THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Eighteen

Day Eighteen: Proverbs 13:12

Does hope fail? The wise king Solomon once wrote that delayed hope makes the heart sick, but that a yearning fulfilled is a tree of life.[i] How long can one hope in the face of unrelenting hopelessness? Sleep allows me an escape for a short while…but I have no choice…I wake up every morning…to breathe…to live…the world keeps on turning and I am on it…turning with it, whether I want to or not. 

I hope. I pray. I beseech. I beg. I plead. I crawl. I grovel. I weep. Is God listening? No one listens to me here; save Elizabeth, and she is every bit as hopeless as I am. She cannot relieve my anguish…the pleading in her eyes are as pathetic as mine. 

Is God good? How can my present agony support such a notion? Or is God ultimately cruel and uncaring? His hands tear at my heart ceaselessly. I am distressed beyond all human comprehension…this pain is greater than my greatest fears…there has never been anything in my imaginings or in my nightmares that comes close to the hurt I live with now. 

My child is gone. Will I ever see his face again? Will I ever hear his voice again? Will I ever touch him or hold him again? Am I doomed to think of him in the past tense for ever? How can I think of him in terms of the future? How can I plan anything for him…dream anything for him…wish anything for him? 

Delayed hope…I pray to the one who created everything…all I can see as well as all I cannot see. Is anything too hard for the Lord?[ii] Surely, He Who spoke the sun and moon and stars and earth into being…He who gave Abraham and Sarah a son in spite of the impossibility of such a gift[iii]…surely, He can speak on my behalf and bring my child back to me? Of course He can…but He chooses not to lift a finger. Delayed hope. My heart is sick…and dying…

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[i] Proverbs 13:12

[ii] Jeremiah 32:17, 27

[iii] Genesis 18:14

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Seventeen

Day Seventeen: Psalm 130

I had forgotten what it feels like to smile. It was such a strange and unfamiliar sensation, but not an unwelcome one…a timely reminder that there are some things in life that could and should still elicit a joyful response…some things for which one could be thankful even when the soul was a swirling cesspool of bitterness and a place of shadows.

Elizabeth’s kindness is like a shaft of sunlight that reaches down in the darkness of the pit I am inhabiting at present. Her unconditional love reminds me of every good thing I have believed about the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Is He reaching down into my depths with His love through her? Or is His love perhaps deeper than my sorrow? Is His love below me…ready to go deeper still? 

I have not attended Synagogue services…I cannot. How can I sit with those who love the harshness of the law more than the compassion of grace? Which one of us can stand before a holy God? If He kept a record of our sins, we would all be lost. No, I will not believe that God has rejected my Benjamin…He waits with me. After all, He is the Father of us all.

But what if I am wrong? What if the God we serve is the God of Aaron, the rabbi, and the elders? A God Who is vengeful and wrathful? A cruel or worse…an indifferent dictator who whisks away our joys as quickly as He gives them? Or perhaps He is not at all concerned with the things we hold dear? 

No, that cannot be. I must stop this line of thought. It will be the end of me. It will leave me with nothing to hold onto. As it is, I cling to the cliffside with my fingertips.

Out of the depths of my innermost being, I cry out to Him…and I wait for Him…or perhaps I wait with Him. He is my only hope…there is no one else.

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Sixteen

Day Sixteen: Zechariah 10

Why Springtime? Why choose to leave when there is so much growth and beauty around us? This is the time of flowers…fruit trees and wildflowers everywhere…a mass of pink and white blossoms and of red poppies. A time for harvesting barley in the Jordan valley. The pomegranate blooms profusely. Why now? Perhaps he hoped to leave before the wilting heat of summer or the bitter cold of winter. After the rains, but before the dry hot winds.

But my heart and my mind…they are frozen in perpetual winter. Nothing grows in me save my anguish and my pain. Where is Benjamin now? Is he safe? Is he happy? Is he alive?

Elizabeth continues to be my shadow. Though she speaks but little, she is some comfort to me. She is another soul that longs for what is no longer. In this, we are kindred spirits…more than any other person on the compound. Aaron says nothing when he is in my presence…what do we have to say to each other? Our lives have ground to a halt in what once was, while the days continue to move towards what will be. 

But I do not want Elizabeth with me when I go to the river. There I must be alone…with Benjamin, or what remains of him in my memories. Somehow, I must convince her that I am in no danger of injury…self-inflicted or otherwise.

