Traveler’S Tale—Third Book: Amendings

By Roger Fiola

Travelers Tale is an adventure series. A contemporary man, Jack Castro, feels that something is missing from his successful business and family life as he enters middle age. Although living on the idyllic central coast of California should be enough, he senses something more awaiting him. Several triggering events spur him suddenly and deeply into the first-century Levant, where a mysterious and beautiful guide leads him into direct encounters with the holiest and the unholiest of biblical characters.

In the face of these experiences, or what he believes are true experiences, Jack discovers the traveler that he is. This catalyzes profound changes in himchanges that cannot be reversed or even stopped. Th rough them, he understands the revelation of God to him and how he is a manifestation of that revelation. He becomes the hollow instrument through which God plays His music into the world.

In this this third book, Traveler walks the road to Calvary with Yeshua, the man later called Jesus. Through his participation with the disciples in the profound and horrific events of the Passion, he finds God permits him to enter the very mind of Christ.

Travelers Tale is a readable spiritual series using a page-turning narrative to inspire the Divine mystical experience possible for every man and woman.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546201793

Roger Fiola

Roger Fiola is a prolific spiritual writer and a businessman. The Traveler’s Tale series is his first published opus with this being the fourth book. He is a survivor of cancer and a heart attack. Both life challenges inform his days and work. A lifelong seeker, he primarily uses the spiritual vocabulary of the Christian mystics and modern contemplatives. Mr. Fiola has studied and practiced the Ignatian spiritual tradition of Roman Catholicism as well as several non-Christian disciplines. He has served on various religious boards, and formerly was an international trustee serving the NGO, Religions for Peace. This series began as an effort to give his children and his descendants a storied window into his faith. With the combination of radical fundamentalism in most religions and many young people opting out of the formal practice of religion and even spirituality, he believes this era languishes, struggling with a malnourishment of the soul. Yet, he also believes it to be the prelude of an exciting rebirth of spirit in the human experience. As a testament to these beliefs, Mr. Fiola chose to craft an engaging and relatable way to show how accessible and rich the Divine Encounter truly is. He continues that effort with his fifth volume. The author and his wife of over thirty years live on the central coast of California.

Book preview

Traveler’s Tale

Third Book

Amendings

Continuing One Man’s Adventure into

the Mind of Christ

A Narrative Series   by   Roger Fiola

45833.png

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2017 Roger Fiola. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/12/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0180-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0181-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-0179-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017911640

Print information available on the last page.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover: Detail of 18th century Mexican painting Mother of Sorrows. Reprinted with permission of Carmel Mission Basilica Parish, Carmel-by-the Sea, California

Contents

Curtain up…

Preface

Acknowledgments

Before We Get Going…

PART I

INTO THE LEOPARD’S LAIR

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

PART II

IN THE GARDEN OF GRIEF

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

PART III

IN THE PALACE AND UPON THE HILL CALLED SKULL

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Appendix 1:Dramatis Personae

Appendix 2:Glossary

About the Author

About the Series

46703.png

To Andrew and Alexandra,

For their faith in this very earthly father,

and for the light and love they give me.

46705.png

Curtain up…

47939.png

[Stage Direction: Jesus on the cross]

MARY: Alas, for my sweet son, I say, that doleful, to death is thus done.

Alas, for full lovely he lay in my womb, this worthiest one.

Alas, that I should see my son, my son, once so seemly to see.

Alas, that this bright blossom untruly is tugged to that tree.

Alas! My lord, my lief,(happiness) with full great grief, hangs like a thief.

Alas, he did never trespass.

JESUS: Woman, away with your weeping.

For me, you may nothing amend.

My father’s will I am working,

For mankind, my body I bend.

—The Butchers’ Play: The Death of Christ, a mystery play (#36) of the York Pageant (ca. AD 1400’s)

Preface

47941.png

T his third book in the Traveler’s Tale series is another work of fiction and, like the preceding two volumes, it is about encountering and connecting with the interior experience of the divine within each of us. I call this book Amendings.

While it is based on historical facts and is respectful of the Hebrew and Grecian context of Jesus’s life and the nascent church, the series is not another opus on the historical Jesus. There are libraries full of fine, scholarly books that deal with that subject.

