Through Love's Eyes
Mary V. Young
Copyright 2012 by Mary V. Young
2nd Smashwords Edition
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Acknowledgements:
If I tried to mention everyone who has played a part in the creation of this book, I would surely leave out some critical names. Even so, some people need to be specifically mentioned.
The AOL Christian Fiction/Christian Publishing Discussion Board members in the mid- to late-1990s. We were hobbyists and professionals working together in community, helping each other grow in the craft of writing and in the knowledge of our Lord. For the professionals who were part of that group, your encouragement is the reason this book exists today. Extra special thanks to Terri Blackstock, who never complained about the fax machine in her bedroom ringing in the middle of the night as I sent her a new story “hot off the press.”
My email prayer-posse – Barb, Rachel, Karen, Katie & Jen. You ladies make God’s love real to me on a daily basis, and have done so for more than half of my life. I treasure each of you. Thank you for being my God-sisters.
Sharon Brown – your pithy comments steered me in the right direction more times than I can count. I’m so glad God introduced us to each other.
Table of Contents
A Woman Who was Thirsty
A Man Who was Paralyzed
A Woman Who was Forgiven
A Man Who was Chained
A Woman Who was Desperate
A Boy Who was Hungry
A Woman Who was Spared
A Man Who was Sick
A Woman Who was Grieving
A Man Who was Sorry
A Man Who was Healed
An Author Who is Grateful
A Woman Who was Thirsty
I wear my anger like a cloak, wrapping it around me to block the chill breeze of others’ scorn. It is my best weapon, and my only defense against those who judge me. I hold my head high, pretending not to notice the stares and whispers, but I do. And somewhere deep beneath the angry core that protects me, it hurts.
This is not the life I dreamt as a child. I had the same dreams as those other women – those same women who cross the road when they see me walking their way. But there is no changing it now. I wish I could, but to do so I would have to go back in time, back to a day when I still believed in hope, in possibilities, in love.
I know better now, and once illusions have been shattered, they are gone for good. I would have preferred to keep my illusions, as these other women so obviously had kept theirs, but life had other plans. Life without illusions is a cold, lonely existence. Is it any wonder that I found companions to share my misery?
No, I am not saying that was my intent, nor was it theirs, but the result was always the same. The initial joy of companionship, the disillusionment that followed each wedding, and then shared misery. I finally decided to bypass the disillusion, and the weddings ended, but the companionship did not. Neither did the misery.
Each day dragged, a torment to be endured, bringing me one day closer to the end of the whole dreary mess. I kept waiting for Yahweh to strike me, as the other women seemed so sure he would do, but he either delighted in my misery or could not be bothered to worry about me. Whichever reason was correct, he left me to my own ways, and I did my best to forget he even existed.
Until that day.
It was another dreary day just like the others in my life. I had recently attracted a new companion, so at least I did not wake up alone. Somehow it is easier to face these endless days if I am not alone. As usual, I went to the well to draw water. When I was a child, I used to watch the women walking to the well together, laughing and talking amongst themselves. I looked forward to the time when I would join that procession, but instead I go alone, after the others have finished. It is easier that way, not that I care about making it easy for them, with their sharp tongues and hostile looks. But I need no more challenges in my own days, so I wait.
I misjudged the timing that day, and some were still on their way back as I walked to the well. As always, they pointed and whispered, and as always, I held my head even higher, as if I didn't care. I have two minor consolations: they do not know how much it bothers me and more importantly, I am not like them. I do not look down on others because their lives did not turn out perfectly. I do, however, look down on those who look down on me, so maybe we are more alike than I want to admit. I walked past them on my way to the well, head held high, ignoring them while counting the paces until they would be behind me and I would have solitude to regain my fragile peace.
As I approached the well, my heart sank. It seemed I would have no peace this day. Although the women were gone, a man stood there watching me walk up. His clothing proclaimed him a Jew, so I gathered my anger cloak closer to me, knowing I was in for unpleasantness. Jews hate Samaritans, loathing us even more than the women of my village loathe me. “Well, let him do his best”, I thought. It had been a long time since a mere man could make me turn and run. When he looked at me, I did not drop my eyes as a proper woman should, but met his gaze defiantly. Let him think what he would, but no Jew would break through my defenses.
His face was weathered by the sun, with crinkled laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. And his eyes – I have known many men, but none have ever looked at me as he did. With an effort, I looked away, noticing the road-dust on his feet. He was traveling, then. I was glad, because I would not want to see him look at me like that every day. The village women were bad enough, but this man looked through me, past all the walls I had built to protect myself from pain. I do not think I could have hidden anything from him, even with a lifetime’s practice of hiding what I felt.
His voice was mellow, almost musical, when he asked me for a drink. I sparred with him some, teasing him about a Jew even talking to a Samaritan, never mind asking one for help.
His next words confused me - he spoke of things that cannot exist. Living water, he called it – who has ever heard of such? But to never thirst again… as we talked, I realized he was not speaking of water, but of life and dreams, of eternity. He made it sound like even Samaritans could have this living water, as if even I could have it, if I wanted it. And I wanted it.
Dare I ask for it? Would he laugh at me, the compassion in his eyes changing to scorn? What if I was misunderstanding his meaning? Maybe I was letting my misery overpower my common sense, hearing things that did not really exist. Most men found me desirable; maybe he was another.