So, my pacing now expands to the land around the compound walls. We walk among the blossoming trees and under the lofty palms…a walk I used to enjoy in another life. I mindlessly pluck out a weed and immediately feel a stab of regret. I just plucked up a living thing. A weed, yes…regarded as little more than an irritant by some…an unwanted growth. But that is what some think of my Benjamin…my older son and my community, plucked him out of our present, like an unwanted weed. 

THE UNTOLD STORY: Chapter Two: False Reality - Day Fifteen

Chapter Two: False Reality

Day Fifteen:

I am stronger now. My feet still feel heavy and I still tend to shuffle. But I am determined to get to the river, and so I walk…or rather, I pace, like a caged animal, from one end of our compound to the other. Elizabeth follows me like my shadow. Her kindness is beginning to chafe at me, like a too-tight sandal…I feel claustrophobic…like a child being snugly smothered by an overzealous aunt. But I do not wish to injure her…after all, she was Benjamin’s nursemaid.

The heat of the sun stops my pacing. I sit in the shade and consume dates and nuts, seemingly endlessly…my appetite has returned with a ferociousness that has surprized us all. Is it not strange that hope can be revived even in the midst of hopelessness? But why would I will myself to live when I have little to live for? I am startled by that thought. What do I mean “little to live for”? Is that what I have become…a wallowing pool of self-pity? How can grief remove all sense of perspective? It appears to be a bottomless pit of self-absorption…of introspection…but it is there that I find comfort…warmth…and it is there that I find the reason to claw my way back up to the light, fingernail by fingernail.

So I eat…so I pace…I must go down to the river again. That is one place outside of my dreams where I may see him once more. Who said memories cannot be felt? I know I will feel his presence there at the water’s edge. His youth, his vigour, his zest for life…

There I will learn to breathe again…

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Fourteen

Day Fourteen: Psalm 23

I have spent my entire life taking so many things for granted. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob blessed me with a good beginning. I received every blessing with an open hand, stopping only now and then to thank Him for His generosity. Perhaps it was not often enough. Receiving was normative for me and, like the psalmist says, my cup overflowed. Loving parents, a place we called home, a piece of land that provided for our daily needs…and then my beloved Miriam filled a void I was not even aware of before we were married. She was my joy…we overindulged on happiness. And then Aaron was gifted to us…an extraordinary bundle of delight. 

But as the sage once said, God gave and, in my case, He gave liberally…but then He began to take back to Himself the gifts He had given. I had never thought of anything or anyone being temporary, until the night my father died. That was the first time I ever thought of life as a fragile bubble on the surface of a fast moving river…the flow of the water never ceased…it continued to run its course…but the bubble…when the bubble burst it was gone, forever.

That was the first time God took anything out of my hand…but it was not the last. My mother, my beloved Miriam, and now…no, He could not have given us Benjamin only to take him to where I cannot go. Benjamin filled the vacuum left by my parents and my wife…without him there is only an empty void where once their lives had been.

I have closed my hand…I hold on to Benjamin in a tightly clenched fist. I cannot let him be taken away as well. His body still walks on this earth…somewhere…he has not gone into the unenterable hereafter…unenterable for the living, that is. And so I must hold on…if not, every drop of blood will be drained from my veins and I will cease to live. 

I must eat so that I can go to the river…I will find him there…waiting for me.

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Thirteen

Day Thirteen:

I woke with a start. For a moment I did not know where I was. I looked around me. It was dark and I could barely make out the shapes surrounding me. 

I had been dreaming. In my dream I was standing on the bank of the River Jordan…at a spot Benjamin loved to visit frequently as a child. There is a bend in the river and the flow of the water has created a small pool to the one side where you can safely bathe, even when the river is high. Above the pool, a rock overhang partially shields you from the sun…and from the view of travellers on the road. There is a soft, grassy beach where you may sit until your body is dry. 

I was there…we were there…Benjamin and me. His high pitched, delightful squealing echoes on in my mind. It sounds as if it is bouncing off the stone walls of the room. I am there no longer. But it was so real…I could see the light glittering on the drops of water on his skin…I could touch the rock, feel the stones under my bare feet…I could smell the freshness of the wet grass. For a while unreality became reality. If I had reached out, I would have touched him. 

But I looked away for a brief moment. When I looked back, Benjamin was gone. Nothing looked the same…the water looked ominous…the rocks sharp and cold…the grass dry and brittle…the sky dark and foreboding. “Benjamin!” I cried out. My voice dragged me up to the surface of consciousness…into the darkness of my current existence.

