Джон Литтл: The Murder of Jesus Christ

The book felt old. I’m not sure what that even means, whether it was the weight or the crinkles of the paper as I lifted it, or maybe the slight musty smell. Whatever, I was immediately convinced the book had passed through many decades, maybe centuries. There was a word on the cover that I knew must be Hebrew:

“Faith?”

I was worried about damaging the frail book, so I held it on the table while I carefully opened the pages and saw that it was written completely in Hebrew.

I’d never learned to read or write Hebrew. It was one of the few things in life where I know I had disappointed Grandma. She wanted me to learn the Jewish traditions, culture, religion, and philosophies, but none of that interested me when I was a kid. Or now, for that matter. I chose science over religion, any religion. And old Jewish traditions felt like a slice of religion. I wasn’t interested.

The book was hand-written, faded, and ancient. I wondered how it lasted so long. Was it a hundred years old? A thousand? There was nothing I could see to help me know, and I suppose in some ways it didn’t matter. It was a precious gift from my grandmother.

“Where did you get this from, Grandma?”

I couldn’t read any of it, so I closed the book and grabbed another beer from the fridge before looking inside the duo-tang binder.

There I found a forty-page manuscript with the title, “My Life,” written by Ariela Abelman. I flipped quickly through the pages of her autobiography, but didn’t read it in detail. That could wait until after the funeral, when I wouldn’t have hundreds of nit-picks to worry about. I wanted to savor her story when I did read it.

The folder was the last item I hadn’t inspected. I opened it to find a detailed list of Ariela’s finances. It included her most recent bank account statement, the passwords to her online accounts, and a couple dozen bills and other assorted statements.

A cover letter stated that all her bills were paid and current.

Of course they are .

And the last sentence: I cancelled the electricity and cable TV this morning, so you don’t have to worry about those.

Nothing like being prepared .

I looked at her will and was surprised (but maybe not really, because what else was she going to do?) to find that she’d left her estate to me. Taking a quick look at her bank account and other assets, that wouldn’t amount to all that much, but I didn’t care about that. I have a good-paying gig going and have never lacked for anything.

Maybe I’d donate whatever money there was to the Holocaust Museum.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Grandma?”

I could almost feel her pride shining all around me.

Before long, I had finished all six beers she had left for me in the refrigerator, and finished browsing through the items.

Eventually, I realized my eyes were drooping. It was one o’clock in the morning. I fell asleep on the couch, having put aside all flights of fancy regarding time. After all, if nothing else, I was a complete pragmatist, and I didn’t believe in miracles.

I woke in the middle of the night, needing to pee. I really didn’t want to get up, but what can you do? I went to the bathroom and then checked the time: 4:42 a.m.

Shit.

I was wide awake. I splashed a bit of water on my face and stared in the mirror. The image facing me looked a lot older than my twenty-five years. I could see the first touches of gray in my otherwise brown hair. Not that I was the least bit concerned. I try to take care of myself, but I’m not one who worries about what other people think. If my hair goes gray, it goes gray. If my face starts to sag or any other signs of aging come along, it won’t bother me. I’ll do my best to stay healthy and active, and whatever else happens, happens. I want to be comfortable with who I am.

Some of that includes being the best photographer I’m able to be, and in the back of my mind I felt a ticking clock warning me that I’d soon have to get back to working on the photos I’d taken for the launch of the Sagan .

My deadline to National Geographic wasn’t for another week, but I knew I’d have to take time to review, organize, lighten, check backgrounds, and dozens of other details before I could send in the final choices.

I wanted them to be perfect.

At the same time, Grandma’s funeral took top priority. No question.

That funeral was only a day away.

Not surprisingly, Ariela had organized that as well. I wished I’d seen these notes before talking to the funeral home, but nothing much was different than I had chosen. She left me a (very short) list of people who should be notified of her death along with email addresses for each of them. She’d prepaid for a burial plot, and she’d lined up her pall bearers, the rabbi to perform the service, and all the other details. Later, I would call the funeral director to update him on some of her wishes. Pretty much all that was left was to fire off those few emails, so I took care of that while sipping my first coffee of the day.

The sensation that Grandma was nearby was even stronger. I didn’t believe in life after death, of course, but I do know about the power of the human mind and how it fills in holes that needed to be taken care of. It didn’t bother me at all to talk to empty air and seemingly hear answers.

I wanted that link with her to continue, forever.

“You didn’t have a list of flowers for your service, Grandma.” I don’t know why I said that. I knew the drill.

“Flowers are a complete waste of money. We don’t do flowers. They just get thrown in the garbage after the ceremony.”

I wasn’t sure what to say about that. I knew the “we” referred to Jews, but it always seemed like an odd restriction. I suppose it was wasteful, though.

“So, what’s this thing you wrote me about time?”

“Best to just try it. You won’t believe anything I tell you.”

“Probably true.”

“ Definitely true. It would sound like magic because it is magic.”

“So you said. Jewish magic.”

“You got it.”

“Never heard of that.”

“Neither have most people, but that doesn’t make it any less true. How many people know a proton is made of two up quarks and one down quark? Just because it’s not common knowledge doesn’t make it fantasy.”

“Hardly the same thing.”

She didn’t reply to that, making me feel that they were exactly the same thing.

“How would I go about trying it?”

“Concentrate and feel the faith within you. Don’t worry that you think it’s not there. It is. You just hide it. The Shelljah is easily found when you look for it.”

I had no faith at all. Don’t believe in that. I believe in cause and effect. I believe in gravity, and the first law of thermodynamics, and I believe people write their own histories by their actions. I didn’t believe in mysticism.

But I had to try. If my grandmother had given me some weird kind of farewell gift, well, even though it made no sense at all, I had to try it.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I wasn’t quite sure how I was supposed to do this, so I tried to close my mind to everything else.

I’d learned various calming exercises during a photo-shoot in Tibet years ago. They had helped me many times to remove stress. Physiology, not magic.

Eyes closed, thoughts of Ariela moved to the side, no worries, no concerns, just emptiness. Deep breaths, in and out. I thought of the beautiful mountains surrounding Tibet, the peace of the monks, the soft music that had surrounded me there.

I love meditating and made a mental note to not let so much time pass before doing it again. The last time I could remember was when I was going through the tough times with Karen Anderson, who was floating in space, 250 miles above me.