Some exchanges, events, and sequences in these pages are the products of imagination, included in the hope that they move the narrative toward an end that ultimately serves the lessons of Scripture. But mostly, this is the story of one man’s encounter with God and the changes it made in his life. The man is Traveler. He is everyman and everywoman, perhaps even including Yeshua, the human being we call Jesus. The historical references and research serve to provide a backdrop, scenery for the mystery play of our own salvation.

If you, the Reader remember this, then perhaps you will be able to move through Traveler’s story with the right mindset, not questioning whether this or that scene is possible or really took place but instead asking what lesson or understanding is trying to reach you through that scene.

If a passage is particularly unsettling, put the book down and reflect upon it. What does the disturbance feel like? How would your heart or mind change if this truly happened?

This is not a book of facts but one that uses some facts to bring you to a richer connection with the divine, a connection that I believe exists naturally in each of us.

It could also be expressed as the connection of love.

Okay. Let’s begin once more with that imaginary bow between us. Like two monks who meet on a dusty Himalayan trail, we greet one another, hands folded together prayerfully as we exchange a soundless greeting.

"Namaste!"

The God in me reverences the God in you!

Roger Fiola

Carmel, California

Good Friday, 2017

Acknowledgments

47943.png

T his series is the result of a suggestion by my spiritual director, Sister Lorita Moffat, on February 4, 2011. It grew from a spiritual exercise into these books, inspired by many spiritual teachers over the years, among them Saint Ignatius, especially from his Spiritual Exercises ; Judge Francisco Firmat, who led me through them the first time; Francis of Assisi, Duns Scotus, Fr. Richard Rohr; Fr. Thomas Keating; and Eckhart Tolle. One of my mentors, Caroline Myss, encouraged me and led me to the awesome talents of Ellen Gunter, who helped me fashion the narrative form of these books. Thanks also to James Finley for his sage advice and beautiful approach to the understanding and experience of the Christian contemplative, and for his insights into the mystics.

I am ever grateful for the advice of Bruce Chilton, especially for his perspectives on the historical Jesus. I sought his guidance, which led me to Charlotte Heltai, whose scholarly research helped make the settings and historical context of the first book and thus, those that follow, more realistic. I am also appreciative of the editorial gifts of Tony Seton and Jules Hart as well as to the staff at Authorhouse, who printed these many words so beautifully.

Thanks to Maria Canavarro for meeting with me weekly, giving me her frank analysis, while encouraging me to continue this sacred pilgrimage. For her equestrian input, my thanks also to Christine Sandera of Carmel. Also, deep appreciation to the Sperry family at whose home I wrote a substantial part of this and the following book in the series.

Finally, continuing gratitude to Laney, my wife, and my children, Alexandra, and Andrew, who gave me their suggestions but, more importantly, gave me the space alone in the early hours of the morning so that, in peace, I could witness the Spirit coming to me and gracing me to write these many words.

Before We Get Going…

47945.png

T here is a clever architecture to this book and series. If you have not read the first two books, although recommended, then good news! You can start here. The first two books are synopsized in the opening chapters of this volume.

The purpose of these novels is to bring the reader into a more direct experience of the Divine that is possible in each of us, whether Christian, Hindu, Jew, or Moslem—and especially Buddhist, which embraces all religions and no religion. When Jesus (Yeshua) said, I am the Way, he meant it. He’s an avenue, oftentimes a narrow path, but anyone can find God or what we name as God through him. They can use the spiritual vocabulary of Christianity or not. What we decide to use as a pointer at the moon is up to each of us. It is as if he were saying, It’s not about me, it’s about what happens to you through me and through what I show you. Call it the Kingdom, call it heaven, call it love, you choose the word; he’s here to lead us, steer us back when we head off course, and pick up the pieces when our world falls apart.