There is a light…an oil lamp appears in the crack of the door. “Master.” It is the voice of Elizabeth. She wipes my sweating forehead and ushers me gently back to sleep with a lullaby. 

Today I ate whatever she gave me. I must regain my strength. I need to go to the pool. Soon.

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Twelve

Day Twelve:

My dreams are becoming misty…I have to search to find Benjamin now. But I search and search until I find him…I am afraid I may lose him altogether. Strange…although I cannot always see his face, I can still hear his voice clearly. And his laughter.

I am sleeping more than I ever have in my life. It is a luxury I can afford. There is no reason for me to enter into wakefulness. I am alone in my aloneness. How can anyone enter into my world? I cannot expect them to…neither do I want them to trespass on my sorrow. Besides, why would they want to? Dreams are illusionary…imaginary…the happiness they bring is transitory and all too brief. The mere opening of an eye brings my world to an abrupt stop. It is not a world I would choose to live in for any length of time.

And yet the real world is not a world I want to be in either at present…I don’t want to be in a place where I cannot touch the face of my beloved child…where I cannot speak his name and hear his reply. No, I do not want to be in the real world. But what is real? What is real in my life right now? There is a very fine line between fantasy and reality. Must I cross it? Why must I cross it if it only brings me pain?

Benjamin’s absence is a presence…more of a presence now in his absence than he was in his presence…wherever I go, whether in sleep or in wakefulness…he is not there and yet his not being there is there. Am I going mad? My thoughts continue even when I wish them to stop. I am consumed by Benjamin. It is as if nothing else is important anymore…I am like a man possessed.

And so I sleep…

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Eleven

Day Eleven:

I woke, reluctantly, at noon. Earlier, I thought I heard Aaron instructing the servants to leave me be. But I also heard him say that as soon as I stirred, they ought to clean my room as it stank like a Roman latrine. Did he add that I stank as well? Why is he so unkind…now, when I really need him more than ever before?

I stirred…and the servants filled my room.

Elizabeth found Benjamin’s robe and wanted to wash it. I begged her to leave it hidden. What is happening to me? Never before have I begged anyone for anything…but I have no strength to think about how pathetic I must seem to others. 

They cleaned my room…my floor…my bed things…my soiled clothes. I could hardly wait for them to leave. I wanted to escape into the happier world of my dreams.

No, I did not want anything to eat…but for Elizabeth’s sake I nibbled at a dry crust of bread. It is hard to swallow. Her words are few, but her eyes tell me she understands…and cares. She is never far from me…I have caught her standing in the shadows waiting…waiting for me to give her any indication of need. I will not forget her kindness.

I sleep on…

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Ten

Day Ten:

I heard them before I saw them. They were wailing like professional mourners at a funeral. 
Panic seized me by the throat. Benjamin? 

I rushed to the window. There was a crowd from the city gathered in the courtyard outside Benjamin’s door. There was the Rabbi…and the elders from the gate. They were praying, rocking back and forth. Some had dirt on their heads. I was breathing hard and fast. Why did someone not tell me? But…then I noticed the absence of a body. There was no body. Then it hit me like a boulder in a rockslide. 

My mouth opened to shout out, “No!” But no sound came out of my throat save a wheeze. I watched in horror as Aaron took the clay jar from the Rabbi’s hands.[i] The incessant wailing pierced my heart like a double-edged sword…does a soul bleed? Yes. Yes, it does. My soul was bleeding all over the floor. I heard the crash as the jar hit the ground. I saw the splinters fly into every corner of our compound. I heard the words…cutting off my son…cutting off my Benjamin from our people. They were mourning him dead for selling our land to a Gentile.

I saw him look at me…Aaron looked up at me standing in my window. Then he ushered the crowd out and left. I stood staring at the shards of pottery lying on the ground where Benjamin had walked not too long ago. Each piece was a piece of my heart…they walked over the pieces…they walked over my heart. 

At last I found my voice…but it was not a shout or a scream or even a sob…it was a whisper. “Benjamin,” I sighed. “Benjamin, my Benjamin.” 

I was standing in a puddle. Had I lost control over my bladder? With shame I sat back down on my bed and groaned as a rolled into a ball.

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[i] The act of qesasah, see Bailey, pp 167-168

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Nine

Day Nine:

They woke me to tell me the Rabbi had come to see me. I rose and bathed…why do I feel guilty to admit that it felt good? How can being clean betray his memory? 

