Once Upon the Ink

part 1 of 2 – taken from Matthew 14:22-33

The sun is starting to sink behind the hills, sprinkling gold over the green grass and scattering diamonds over the water. In the distance there’s some dark gray clouds tumbling over each other, spilling over the top of a distant mountain in a race to get to us – which makes the gold all the more breathtaking.

I’m standing apart from the rest, watching Jesus as he laughs with someone, clasping their shoulder; as he smiles and with his big, work-roughened hand ruffles the hair of a little tyke staring up at him shyly.

What is it about this man?

It’s a question I ask myself often. I don’t know how he does it, but he answers every single moment of longing inside me with a piece of himself – fills up all the lonely corners of my heart that feel unseen with the sound of his voice.

How does he do it?

How can this relationship I’ve built with him be so true when I’ve never walked beside him, never heard the sound of his voice? When so much of this world says he doesn’t exist or twists him into someone I wouldn’t approach?

Hebrews says he’s the engraved image of God on human flesh, the shining ray of God’s glory. The Greek of the verse conjures pictures of God leaning over and scratching out the secrets of God’s character onto flesh and bone. So we might see God’s self. And there’s so much of God’s self inscribed there that it spills out like light. Like a fairytale come true.

Half the time I’m convinced I’m walking around like Elwood with his imaginary friend Harvey. Making up his company to make myself feel better about life’s boredom, life’s hard parts. (If you don’t know about the movie Harvey you’re missing out).

Lots of days I argue myself into a state of doubt that he’s too good to be true. And yet he captivates me anyway, and he comforts me constantly – reaching out through my imagination straight into my soul. Especially in stories like these ones.

He lived so very long ago – and yet I could swear he senses me here, watching him from a distance. As if time doesn’t really exist to him. Every once in a while his chin almost turns towards me and I get the impression he’s got me in his peripheral vision.

He’s been moving through the crowd for the past half hour, his voice gentle and a little hoarse from talking, his eyes tired as he says his goodbyes. Most of these people he won’t see again on this side of his death. No one really wants to leave, not after being all filled up with awe and good food.

So they linger. As we all do when we’re surprised by the sudden touch of him deep inside our souls. It’s the kind of filling up that happens here and there without our planning or design. Even for those of us who’ve never known his name or recognize his presence. It’s so delightful a feeling – being awake and full of that sense of more – that we inevitably cling to it. Want to soak it in and not walk into the next part of our day where the magic fades into the humdrum.

Jesus already told the others in his group to go ahead, take the boat and find a spot to stay on the other side of this giant lake. He knows they’re tired and that saying goodbye takes a while. But, secretly, he’s wanting to get away on his own. He just learned that John was beheaded. And he’s had no time to grieve the loss of his cousin.

His hands are always in motion, touching a shoulder here, squeezing an elderly hand there, flicking the nose of a giggling toddler, stroking the cheek of a baby. As I watch those hands; rough and used to all kinds of manual work; so gentle and kind, my throat clutches just a little. I know other hands like that – my dad’s and my grandpa’s. Those kinds of hands, scarred and calloused and capable are all the more special when gentleness lives in them.

I don’t know what it is about this story, but it gets me every time. My heart is already squeezing with the enormity of my crush on him. It’s not the miracle he just did that catches my attention, it’s the afterwards – it’s his manner, his voice and his heart. I could just stand here and watch him all day.

His eyes are drifting now and then, to the hills. To the path that stretches out along the shore leading up to them. It’s calling him – that quiet stretch of solitude in the forest. He’s tired. Not just physically, but emotionally too. He’s been giving himself all day, all week. Putting himself in front of hungry crowds, doing what he can to soothe, to heal, to love, to encourage. Working around hypocrisy and doubt and hard walls built for protection. He doesn’t resent it. He doesn’t wish it wasn’t his job or do it out of duty. But he does get weary under the press of it.

When the last of the group is finally disappearing down the road to the distant villages, he turns his lean body, and I wonder, did he eat today? Did he get a drink even? But he isn’t thinking about that now – now he’s being pulled – that homesick longing for his dad welling up, and he heads for the little winding path he’s been eyeing for hours. For the green of the trees and the hill just there that beckons him.

I watch him go, those wide shoulders disappearing into the shadows and I follow him, furtive and quiet. Keeping my distance to give him that quiet balm the land offers those who need it. He’s all talked out and he’s sad about John. He’s weary from the constant pain – all the heartache that keeps piling up on his shoulders from those who live without hope. They call him a man of sorrows; he never skirts the deepest wells of our agony where we lash out at him in our grief, or avoids the blame we throw at him when we can’t figure out why. He stands beside us in the darkest places while we scream for him, blinded by the dark, convinced we’re lost and alone. He watches us hurt each other, hurt ourselves, and he doesn’t turn away.

And my heart is aching, just a little, at the distance – I feel a bit like I’m watching the gladiator – one of those men who takes on the world and takes your breath away doing it. The kind of men that belong in movies and myths or with other people. I don’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders by intruding, so I trail behind him, trying to be considerate. But he turns as I think it, and he reaches out a hand, waiting – he’s had enough of me hanging back.

It’s the one blessing I have from this side of history. To be able to see the fullness of him that the crowd was just getting to glimpse. To know those little slices of his thoughts – that he thinks I give him joy. (Hebrews 12:2) That I – that you and I – are joy for him. That we can be his delight (Isa 62).

I have a hard time believing him most of the time, but he keeps telling me I am a comfort to him. That he wants my company like I want his. He already has access to my soul, to my heart. And I am thankful that he knows he’s loved by me. So I take his hand and walk tucked under his arm. Quiet and content to be near him as he prays to his dad in the solitude.