Josiah’s been my best friend since birth, or so our mothers say. I don’t remember us crawling in the dust together or toddling through the olive grove while our mothers gathered olives. What I do remember is how he loved trees and climbing, even when we were so tiny.
Just when we were big enough to go off without our mothers right there at our sides, to climb more trees and leap from rock to rock, Josiah caught a fever. For days, it ravaged his six-year-old body and rattled our mothers’ laughter with the tinny sound of tears.
Even after Josiah was blinded by that fever, we’ve always remained the best of friends. He could not see, but he never forgot what he’d once seen. I became his eyes. He became my alertness, asking endless questions.
“Who’s at the well? What are they carrying? What are they wearing? What’s that smell from the fire? Who’s cooking? I smell fish… how many in the net? Who are the fishermen?”
In our village, many have tried to cure Josiah. Some with accusatory prayers. Some with flim-flam potions. Lately, rumors claim there’s a new healer around, a man named Jesus. Seeing Josiah healed is a lifelong hope of mine, even now, as we approach the twenty-fifth year since that fever took his sight. It’s worth hoping, I always say.
Today, I’ve heard that new hope is coming to our town. So I grab Josiah’s hand and shout for Micah and Daniel to join me.
“Let’s go see this healer, this Jesus fellow!”
Josiah laughs. “If only…”
My face turns as red as the sun at dawn over the Galilean Sea. “Sorry,” I sigh.
Josiah holds no grudge.
We three push and pull nimble Josiah through the crowded streets of Bethsaida. Even our usual shortcuts are crawling with people full of so many longings.
There, in the market space, surrounded by half the village, sits an ordinary man. He doesn’t look particularly like a healer. My hope fades, as does my smile.
Then Jesus looks at me. Those eyes: they are deep wells, brighter than the sun dancing on the sea, more full of wonder than the moon’s glow in the still midnight sky. He’s an ordinary man with extraordinary eyes. Eyes that peer beyond my face to my inner depths. They pierce me.
Then He gazes long at Micah and Daniel, who keep their arms protectively on Josiah’s shoulders. Hope rumbles, trying to rise again in me.
Suddenly Jesus’ attention pivots from us. He’s drawn elsewhere. I watch Him touch, ask, invite. I see the crowd surge toward Him, needing more, more, more.
“Please, please, our friend Josiah here…”
Our deep voices are lost in the din. The crowds call as noisily as the birds at the shore, all squawking for attention. We are just a few among so many.
“Hey, hey, now…our friend here…”
Jesus glances our way again, then stands up and stretches. He turns His back toward us and walks away with His disciples.
Yet, as He walks, He suddenly pauses. He looks up toward the feathered clouds, then looks back over His shoulder. The air ripples.
We shout one last time, “Jesus, our friend needs healing.”
Like the gull who is suddenly the only note heard above the cawing chorus, a note sounds deep down; I know we’ve been heard.
Jesus pivots, heads quickly toward Josiah, grabs his hands, and they race past the village gates. He’s leading our friend and us out of the fray, away from the cacophony of the many.
Breathless, Micah, Daniel, and I finally catch up with them. Suddenly, Jesus spews spittle onto Josiah’s eyes, and my anger rises. How dare He allow spit to touch my friend?
Yet Jesus is not stopping, even when I’m pummeling Him with questions.
Jesus touches those long-vacant eyes, slathers thick saliva everywhere.
“Do you see anything?” He says.
Josiah gasps, then chuckles. “Trees? Trees walking?”
Jesus roars with laughter, then mashes Josiah’s face again.
How odd. He spits. He touches. He asks. He laughs.
What is He up to? I can’t see how this is doing Josiah any good.
“Benjamin,” Jesus calls to me, “Benjamin, those scars. They’re from that day at the shore, long ago?”
Now I’m the one gasping.
“Yes.”
Long ago, we’d skipped stones as our fathers fished. Watching them and catching the glare of light off the waves and not paying attention to the rocky shoreline. I tripped and gashed my brow.
Jesus’ eyes meet mine. How did He know about that day, that scar?
Now, Josiah stands, rushes at me, and grabs my hands. “Benjamin, I see you!”
We dance wildly, tears streaming down both of our faces.
Who is this guy? What in the world is going on here? I see my best friend see again.
Micah, Daniel, and Jesus join our crazy swirl. We are dizzy with goodness, dust twirling joy all around us.
Jesus claps us on the back, kisses our cheeks, then waves as He turns again and heads off.
Over His shoulder, He says, “Stay awake. Watch. Be alert. And don’t go into the village.”
A wave of the hand and a grin and He’s headed elsewhere? I want more of whatever this is. I’ve seen hope visible.
“Wait, wait,” I call. “Where are You headed now?”
“Wherever the Wind blows Me. I can’t see the Father’s way until it comes upon Me.”
“Can we come with You?”
He stops and gazes with such love upon each of us, one by one, with those eyes of His.
Then, He beckons us to Him.
“There’s more to it than meets the eye.”
He winks. We follow.
Wouldn’t you?