I am weak. My breath comes in short gasps and smells foul. I drink a sip of water. Even the slightest movement takes effort. I try hard not to shuffle. A servant hovers at my elbow as I walk out to the courtyard. The sun hurts my eyes, blinding me for a moment. I prefer the darkness to the light as I feel I can hide there in the shadows. 

The Rabbi sits talking with Aaron. He turns to me as I approach. Is that horror I see in his expression? He addresses me…calls me by name. His voice echoes in my head, as if we are standing in the Jordan valley. He takes my hand and leads me to where we can sit together. He is gentle. He talks. He talks about the weather. He talks about the synagogue. He talks about people in the marketplace. He talks about his family. 

“Benjamin,” I say. “Benjamin…say his name.” His face pales and then turns a deep crimson. He seems distressed. He is looking at the ground, tapping my hand with his tense fingers. He mumbles a prayer. He rocks back and forth. He shakes his head. “We do not speak his name,”: he says. I am stunned. Did he hit me between my eyes? Is it blood I taste in my mouth? 

I hear a sound…a roar. I am standing beside the Rabbi. I am shouting. Aaron comes between us. I am shouting, “Get out! Get out! Get off my land!”

Aaron has not spoken to me since then…I am alone in my room. I am alone.

 

A Eulogy for Eldon

I am no expert on grief…I would most certainly not consider myself a grief counsellor. I am a mere participant in this process we call life…I am in the thick and the thin of it all along with the rest of humanity. We are conceived, we are born, we live as best we can, and we die…common denominators between us all. Hopefully, we learn something about the purpose of these events as we move from one end of the spectrum to the other. 

If I have learned anything, it is that life involves suffering…gains become losses…joy ultimately gives way to sorrow. Even the shiniest objects are eventually subject to rust and decay. We all – every human being on this planet – must reach the point where we realise that ‘naked we came from the womb, naked we shall return’. There is nothing here that is eternally removable…nothing we can take with us once we discard the physical entity, we call a body. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…we brought nothing in, we will take nothing out.

In the beginning, the Creator God gave us a perfect world. We screwed it up…we doubted His goodness and wanted more. I ask myself: is that not the universal root of suffering? We somehow believe He has short-changed us…withheld something we desire. And as Adam pointed a finger to his wife and his wife to the snake, so we project out own reluctance to live according to the Creator’s perfect plan onto another…a person or a circumstance…and so we seek to absolve ourselves from all blame. But I believe this attempt at absolution simply adds to our suffering. Rather than relinquish our desire for more, why not submit to a reality of contentment? A life of dependence and trust…this way, suffering becomes a tool in the hand of one who wishes to heal us of our own faults. 

Eldon’s life was certainly filled with suffering. From his earliest days, life appeared to deal him a bad deck…with some cards he played well, with others he folded. He was blessed with many talents…an exceptional intellect and ability and creativity. But I believe it will be his kindness that will live on the longest in the hearts and minds of those who knew him. It will be his gentle spirit that will keep him in the present. In the scheme of things, it is the quality of character that endures…not material things…not achievements…but the attractiveness of the person as a person.

Eldon will live on because of his rare qualities. His legacy is made up with the stuff of memories and moments…not things that are subject to rust or decay. He lives on as one who learned to keep an open hand as, one by one, every dream, every hope, every ambition, was taken from him. He leaves behind no bitterness or resentment or discontent…and so we will remember him as we continue to travel on our own respective journeys. 

The object of life is not accumulation of material or even non-material things…the object of life is submission...the object of life is a confession that God has not withheld His best from us…that we need not desire more than He gives…that all we desire is Him. The goal of this process we call life, is Him. He is the only non-transitory element in our lives. Death ultimately strips us of all we pile onto our existence…and without Him, we enter into eternity with nothing.

And so from death we learn the lesson of life. This earthly period is a training ground…a battle ground…a surgery…a temporary that leads to an eternal. In this, Eldon once more instructs us. Suffering…loss, grief, even despair…each has its purpose. The removal of what we hold dear points us to the goal and purpose of our journey. We are not owners here…we are sojourners…travellers…and the sooner we learn to travel lightly, the happier we will be. 

Eldon has ended his journey…he has walked through the door of the momentary and entered into the great always. 

Rest eternal grant unto him, O Lord…may your gracious and perpetual light shine on him.

Epitaph

This poem is used in the Reformed Jewish liturgy, as an optional reading, before Kaddish

”Every once in a while, a poem or song is so well constructed, so clearly conveys the author's meaning and is so precisely expressive that it becomes something of an anthem. The poem below, Epitaph, was written by Merrit Malloy and as one of those poems, has become a staple of funeral and memorial services…for good reason.”