So, I used the Aramaic names for each of the characters. Jesus, Peter, and James were never called those names. They were Yeshua, Kefah and Yakov. For your convenience, I have included a Dramatis Personae (after all, this is a type of mystery play in the tradition of the medieval plays that instructed the illiterate faithful in England), and a glossary of terms and places, at the end of the book. This device is to remove the twenty centuries of churchiness and theology laid upon these simple but incredible human beings. I want you to meet them as I did, fresh, personal, no other story attached except that they are seeking as Traveler is seeking and as we are seeking the Great Divine continuously being revealed in our opened hearts.

The Aramaic word for heart, lebak, means not only the organ but how that which is us moves from the inside out into the world. Our being-ness.

There are four books in this series: The first, Discoverings, dealt with the discovery by Yeshua about who he was; the second, Openings, dealt with how he moved into the hearts and minds of his people through preaching and healing. This third book, Amendings, takes Traveler through the mystery of Yeshua’s last days, his passion and death. The final volume, Returnings, will deal with what follows that death and how it impacts all those who loved him and Traveler—and all of us who just love.

PART I

INTO THE LEOPARD’S LAIR

As the wind loves to call things to dance,

May your gravity be lightened by grace.

—John O’Donahue, Equilibrium: A Blessing, (AD 2008)

Map1.jpg

MAP 1 FIRST CENTURY MEDITERRANEAN

Map2.jpg

MAP 2 FIRST CENTURY PALESTINE

Mary_.jpg

Chapter 1

47949.png

AD 2013 and the fifth year of the presidency of Barack Obama and the first of the Roman pontificate of Francis,

A cottage on the grounds of the Monastery of the Angel, Big Sur, California

C rash!

Jesus! I shout reflexively. From the plaster wall, we see a wooden icon of the Madonna and Child suddenly free-fall from its sturdy hook. A hard landing on the cottage’s Spanish tile floor splits it cleanly in half.

Startled, Father Abbot jumps. As does Sheriff Noah Davison. His considerable frame jerks sideways toward the wall, automatically placing his hand on the holster. He’s still a little shaky from the thick oak bough falling outside a moment earlier. It sideswiped his patrol car, just missing him. His aunt, Gramma Fontaine, is cool, steady; only her neatly-bunned gray head pivots in the direction of the accident. She remains standing, copper-skinned, bony hands clasping the straps of her shiny, orange-brown purse in front of her, no register of surprise. Instead, she regards the broken icon with a slightly satisfied look—as if this might be the appropriate end to another piece of papist idolatry. Yesterday, Sharon, my wife, and I had hung it securely on the living room wall of our small cottage on the grounds of the monastery.

Jack, did you do that? Sharon asks. I look out the window briefly at the morning view of the ocean. A stationary cloud that had hung like a portent throughout breakfast moved overhead a few moments earlier and dropped some rain. An anointing. An unseasonal wind now pushes it toward the mountains behind us and brilliant sunlight dapples the ocean mosaic, dazzling blues, and luminescent greens.

No. Well, I don’t know actually, I say remembering the oak bough suddenly crashing down, Could be something else.

Gramma’s pale brown eyes snap to mine as if I’m on to something. There’s a strange chemistry of elements at play this morning with the unmoving cloud followed by the unexpected arrival of this petite and properly dressed lady. She rode from rural Mississippi on a bus for over two thousand miles to meet me but, having arrived here, didn’t want to enter our house immediately, not until she was ready. Gramma, whose full name is Doctor Helena Laprairie Fontaine, earned her doctorate in divinity from a Jackson seminary at the youthful age of sixty; she seems to possess the same measured sense of timing as did Yeshua and Miramee. She’s amazing, this eighty-nine-year-old African American who’s lived below the poverty level her whole life and still has accomplished so much. Our eyes turn to Sharon who limberly bends down, scooping up the two pieces.

Look, it split right down the middle, separating poor Mother Mary from the baby. She carefully examines the Madonna, a stylized rendering of the person who, two thousand years ago, asked me to call her Eema, the equivalent of Mom in Aramaic.

She looks so sad, like she knew…even then, Sharon says.

Gramma and Sheriff Noah stand waiting respectfully as she pieces the two wooden halves back together. The break is clean, the line barely noticeable. She shows it to the tan Father Abbot. He nods slowly, white teeth gleaming in a cinematic grin.

