Lars Sveen - Children of God

Reuben tightened his grip on Ruth and dragged her out of the little house. The gray daylight shone in her eyes, and she was about to scream, but Reuben held on to her mouth and hit her on the head. First once, then again, and again.

She came around, and everything was dark. She tried to move, but her head hurt so much. It was difficult to get up, the ground was rolling like she’d seen the sea roll.

“You’re awake,” said a voice.

It was Reuben: he was sitting there next to her. Ruth filled with fear and began scratching at the sand.

“What was it you told me that time?” he said. “You said that I should be good to her.”

She reached up to her head. It was sticky and stung when she touched it.

“I am what I am,” he said. “There’s nothing that can be done about it. But I won’t touch her like that again, I promise.”

“Reuben,” she whispered. Her mouth was so dry, her head was pounding, her feet cold.

“Here,” said Reuben, reaching down toward her. He was holding a small leather canteen in one hand and let the water run into her mouth.

“Thank you,” she murmured, trying to sit up, but she couldn’t. “Am I going to die?” she asked.

Reuben crouched down next to her. “Yes,” he said. “I’m doing this for her.”

“I can’t remember,” said Ruth. “Where’s Anna? What happened?”

“I want you to know that I’m doing this for her,” he said again.

“Take care of her,” she said. “Look after her.”

Reuben said he would.

“I’ll send light,” said Ruth. “If you don’t look after her, I’ll send light.”

Reuben nodded and passed his hand over her face. He let his fingers glide over her forehead and down over her nose and mouth. Ruth felt his warm skin, and she kissed him. She kissed his sticky fingers.

“God is with us,” she whispered, “and he can see us, and God’s love will save us, and I’ll be healed soon. Somebody else will come along, and everything will grow again, and soon you’ll have forgotten who I was, and soon you’ll have forgotten what they did.”

Reuben lifted his hand and stood above her. Ruth closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

We’re near the end, and yet something new is beginning.

When I stutter and get stuck, Naomi doesn’t say anything. She just tries to hold my gaze. But I look away, close my eyes, clench my fists. My whole face tries to be like my hands, trying to grab onto words and throw them out. When I eventually finish, Naomi says, “Jacob, don’t fight against it.” I feel myself going into a rage. What does she know about fighting? What does she know about not being able to say straight out what seems plain and clear?

I try to remember Jesus’s words. I try to remember my father, the way he always sat there, waiting for my words to come, the way he spoke with me. And I try to bring back what I think is my mother, as she appeared to me in a dream, with glowing hands.

We’ve been traveling for a long time, and I’ve become thin. I’ve been scratching myself, along my arms, and down on my feet. Naomi wraps me up and says I shouldn’t scratch. She says I must fight against it, and I tell her I can’t remember what she wants me to fight against, and what I shouldn’t fight against. She calls me a fool but doesn’t let go. She just strokes my face, kisses me, and says it doesn’t matter how I behave.

“I’m still yours,” she says. “We belong together.”

We’re traveling to spread the word of Jesus. People welcome us, but there are also some who are afraid and don’t want to be seen together with us. Lately I’ve been having trouble talking to strangers; I don’t want to call on families or knock on doors anymore. That doesn’t make it easy for Naomi. When she goes alone, few people let her in. A woman without a man, and with a face that makes children hide.

It was Naomi’s suggestion to go to Capernaum. It’s where Jesus stayed when he was in Galilee, and both Peter and Andrew have spoken of how they spent more time in the water than on land when they lived here. A place where we could start over again, Naomi thought. We could meet other people, pray together with them, visit the synagogue where Jesus used to teach. I could get some rest.

When we arrived, I sat there, staring out at the lake, while Naomi looked for somewhere to stay, a place to sleep. I took off my sandals and put my feet in the water. It was like stepping into another world, cold and clean. I remembered how my father always began the day by praying for water to wash in. Every morning, a new start. We were a wealthy family, and my father had close ties to the rulers. Occasionally, when he was with me in his last few years, he mentioned that he didn’t like the way the country was being run. I think he trusted me, I think he knew that I’d do the right thing. When he died, I gave everything away to my brothers. I built a new life based on the model Jesus laid out for me.

Now I’m afraid everything’s falling apart. I don’t have my father’s strengths, I’m not the Master’s chosen one.

Everything changes, everything shifts its shape. I wake up in the morning full of faith, I praise the light coming in everywhere, the new day arriving. And then I lose it; it slips through my fingers, it slips away from me. In the evening, I try to hide, I wrap myself up in blankets, I talk to myself. I try to remember all the good things. Like when my father took me to see Jesus. But more and more often, I think of my journeys up the valley where the river Jabbok runs, into Hananiah’s country. Hananiah comes to me in my sleep, out of a dark, empty cave. His head has shriveled, and another voice rises out of it. It’s Jesus talking from its dark mouth, and I wake up, scratching myself.

There are a number of us here in Capernaum. Some are afraid after what happened to Jesus. Others have had their faith strengthened. There are so many stories going about, stories about his life, about everything he did. But I don’t want to tell them what he meant to me. It doesn’t feel right to talk about it anymore. All these tales, it would take several lives to fit in everything they tell. It won’t be long until we start arguing about what was true. It won’t be long until we make new laws, new rules, to set the boundaries of what’s the right way, the true faith.

We’re staying with a family who own a small house just by the synagogue. Their children aren’t afraid of Naomi: they run around her legs and argue about who gets to sit on her lap when she sings to them. I can easily talk with these little ones, but when I try to speak with the adults, then I start to stutter and get stuck.

Every evening, I sit together with Naomi. She tries to get me talking. She won’t give up, she wants me to say something, say anything, just carry on and not fight against what’s inside me. I tell stories from when I was a child, from when I was with my father. Like the time I decided to run away and live alone up in the mountains. My father spotted me sneaking out of the house. He stopped me and asked where I was going. Then he asked if I had any food with me, if I’d taken something to wrap myself up in when it got cold. I showed him everything I was taking, and he nodded. “Good, that’s good, son,” he said. But how would I find the way? I pointed and told him which way I was going, which route I’d follow. “That’s good, Jacob,” he said. “You’re very thorough.” Then he bent down, lifted me up, kissed me, gave me a hug, and wished me a pleasant journey.

Naomi asks me how far I got before I turned back. I tell her that I didn’t go, I decided I’d rather be with my father, and Naomi laughs.