Epitaph - By Merrit Malloy

When I die

Give what’s left of me away

To children

And old men that wait to die.

And if you need to cry,

Cry for your brother

Walking the street beside you.

And when you need me,

Put your arms

Around anyone

And give them

What you need to give to me.

I want to leave you something,

Something better

Than words

Or sounds.

Look for me

In the people I’ve known

Or loved,

And if you cannot give me away,

At least let me live on in your eyes

And not your mind.

You can love me most

By letting

Hands touch hands,

By letting bodies touch bodies,

And by letting go

Of children

That need to be free.

Love doesn’t die,

People do.

So, when all that’s left of me

Is love,

Give me away.

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Eight

Day Eight:

They told me I must rise from my bed, but I refused. I told them sleep is better than wakefulness. At first, they left me, but they returned and with shaking voices told me Aaron insisted that I rise. I sat up…more for their sake than mine. 

They urged me to wash. Why? What is the point of washing? I am alone. My wife is gone…has been gone for many years. My son…my youngest has gone too…or so they say. My son…my oldest is present and yet absent. We see each other at dinner…and then we hardly speak. He has told me he does not want to hear me speak about Benjamin…so I remain silent. I have nothing else to say as I have nothing but Benjamin on my mind all day and night. I carry him in my heart as I carried him in my arms when he was a defenceless babe. I cannot abandon him now…how can I? If I abandon him, he will cease to exist in my ever shrinking world.

They urged me to eat. I have no appetite. Food cannot fill the emptiness that hangs heavily within me and gnaws at me from within. I have no taste. My tongue feels swollen in my mouth. I drank a sip of water. 

I am clothed…but I feel naked. I feel exposed. More than exposed. I feel like I have been cleaved open with a butcher’s cleaver laying bare the very essence of my being. Those around me turn away…as one would turn away from a person stripped of all dignity. 

I am breathing, but it feels as if I cannot get enough air into my lungs. An enormous, invisible weight seeks to prevent my chest from expanding. 

Will someone not speak his name? Anyone…?

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Seven

Day Seven:

Someone removed my son’s robe during the night, but I found it hidden behind sacks of grain in our storage room. I will keep it with my bedclothes from now on. 

They don’t understand. How can they understand? The smell of his robe keeps him alive. Why is everyone so eager to take him away from me? No one mentions his name in my presence…it is as if he never existed. Have they forgotten his face? His smile? His laugh? Such an infectious laugh. How is it possible for them to extinguish the sparkle in his eyes? 

Has it been a week? A week since I last heard his voice. And yet I still hear him in my ears: “father”. I remember the first time he called me ‘father’. No, not ‘father’. Among the many gurgles and burbles he suddenly said a word I could discern. Abba. Daddy. The more formal ‘father’ came later…once he started attending Hebrew school. Our Rabbi said it was less familiar…that a child should use a more formal word to show respect.

But I was always his Abba…until about a year ago. Benjamin began to call me ‘father’. I always thought it was because of his friends…that perhaps they teased him about being a daddy’s boy. Did I miss something back then? A growing distance between us? 

Now that distance seems immense…a deep ravine that cannot be crossed…except in dreams. And so I sleep…

A Solemn Song for my Brother

There we scattered your cremains

By the small wooden bridge over the Molweni River 

A peaceful resting place for one whose life was mostly an unhappy one

A storm-tossed and turbulent existence

Even from tender childhood

A sad battle between those who should have cared the most

Swords drawn and thrusted

You the major casualty

Bleeding and unattended

Battered by unkind words and gestures

You sought for love and found none until

One who loved you the best came

And robbed you of your loneliness

Giving and expecting nothing but companionship in return

He gifted you the acceptance that bathed your wounds

 

A brilliant mind and creative spirit

Unappreciated and unrewarded

Torn and twisted in the storms

Of family disfunction

Of single-sided friendships

You lost all you had once gained

So many took the blank page you gave

Only to crumple and crush it once they had written their piece in blood

Your blood

You gave they took

You asked they refused

Had he not come and cradled you

Your rejection would have been complete

Your death would have gone unnoticed 

Save for those who would dispose of what remained

But you died cared for loved and mourned

 

We owe him who asks for nothing everything

While you are scattered in the babbling water

He is buried in our hearts

Could one ask for better

A brother lost a brother found

His love for you our love for him

We touch once more through him

He loves as he is loved

The light of Christ illuminated him

Illuminated you

Illuminated us

A sacrificial love from Lamb though lamb

And so we scatter as we reap

 

Now at last you find a secure resting place

In everlasting arms that will never abandon you

You bask in the warmth of a love unbounded

You sink into the acceptance so long denied

And find yourself reconciled 

To one who was there all along

Who held you close in your deepest darkness

Who captured each tear you shed in despair

Who embraced you in your terror of desertion

Who pieced you together after each devastation

Who gave you more than the life you relinquished at your departure

So rest in Him now my beloved brother

My tears shed for you are selfish

I would not wish you to return from the bosom you now lie in.