One of the brothers wrote this icon last week, I say to Noah. You write an icon rather than paint it.

Noah inclines his head politely. A firm Baptist, I’m sure he’s wondering what the fuss is over a graven image.

He just has to glue it and it’ll mend perfectly, Sharon says decisively, setting it on a simple wooden table with great tenderness. She smiles, satisfied that the artist-monk could reunite Baby Jesus with his mother again.

Amending, I say, mostly to myself.

"Amen-ding," Gramma repeats with a different emphasis.

Turning to her, I introduce her to Sharon. Gramma glances a brief smile in her direction and then her eyes narrow as she stares at my bandaged wrists.

Okay, lady, the whole world knows I have the stigmata wounds in both wrists and ankles.

They’ve bled several times, mostly in the mental hospital, always unexpectedly and spontaneously, always when experiencing a powerful emotion—but I haven’t had a manifestation for a long time now. Videos of me bleeding at my mother’s funeral Mass in Carmel three years ago had streamed virally throughout the inhabited world. They’re still out there in cyberspace so I live with this questionable honor daily. The wounds were inconvenient, pretty painful, yet they brought doctors and psychologists abundant joy as they put me under the microscope. So far, there’s no satisfactory medical explanation. Psychologically, most practitioners find my case intriguing but, regardless of how lucid I am most of the time, they consider me quite… well, nuts.

But I’m not.

The stories we human beings live by make up our operating systems, inform our world. People like me are always considered insane if our stories don’t match the operating system narratives shared by the majority, which, let’s face it, are equally as crazy—just socially acceptable—for now anyway. Grabbing some chairs from the kitchenette, I invite them all to sit.

My apologies, but I must return to my duties right now, Father Abbot says, then picks up the icon, but I will take this and ensure it is properly repaired.

Oh, thank you, Abbott! Sharon says as he moves toward the door. The sheriff’s radio cracks out a command for Noah and he responds to the code and gives us a helpless look.

I was off duty but they’re calling me in, he says. Sorry Gramma, I’ll have to bring you back later.

I came two thousand miles and I’m stayin’ put, she says as she sits down on one of the dinette chairs, keeping her back straight, crossing her slim ankles, and plopping the purse on her lap like it was a boulder securing her to that seat.

Gramma, now come on, he says, but the woman sits eyes front and jaw set.

Oh, it’s okay, Noah, Sharon to the rescue, We’d love it if she’d stay here with us until you return.

That was gracious, but I knew half-hearted.

The call is in Monterey. That’s a three-hour round trip not including the call. Noah scans both our faces to discern sincerity versus politeness. I nod my sure-why-not. How much trouble can this prim old lady be? Besides, I feel like something’s up with her, something that intrigues me, like we have business together.

It’s fine. Really, Sharon says, We’ll all get along perfectly. Just go. Noah steps closer to the door.

Gramma, I’ll be back later. Are you sure you want to stay here with these good people?

No fussin’ over me now. Y’all go to work, Noah. I’ll be fine as the woman says. Now, shoo!

I like her voice. It has a melodic quality combined with the rhythm or meter of her speech, which makes it remarkable. It reminds me of Miramee’s voice. The pain from my hands knifes through all of me and as I sit down, I rub my left bandaged wrist. A little concerned, I haven’t felt these sensations for a long time. Noah leaves, a bit reluctantly, and Sharon shuts the door. Who am I that this matriarch feels compelled to travel so far just to see me, making herself stay in a stranger’s home without the support of her nephew? Invisible forces seem to surround us and I feel as if we three are like a trinity of sorts, plugged in, completing a circuit of energy. Like those small, dried oak leaves scratching on the concrete porch outside, swirling around in an eddy of breeze, all this appears random, unpredictable. But I know it’s not and feel caught up like the leaves, necessarily riding along until the powerful, invisible wind finishes with me, brings me to rest where I need to be.

Sharon opens a window nearest our kitchen garden. The short rain earlier brings the scent of herbs into the room. They’re already thriving in these first days of spring and the fragrance of rosemary wafts in.

