cruel. But each of us knows in our hearts what kind of life we have lived ... me most of all, an old woman whose years are as worn down as a candle on its last burning.
There are some who say Jesus will come again. That it could be any day, this very night. There are some who say we will find him if we keep looking. That there is nothing beyond his forgiving. But I cannot put that day out of my mind -- the air filled with a hundred voices singing and praying, a man waist deep in dirty water, telling me to choose. I remember wanting to speak, to step into the river -- and all I did was walk away -- just walk away.
Do you ever wish you could turn back the years? That you could do it all over? Do you ever wish you could go back and find the courage to change things? But we cannot begin again ... can we? Can we?