 

Joseph Eldon Swallow: December 2, 1945 – October 12, 2020

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Six

Day Six: 

They say this is my new reality…Aaron said last night that I must accept the truth as fact. That Benjamin is gone…that he would not return…that he had burned his bridges by selling my land…his land…to a Gentile. That I should mourn him as dead.

Dead? How can I mourn the living? 

How can I mourn him as dead when I can still see him in my mind…when I can still hear him in my soul? I sit in his house…waiting. Surely, he will return and tell me that none of what they say is factual. Or I will awaken from this nightmare…that is it! I am dreaming a terrible dream. Was it something I had eaten…something I drank? 

But no…this can’t be a dream. When I sleep, I dream of happy times…I dream of Benjamin…I dream we are together, walking and talking…laughing. Then I wake to find that I enter an unreal world. No, it is not a dream.

Some things are exactly as they have always been. The sky is blue. The stones of my home are various shades of brown. The grass is still green. The poppies in the field are still red. The same and yet not the same. There is a flatness…an emptiness…everything is dull. Nothing sounds the same…even the cheerful singing of our workers in the fields sounds like a dirge. Nothing tastes the same…everything is bland, and the spice has gone out of life. Nothing feels the same…nothing smells the same, except the robe still hanging in Benjamin’s house…I can still smell my son.

THE UNTOLD STORY: Day Five

Day Five:

I am dead…surely, I am dead. I lay in bed this morning staring at the ceiling. Was I still in this world? Then why did I feel nothing? I blinked…opened and closed my eyes…dark, light, dark, light…in time with my pulse. My pulse…

No. No, I am not dead. I am sure I am very much alive. If I were dead, I think my heart would no longer be beating…nor aching. No, I am not dead…I am simply living in my grave. My tears wash the ink from the page as I attempt to scratch out the words.

I recall: my heart – my child – my son – or, at least the younger one – he asked for his inheritance. I gave it…I gave it all. I divided all I had between the two of them…two shares for the elder and one for the younger, according to the law. I was quite prepared to live as a dead man in my own home. All I have is now theirs…I will simply live off the proceeds, like a parasite on a tree. 

But now…now…O God in Heaven, is it really true?

My body is still on this earth, but am I still alive? I am still here, but he is gone. Aaron is still here, but he might as well not be…he is avoiding me. He is disturbed by my anguish. Even the servants scatter when they see me coming.

At first, I was deeply offended – no, wounded. Like someone had shoved his arm down my throat, ripped out my heart, trampled it in the dust, and then discarded it on some trash heap. Now, I live without my heart. Alive, yet not alive…

THE UNTOLD STORY: DAY FOUR

Day Four:

I woke this morning calling out his name. Benjamin! I scrambled out of bed and rushed to his house on the other side of the compound. I startled the chickens and set the geese off honking. I burst through the door, but the room was still empty…the same as it had been yesterday. Nothing had been moved…everything was as he had left it. I could still sense his presence…the smell of my son yet clung to the few possessions remaining. My mind told me he was no longer here, but my heart still cried out his name. Why did he not answer?

There was a voice calling my name…but it was not Benjamin’s voice. No, it was Aaron. His voice was harsh…cutting. But he was not calling me…he was calling the servants to bring me back. They stood silent at the door. I looked at them stupidly…like a lost and frightened sheep. They looked back at me…were they embarrassed? Their eyes showed bewilderment…as it they did not know how to react in the presence of raw grief. I mumbled something about Benjamin…I think I asked them where he was. Were those tears rolling down their cheeks? 

I patted the one on the hand…who was that? Elizabeth? She seemed so distraught. I remember telling her not to weep. Benjamin was probably detained somewhere…or perhaps he was in the fields already. But I only succeeded in making matters worse…she shook as she cried, trying, though her sobs, to redirect me to my room.

