Eshtine

excerpt: enjoying the miracle

I nearly forgot this had to be here in December:

I find myself expecting him to die. "Of course," you say. All men die. That is no mystery. It would only be surprising if you expected him to live forever." I mean something more. I know he will die violently, and young. It's what happens to men like him.
And do you know why? Because evil rules this world. It does. I can prove it to you easily. You can be loved by every single person in the world but one, and if that one plunges a knife into your heart you will die. That is how much more powerful the wicked are over the good. All the kind and loving thoughts ever directed to you won't matter, they won't bring you back from the dead. One wicked man is stronger than ten thousand good ones, you may have eleven loyal men by your side--it takes but one to betray you.
Perhaps I am the only one who finds himself thinking this way. From the first moment I realized what sort of greatness he had, I was picturing him gone. It comes to me naturally, now that I have lost a few people. After their deaths I started to think: this could be the last day I spend with my wife, my son. Every small moment of gladness is shot through with tiny grief. It seems better not to get too attached to anybody--least of all to someone as marked for death as he.
And yet I can hardly help it--there is so much in him to wonder at, and to love. I just don't understand how others can take him for granted. They fight among themselves about the most inconsequential matters. All I want to do is stare at his face when he is watching the sunlight flicker on the sea. I will have this memory when he is gone, I think.
I talk well, but of course I have taken him for granted too. I couldn't make it through the day if all I thought of was his leaving. I have to ignore it, be petty to him, be rude, much as I know I'll regret it later. I'll have grief enough when he really is gone without stockpiling it now.
But there are times. This month is the month John died, and what violence that was. I know people who loved him fiercely whose faces are still vacant and lost. I never really knew him, so the paralyzing demoralization didn't touch me, except my heart shuddered when this month came and I was reminded of the anniversary. Superstition, perhaps, but I shook with fear for Jesus all day the day John died, thinking, he will be arrested today; the Baptist's enemies will finish what they started.
There was a man who had just joined the company whose look I did not like. I had long harbored suspicions of him, but apparently Jesus did not--he entrusted this man with the finances of the entire band. It wasn't that I suspected this one was helping himself to the purse as his fee for being in charge of it--though I did. It was more I felt he had another purpose for being in the inner circle, one he told no one of. He was a secretive man, and I have never held much respect for men who cloak their every move with mystery.
I would have kept all this to myself, except...it was the day John had died. Like David says, my heart was wax melting in my chest, though not for fear of my life, but for another's. I was consumed with the belief I had gotten the first inkling of danger, and that Jesus' life might depend on me getting the word to him in time.
At midday I finally called Jesus aside. "I don't trust Judas," I said, as soon as we were out of earshot of anyone else (they were all napping, anyhow--the sun was frightful that day).
"I just called him," he answered. The hem of his sleeve was fraying--he tugged the thread and didn't look at me. "Whether he follows or not is up to him."
"I don't trust him," I repeated.
"I like having people around who disagree with me."
"Jesus--"
"Yes, Nicodemus." He looked straight at me at last. I almost wished he hadn't. "I know. But I count myself lucky. Most men don't know where their death is. I like to keep my death close, to keep an eye on him."
The sun set on that day without incident. I thought, we're both too superstitious, seeing death in every shadow.