I saw a movie of you bleedin’ in the Catholic church at your po’ mother’s funeral. Ev’ryone in Indianola did. The whole South, the whole world did. Y’all know that. They was callin’ you Saint Jack back then. Ha! Funny. You bleed and you’re rich and white and you a saint all of sudden like.

Nice recap but what does she want?

I’m gettin’ there, son. My, my, you’re impatient for a saint!

Sharon looks quizzically at her then at me. I can almost hear her asking, What the hell is this all about?

"Yessir, the whole world was goin’ nutty about it. We heard they stuck you in a crazy hospital somewhere in Los Angelees."

They did. And now we live here. In peace, Gramma, I say. We don’t need anyone shaking things up. Sharon and I already know our story.

You act like you can tuck it away somewhere in the basement of your life, she chides, What’s the matter with y’all? She stares at me, hazel eyes aflame.

A fascinating presence. Sharon glances at me, knowing that I don’t take that tone well.

You knooww, Sharon says slowly, I think I’ll go for a walk and let you two talk.

It’s cool really and I know, with her natural antenna, she understands that there’s something happening even if she can’t put her finger on it. She’ll open the sacred space for it by leaving us alone for a while. She makes a quiet exit, looking at me as she leaves, shooting me the Be Careful glance.

The door latch clicks shut.

You should know by now. It continues forever, Traveler-Man, she says with some sadness in her voice. Long after these tired bodies go into the ground. It never stops, what we must do. The Lord’s never done with ya, once he calls y’all by name!

Her accent has changed to Southern-Lite.

What about resting in peace, Gramma? Is there no rest in Heaven after these bodies go into the ground as you say?

Resting and Working and Laughing and Dancing in Peace is more like it. Just resting means nothing if you don’t do something between the resting. Our God is the God that moves then rests, then moves then rests, over and over. We’re Him and He’s us, so we move and rest, and move and rest, just like Him. That is how we have our Being. We are just like Him; we are the children of our Father God.

Gramma Fontaine transitions into speaking the King’s English now just like the holy ones only with a southern accent. So this all continues, goes on forever. Once called, once Yeshua had touched me, I couldn’t go back to the life I had before. I know that now. It’d be like a moth trying to squeeze back into his cocoon. Impossible.

Gramma, I know what you are saying. But look at me. Look at who got called out by Santespri. I was practically an atheist. I liked money, having control—dominance actually—and possessing expensive things. If you had come to my office then and told me that I would be living in a monastery for a year after eighteen months in a mental hospital, I would have had security escort you out of the building. I don’t know why you’re here but I’m guessing something’s pulling at you, too.

Gramma’s strong accent vanishes completely, somewhat eerily.

"Paul the Apostle may have murdered many of the first Christians, yet Our Lord chose him, called him out from among many others who may have seemed worthier—whatever worthier means. Why do you think that happened?"

‘Why’ questions don’t have an answer with Yesh–

Then, I’ll tell you why, she says mowing over my words as fast as a gardener barbering his last lawn on Friday afternoon. He was the one to do that huge part of the Lord’s work. Important work. Only the man Saul, known later as Paul, could do it the way Jesus wanted it done. Didn’t matter how or what he’d done before. It mattered that he saw and believed, and then, trusted. After that, it all happened around him, he only had to open his mouth.

I’ve learned God uses us when we see, then believe, then trust, I say, It’s the trinity of human power.

It is a stairway, she replies. Traveler-man, I know you’ve seen the Lord in the flesh.

So, you read the transcripts? I ask, already knowing the answer.

What Gramma seems to know—although I’m not sure how much—is that over two and a half years ago, when my dad was dying from stomach cancer, in the last days when he was at home in hospice care, I told him of my first experience, how during a heart attack, I traveled back to first century Ephesus and Palestine, how I met Mary Magdalene whom Yeshua nicknamed Miramee, the Mirror-of-Me. For days, I told my father about my encounters with the human Yeshua and his disciples, Andreas (Andrew) and Johanan (John), as well as many others including Eema.