I let them lead me back to my house…they were so gentle. Where was Aaron? He had already left, they told me. Yes, yes, I replied…he must tend the fields…his fields. His fields, not mine any longer. It was then that I began to wail. The servants fled.

THE UNTOLD STORY: DAY THREE

Day Three:

I remember the day Benjamin was born. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry…I was torn in two. My Miriam, gone forever from my side, but in my arms, a living object in whom a sliver of Miriam lived on. And I thought; this is a soul I will love and protect desperately for as long as I breathe. 

Today, I remember those conflicting emotions with renewed pain. Like my Miriam, Benjamin is gone…where I do not know. Travellers from Galilee…members of my family who know him well…they have confirmed that they met him on the way north. They say he did not talk much with them…that he seemed to be in a great hurry…excited and yet tense. Did he think I would pursue him, like Laban pursued Jacob?

The new owner came to take possession of the land today…or at least his representative. There was nothing I could do…his papers were all in order and legal. Besides, he had brought witnesses with him…perhaps expecting resistance. But I have no desire to resist anything or anyone. My life has been drained from me…I feel as if Miriam has died once again.

The Holy Scriptures tell us that the Lord was once sorry that He had made man[i]…He was grieved in His heart…just as I am. But I am not sorry I made Benjamin. I would not exchange one precious moment with my son for anything this world may offer…not land…not possessions…I’d rather have my son than all the riches the world has to offer.

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[i] Genesis 6:6

THE UNTOLD STORY: Part One - Chapter One - Day Two

Day Two:

I can hardly breathe. My mouth is dry and my body aches. When last did I weep with such bitterness in my soul? Was it when the angels gathered Miriam to God? I could not breathe then either. My throat is burning…was I screaming? I surely cannot speak…I have no words.

I went into the city to clear up this misunderstanding…this untruth about my Benjamin. My ears heard words…with my mind I comprehended what was said…but my heart remains deaf. How can I believe what they told me…how can I believe what I am not willing to accept? 

They told me that what we had heard was true. Benjamin has sold his inheritance to a non-Jew…a Gentile. Some spat on the ground when I spoke his name. One even spat at me. Others refused to even speak his name. But I will not believe this until I hear it from his own mouth…when he comes home. No one seems to know where he is at present…some say he has left…left for a faraway land…they claim he told them he would go. But my Benjamin would not leave without saying goodbye. 

Thoughts on Grief

 As I read through books like Lewis' "A Grief Observed" and Sandberg's "Option B" and Broadbent's "We Need to Talk About Grief", I am struck by the fact that, in one sense I am trying to write about something deep and intense which I have never really experienced myself. 

Have I known grief? Yes. Yes, I have. The grief of losing beloved pets, grandparents, parents, and friends...some very traumatically. So grief as an emotion is not totally unknown to me.

Then there was the grief of leaving and entering the lives of those we have known. Moving from one home to another, or from one country to another was certainly a grieving process. When our sons left home to attend college...that was grief in a sense. When they got married...left us to cleave to their beloved spouse...that was grief in another sense. A detachment of sorts that was very painful at the time.

But the grief I am attempting to describe...to address in this book about the father of the prodigals...I've never experienced anything like that. His wife's death during the birth of the younger son...I have no idea what that is like and, to be perfectly honest, I am thankful I have never had to deal with that kind of devastation. But to have that very same son betray him...leave him without saying goodbye...stay gone without so much as a letter...that is totally beyond my comprehension.

So, I am stealing the grief of others to write these journal entries?

Am I a hypocrite?

Or am I taking the experience of others and collecting them in some form of memorial to them and their bravery? 

Some of the stories I read almost unravels me completely...how do people survive? How to they breath much less rise every morning to face the agony and lonely emptiness?

But I write on...perhaps at the end of it all, I will understand what is not understandable...

The Untold Story: Part One - Chapter One: Shock - Day One

PART ONE: Devastation

Chapter One: Shock

Day One:

I cannot believe it. I will not believe it. Not my Benjamin.  Not my beloved son. There must be some mistake…or some vicious person spreading lies and gossip. Benjamin would never have done something so wicked…so cruel. He would never have brought such shame on our family. He would never have sold his inheritance to the henchmen of Herod.[i] Herod has been after my land for years because of the date palms and the balsam trees. Selling the land to that man would be like slapping me in my face in public…like dancing on my, as yet, undug grave. Herod is not one of us…he is not a Jew even though he claims to be. Marrying the Hasmonean princess, Mariamne, fooled no one.[ii] So selling our land to Herod is like selling our land to a Gentile…and no Gentile will honour the laws of the Jubilee year.[iii]

Aaron is furious. We were together in the field when we received the evil tidings. He thinks the worst of his brother. He openly raged against me, telling me that this was my doing…that I could have prevented this, had I not given in to Benjamin’s persistent pleading. I was appalled by the manner in which he addressed me. That I would live to see the day when my son would speak to me in such a disrespectful way. Even the workers were ashamed for my sake. 

