(Believe what you want about the Bible—my personal belief is that it is the essentially true story of God’s dealing with humanity—but it is a treasure trove of great literature and stories. It’s often sparse on detail (and admittedly often excessive with esoteric minutia) but that’s part of the fun. One of my favorite writing exercises is to fill in those gaping holes by combining my limited cultural knowledge with my overactive imagination to create possible (if not likely) scenarios and profiles.
I’ve done this a few times before in this and my earlier blog. See here and here and here, for example. This time, I’m telling the story of a little known character from the Christmas story, a gentleman named Simeon. You can—and IMHO should—read the original story here.)
I almost didn’t get out of bed that morning. It hurt too much to move, never mind stand up and walk. Every joint in my body screamed for more rest. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had to get up for. At my age, there was no one left to see and nothing I had to do, even if I still had the strength to do it.
People think to live a long life is a blessing. They’re mistaken. It’s a curse. The body weakens until it’s all but useless. Everyone you’ve ever known leaves you, rendering you more and more isolated until finally… you’re completely alone. The last friend I had died last year. I lost my beloved Joanna as she gave birth to Samuel, who, like his older siblings moved far away long ago. Samuel went north to Galilee, to Cana if memory serves, although it doesn’t serve me well these days. Asa, always captivated by the sea without ever having seen it, went to Joppa. He was determined to make his fortune sailing and trading around the Empire. I wonder if he ever achieved that goal. The rest of my surviving offspring migrated to God knows where. They used to visit when they came to Jerusalem for Passover or other other holy days. Over the years, they came less and less, rarely observing those festivals. It pains me to not see them but it hurts more that they’ve drifted away from Jehovah. He’s the only reason I’m still here—still in Jerusalem, yes, but also the reason I continue to live and breath.
In the end, with concerted effort and much groaning, I rose. It wasn’t my will but the Spirit that moved me. Years ago, back when I was a foolish youth with little promise, few prospects, and no hair on my chin, the Ancient of Days revealed to me (of all people!) that, before my time had run out, I would see His Messiah, the Christ, the consolation of all Israel. From that day on, I looked for any sign of His arrival. At first, it was mere curiosity. As I grew older, it became an obsession. Now that my body tells me daily that it has nearly run its course, I wonder if my youthful fantasy was just that. Was it the wishful thinking of a daydreaming boy or a true message from the Lord of Hosts? My faith began to waver but my will never did.
That morning I was inspired like never before to go to the temple. That’s where Jehovah meets us and that’s where I was certain I’d find the fulfillment of the prophecy He’d given me. I sat as always, enduring the whispers, snickers, and slights made at the expense of the poor old fool who thinks God speaks to him as if he were Moses. Does one have to be Moses to have a word from the Lord? I thought not. I hoped not. In spite of my hopes and expectations, the morning passed no differently than any other.
Until they walked by.
…to be continued
Scribbling in the Sand 