My mom had secretly recorded the conversations through a baby monitor and computer in her room. Later she transcribed them and sent them to the Vatican, which precipitated my going there under false pretenses. Later, a French cardinal confronted me with all this information in the catacombs under St. Peter’s, resulting in a force shooting me back into the first century once again. Taking a desperate risk, Miramee fired me back to 21st century Rome after I’d been overwhelmed with the power manifested at the Transfiguration. On top of Mount Hermon, I went—well, I think I went insane.

My mother died while we were still in Italy and at her funeral back in California, I first bled from my stigmata wounds right in front of the main altar. After smart-phone videos of it went viral over the internet and news, my influential buddy, Bronson Pratt, arranged for me to be admitted to a private, celebrity-inhabited wing of a Los Angeles neuropsychiatric hospital. I spent eighteen months working through the experiences, although no one there could truly understand. Hell, even I didn’t—and I was there. During that time, someone formerly working with the cardinal leaked the transcripts, crushing our privacy completely. Upon my release, Bronson worked with the embarrassed Vatican and local bishop to settle us here temporarily. In this remote monastery cottage, we have some semblance of a life without the energy drain of dealing with the public’s remaining fascination with my condition.

I have studied the transcripts prayerfully, Gramma says, over and over, many times, but now that I’m here, looking at you, I wouldn’t have needed to read a thing.

We sat a moment, silently scrutinizing each other.

You then know, Gramma, that there are many doubts in my mind.

Where is the remnant? Of his mantle? she asks brusquely, business-like. I need to touch it.

I recoil back in my chair.

No one touches it but me, I fire back—more than a little surprised at her audacity. Is she only another religious tourist like the others? When I left the first set of experiences, Miramee gave me a remnant corner of Yeshua’s mantle that had accidentally been torn. His dried blood was still on it, flaking into small, fine, reddish- brown granules. I carefully placed it into a pocket of the tunic I was wearing then. When I returned home after the heart attack, I found it miraculously in the pocket of the shirt I’d worn that day. It’s proof that the experiences were more than a series of hallucinations.

Or is it? Sometimes I doubt.

My mother had secretly sent some threads of it to the Vatican and their tests proved the approximate age and geographical location of the fibers. The blood test was inconclusive because they could not find a complete set of chromosomes. Some speculated there were not a complete set of chromosomes in the blood. After someone broke into our cottage looking for the remnant, Father Abbot had the shirt and remnant put into a specially built safe in the monastery chapel. It’s secretly revered by the monks as a relic—the most important relic in existence.

If true.

"I am not a religious tourist, young man!" she says, eyes firing a smokier shade of gold. Another thought reader- like the holy ones.

Then why are you here? I ask.

Are you going to show me the remnant or not!?

Wow. I try to stare her down but she isn’t intimidated; she bears too many battle scars for that. And she ain’t fixin’ to move—not until I let her touch the mantle of Christ.

No talking. A punishing silence.

I’ve been in sales long enough to know that the first one to speak after a closing question, loses. The glare-down continues. I picture her sitting on that bus for two thousand miles, purse on lap, reading her Bible. Something or someone is pushing us together. I know it is not the Tempter. I’ve felt the Evil One’s presence many times, especially in the grove near Gat-Shemanin, which were the olive-press caves we call Gethsemane. No, Gramma has the light in her; I can see it surrounding her. Astonishing light. Like their light. Like Miramee.

I’ll be right back, Gramma.

She wins.

She relaxes, shoulders slump slightly, breath exhaling slowly, bony chest falling beneath the lace collar. She had to climb over a mess of cultural fears to be so insistent with me, but Santespri can embolden us beyond our expectations. Gramma needs to touch the remnant in order to complete the spiritual circuit here, so I leave her sipping the steaming black coffee and pound out to the chapel with my safe key firmly in hand.

The chapel is situated in the heart of the monk’s private area, which is off-limits to visitors and retreatants using the grounds, although the chapel has entrances on either side of the wall so that both the monks and the public can come to pray together. The pentagonal sanctuary is anything but traditional, its design born in the wake of the Vatican Council reforms in 1965. Mid-century contemporary in style with almost no right angles, the building itself seems like four pairs of praying hands with the point of the ceiling over the altar table open to the light. The stained glass on the walls sloping upward and inward create the lighted space between the concrete fingers. Father Abbot installed outer solar lights that keep the windows illuminated throughout the night. From inside, at any hour, the glowing hands are praying.