No, this has to be a misunderstanding. I will go at once into the city to hear first-hand what has taken place. I will hear the truth from the elders in the gate and they will help me to expose this boldfaced falsehood. 

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[i] This is pure fiction. However Mark Antony did give, as a gift, a tract of land in Jericho to Cleopatra, rich with palm and balsam trees. See https://www.itsgila.com/headlinerscleo.htm

[ii] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mariamne_I

[iii] “A non-Jew is not bound by the laws of the Jubilee year. Thus, the sale of land to a non-Jew is by definition a sale in perpetuity, and this is what the Torah prohibits.” https://www.etzion.org.il/en/selling-land-perpetuity

THE UNTOLD STORY: Preamble

Preamble:

It was a strange request, yet not completely unfamiliar. Others have been known to make the same request of their fathers in the past…that is why the rabbis refined the law…to help set the necessary limits and boundaries.[i] But it was a request usually made under very different circumstances. I was in no mind to remarry and so the estate was not in danger of being given to anyone save my two sons. And yet he asked for his share…the share to come to him once I was no more. If I have a grievous fault, I confess that it is that I have never denied him anything…unless the denial was intended to prevent harm. My Benjamin – my little Benjamin. On his arrival into this world, my beloved Miriam departed. I poured my grief and despair into that tiny little boy. No, not my grief…not my despair. That is not correct. My love. The love I would have divided between him and his mother, I gave it all to him. No, I do not believe that I neglected Aaron, although he has often indicated that he thought I loved him less. It is possible to love in equal measure, and yet to love in a distinctive manner.

And so I gave him his share…his part of the estate. I inserted the words, “from today and after my death” to make my sons the legal owners of what would have been theirs at my death, but also to guarantee that, according to the law, I am entitled to the proceeds of the land for as long as I live. I cannot sell it, even if I wanted to. Of course, he may sell it, if he so chooses, but the buyer will then be required to wait until my decease before taking ownership. Unless he sells it to a…no, he would never sell the land to a Gentile. Not my Benjamin. That would effectively cut him off from us forever…from us as a family and from his community…his people…Israel. He would be considered dead to us.[ii] The land was given to us by God, and we must not despise His gifts to us as a people. So much of it has already been taken away from us by the Romans and the Herods.

At first Aaron did not wish to so much as speak about the arrangements, but he later agreed to meet with the elders in the gate. We wrote up a contract and exchanged sandals, as is our custom here. Aaron received two thirds of the estate as the elder son, and Benjamin one third. I would have divided the land equally, but that is not how it is done.[iii]

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[i] Tractate Baba Bathra, see Everyman’s Talmud: The Major Teachings of the Rabbinic Sages, 343-345. See also: https://scholarship.law.ufl.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1753&context=facultypub

[ii] This may be the reason why the father says to the older brother in verse 32, “your brother was dead and is alive again”.

[iii] Deuteronomy 21:17

The Untold Story: The Journal of the Father of the Lost Sons

 I am currently working on what may become a year long devotional of grief. I was asked to explore the thoughts of the father of the prodigal sons...not the original intention of Jesus parable, but an interesting journey into the depths of feeling a parent may experience when their beloved children either die or fall by the proverbial wayside. 

To be honest, I do not have experience of this...my two sons have been a blessing to us and continue to provide us with joy and cause for (the right kind of) pride, especially now that they are parents themselves. We had our moments, like any parent and child, but we never had cause to grieve deeply.

So this is based on the experiences of others...those who have experienced trauma and sorrow...and is, as such, a gathering of emotions of people from all over the world. The only constant is the reality of loss and a struggle to survive.

This is my Table of Contents...I have used categories taken from books on the subject of mourning as a process, but, as the authors all admit, these phases can not be applied rigidly, I have broadened them and blurred the lines between them.

Preamble:

PART ONE: Devastation

Chapter One: Shock

Chapter Two: False Reality

PART TWO: Deliberation

Chapter Three: Questions

Chapter Four: Fear and Fantasy

PART THREE: Destination

Chapter Five: Cresting the Crisis

Chapter Six: Embracing Hope