I reached out to clasp his hand, forming the invitation in my mind, but the thought was never completed. Instead, I saw again the look in his eyes when I first arrived at the well that morning; the look that had pierced my soul. Despite my defiance, I dropped my eyes. I heard myself speak then, in a voice that did not sound like my own:
“What is this living water? I would like to have some.”
In my mind I was yelling at myself, looking desperately for my anger, needing the protection it gave me, screaming silently to not be a fool, to not be taken in by a mere man, and a Jewish man, at that. But in my heart -- the heart that I had locked away while still a young girl, protecting it as best I could from the pain and disillusions that had stalked me all these years – in my heart, I craved this living water, as I had once craved my mother’s love.
I bowed my head, staring at the ground, amazed at how short our shadows were. How long had we stayed there talking? It felt like only seconds, and at the same time seemed an eternity. Absorbed in my thoughts, still determined to somehow protect myself from the falseness of hope, I was surprised to see water droplets bouncing off the stone edge of the well and splashing in the hard-packed sand. It does not rain in this season, I thought, and then realized they were not raindrops.
The man was speaking to me, and I was so lost in my own battle between hope and misery that I did not at first hear his words. When I did, I knew I had been right to try and crush the hope I had felt.
“Bring your husband,” he said, as if that were an easy thing to do. As if I were one of those other women, those good wives that every village has, and that I despise as much as they despise me. Here was proof yet again that hope is for fools. I could feel Yahweh laughing at the pain in my heart, while my mind raced, seeking escape.
I could tell him the truth, I thought. That would end all this quickly and fairly painlessly – he probably already suspected it, since I came to the well alone instead of with the others. Suspecting is not knowing, I told myself, and if I admit it, he has no choice but to reject me.
It tore my heart to realize I did not want him to reject me. I prided myself on not needing anything from any man, but I had to admit I needed something from this man. I did not understand it, but I could not deny it. He had something I needed, and I did not want him to reject me. What could I say, then? What answer could be safe?
Taking a deep breath, hoping my voice wouldn’t tremble, I replied: “I have no husband.”
A stranger with no knowledge of our village could interpret that as he pleased. I hoped he would think I was widowed, and glanced up at him quickly, tears still lingering on my eyelashes, but he had already seen through all my protective walls. His eyes met mine, and though I tried to look away, I could not. Still holding my gaze, he answered me.
“In truth, you do not,” he said, and I sighed.
This was it, then. I tried again to look away and could not, any more than a bird can look away from the snake about to devour it. I stared into his eyes, feeling more like the doomed bird, searching desperately inside myself for the anger and defiance that had protected me for so long. All I could find was sadness and emptiness, and a craving for love that had never been satisfied.
He went on speaking, describing my life to me. I waited for his expression to change to disgust and hatred as he detailed my shame, but it did not. His voice was as calm as if he was discussing a summer day, but his words were hammers, destroying the protective walls he had already seen through.
All I had hidden was laid bare before this man, yet his face showed only love. He knew me – he knew my past, he knew my present – how could a stranger know all this? Only Yahweh knows our beginnings and ends. Only Yahweh? But Yahweh would be disgusted, like the villagers. He would not look with love at a woman like me, would he? Still holding my gaze, the stranger smiled at me, nodding slightly. Searching his eyes again, I still saw only love.
Something happened then, that I still do not know how to describe. All I can say is that I no longer felt empty, was no longer craving love. Instead, I was feeling love, feeling hope, feeling compassion for those poor women I used to despise. My heart was full to overflowing with the love Yahweh has for his entire creation, and the overflow was leaking out through my eyes, splashing on the stone edging and the packed sand as my emptiness had done earlier. I knew without being told that he had given me what we had talked about, that well of living water that will never go dry.
My past was still my past, but I was no longer trapped in a world of pain and bitterness. His living water flowed within me, rushing through me, cleansing me on the inside, spilling out as laughter even while I wept from joy.
He laughed too, his hands finally clasping mine; not as a lover, but as a friend who would never forget me, never forsake me, never disillusion me. A friend who would always love me, with a love that would outlast his lifetime and mine.
Water jars forgotten, I ran back to the village, shouting my joy for all to hear.
A Man Who was Paralyzed
When Moshe brought the law down from Sinai, the punishment for dishonoring your parents was listed as death. There were many times I wished that had been my punishment, as I lay on my pallet with my face to the wall. Instead I had a broken back to match my broken heart, and another boy's blood on my hands.
No matter who told me otherwise, it was my fault Eli was dead. I was the genius who had planned the prank we played on the Roman soldiers that day. It was my arrogance that refused to admit they might set a trap for us. I shamed my friends into going along with my idea, calling them cowards when they pointed out the flaws in my plan. No boy who is almost a man likes to be thought a coward. So they agreed, and then it all went wrong. Instead of a glorious success against our oppressors, I ended my day with a broken back, a broken heart, and a dead friend.
The soldiers were waiting for us, as my friends had warned me. When they shouted, we scattered, except for Eli. He froze, not reacting as I yelled at him to run. I grabbed his arm and pulled until he staggered after me, finally waking up and matching me stride for stride as we dodged through the streets and alleys of Capernaum. Then he stumbled, almost falling. He danced around, trying to keep his balance, but completed his fall right onto the tip of a Roman sword.
Kneeling beside Eli, I cradled his head in my arms. His blood was collecting in a puddle, turning the dusty street into mud, staining our tunics. His brown eyes looked into mine, puzzled and questioning.