The safe is located under the altar table. I kneel and open it, removing the vinyl bag containing the shirt I wore that first day ten years ago. Taking the bag with me, I sign it out on the sheet inside the safe.

Back at the cottage, Gramma watches as I wordlessly remove the shirt from the vinyl bag.

"It’s sure strange how the pocket in your clothing in that time became the pocket in your clothing now."

Yeah. Well, atoms rearrange themselves when there’s enough force present to trigger a change, I say, as I put on the latex gloves and hand a pair to her. And there was plenty of force that day.

I need to touch it with my bare fingers, she says, politely but firmly.

I’m hesitant—very few people have touched this relic.

Please, sir, Gramma requests again.

Removing the piece of cloth from the shirt pocket with a pair of tweezers, I place it in my gloved palm and offer it to Gramma. She falls to her knees, eyes close tightly, tears leaking out. With my free hand, I grab a hold of her elbow so that she doesn’t topple over. She hasn’t touched it yet; just seeing it throws her into a fit of sobbing. Feeling man-helpless, I look around for Sharon.

Where’d she go? What if this poor lady dies right now?

Soon, Gramma collects herself, sniffs and pulls a lace handkerchief out of her purse. It has an orange F embroidered on it. Her own needlework no doubt. Dabbing her eyes, she raises them to me then to the remnant of Yeshua’s mantle. Right hand trembling, she lifts it from my hand gently—but swiftly—as if it were a butterfly poised to take flight.

Land’s sake! her voice shaking as she places it in the left palm, right hand fingertips caressing it like a mother lightly stroking the fine hair of her baby. She is quiet for a moment and then looks up at me. In the softest of tones, she says, I can feel his kindness, Traveler. And her love. I can feel her deep love. Their deep love.

I miss them both, Yeshua and Miramee. A wave of sadness washes over me. Oh, I know they are with me always, but I miss their flesh-and-blood presence. No other type of spiritual or dimensional presence can replace the sensation of a living person next to you.

The woman with the orange veil wants you to go see her again, Gramma says, eyeing me intently now.

What do you mean? I know what she means. Don’t think so, Gramma. Not today, anyway.

Like me getting on the bus in Jackson, there’s not too much that’s up to you.

Well, you see, Gramma Fontaine, there is. I almost died both times I did this. It’s dangerous.

"Traveler, there’s plenty of almosts in life. Who cares about them once they pass? It’s up to you, of course, the holy ones are patient but you must know you are protected. You do know that, don’t you?"

The vision of the Archangel Micha’el, the Viking-looking angel, is before my eyes. I feel his presence often. Micha’el’s protection is all around me.

I nod.

Then go, she says lightly with a grin. You want to know why I came here? It was to tell you to go! Didn’t understand that myself at the time.

So, Gramma gets downloads like me.

How? What about Sharon?

Sharon’s fine with me, she says. Besides, y’all know there’s no time lost, not a second. Right? The Lord’s mighty particular about that!

Where?

Suddenly, my stomach and esophagus tingle and twitch; I want to go. She blinks. Where? Good question. She pivots her head around the room and looks out the screen door.

That old oak tree looks rather lonesome, don’t you think? she asks rather than says. Seems like you should go on over there and lay a hand on its bark, now don’t it?

Every instinct, every neuron fires warning shots throughout my brain telling me: Jack, get the hell out of this living room and away from this woman! Yes, I do miss Yeshua and Miramee, but to put myself through all this again seems daunting. I like my life. I’m comfortable. Sure, it’s far from ideal but it’s not bad; it’s safe. Yet, there’s still the hunger within me that I cannot explain, that burns inside of me, pushing me out, and I can’t shake it. I understand that Yeshua and I aren’t finished.

Just not now.

Damn!

And, by the way, when is a person too old to take on a calling out? I’m only a couple years away from an AARP card. Aren’t I too old? What does Yeshua want with an aging dude like me anyway?

Pick someone younger, someone who has years ahead of them to do your work, who can share the adventure of your amazing friendship!

As if she is a flesh-and-blood contradiction to my mental argument, the eighty-nine-year-old messenger sits there staring at me. Now, a burning emptiness arises in my chest; like rifle shots, the pain blasts through my wrists and ankles. It is not about my age or my current comfort level, never was. It’s about me. He wants… me. The rest of the objections ricocheting through my gray matter mean nothing.

Will I risk it all again for him?

I stand up and look down at the dark, frail woman with the power of Santespri rolling through her. She trusts completely, like Miramee, like Eema. She takes my hand, placing the remnant in it. I put it carefully back into the shirt pocket, zip up the bag, and remove the latex gloves as I feel her eyes watching my every movement.

Is she an angel? Is she Gavri’el?

I’m just a woman, Traveler, not an angel, she says.

Yeah, just a woman who reads thoughts.

I look at her and, through the sadness of her many years I see a spark of joy in her eyes. She belongs to Yeshua’s flock, named for him with her immersion.

When I was a young woman of sixteen, I went to the river with all the people. I repented and received the Lord through his baptism. Santespri.

Never doubted a day I’m sure, I say.

Many days, Traveler-man, many days, she smiles. Our lives here are very hard, full of suffering, and, at times, I gave up. But He found me over and over, like the lost sheep, and He brought me back home. Just as He brings you back.

The love of the Shepherd carrying me back again and again sweeps over me like an ocean wave.

He will be walking that last, final road, she says. He must have your company.

If he wants me there with him as he walks to Calvary, who am I to deny him?

Right. I gulp.

Deciding mentally what my body already decided.

Where does Traveler go? I tilt my head in a question to her.

The oak tree, Gramma replies to the thought-question.

Yes, ma’am. I notice the pain in my wrists and ankles is gone.

Shoo now! she says with a smile.

The walk to the tree is not far, just a few steps, but the distances I’m about to cross are unimaginable. Glancing back at Gramma who stands on the darkened side of the screen door, purse on crooked arm. She raises her gloved hand in a small wave, joining the tip of her middle finger with her thumb in the mudra of heart. I scan the clear blue of the sky through the branches above me, once more finding the sun arcing high towards mid-morning. The Eye of God peers down at me as I touch the rough trunk of this old oak and gulp some air deeply, then exhale a calm surrender.

Your will be done!

Chapter 2

47951.png

Then Thomas (also known as Didymus) said to the rest of the disciples,

Let us also go [to Jerusalem], that we may die with him.

—John 11:16, (ca.AD 96)

AD 43, and the third year of the reign of the emperor Claudius, Ephesus

T he falling sensation is brief, like going down five floors in an elevator, hardly noticeable. Inhaling some earthy air, my eyes open wide yet I’m unable to see anything through the darkness . Realizing I’m lying down, my skin senses a thick carpet or mat but my butt shifts against the hardness of the uneven stone surface underneath.

What? I’ve got no clothes on. I blink looking upward into the shadows. No stars. Definitely indoors.

You are alive! a familiar feminine voice says as I stop a breath halfway through an inhale, my heart pausing a beat. I should have never doubted. You are very strong and the Rabbuni is with you.

As he is with you, my longtime friend, I manage to say.

Yet I’m puzzled. Why is there no fire in the hearth or any light in the stone house? Why am I lying fully exposed? Most everyone sleeps naked in these times, but usually there’s a blanket or mantle to cover up the focal points. I try to stand in the blackness but the time travel process takes its toll and I wobble to my right. I feel her catch me by the bare arm just as she caught me that first night in Ephesus long ago. That is, long ago as it pertains to my life in the 21st century, but only the recent past here and now. She keeps me from falling; she’s still fast and strong. When she’s certain I’ve got my balance, we stand there, man and woman, unable to see the other at all.

Elemental. As naked as the day I was born.

Maybe this is a kind of rebirth; an Eve and a naked Adam in the dark peace following creation. I breathe all this in deeply and exhale it to meet hers.

I will light a lamp, she says as I feel the moist warmth of her breath returning to me, and then enkindle the hearth-fire.

Her simple sentence lilts into