Traveler’S Tale—Second Book:: Openings Continuing One Man’S Adventure into the Mind of Christ

By Roger Fiola

Praise for Travelers Tale First Book: Discoverings:
In Travelers Tale, Roger Fiola has produced the equivalent of an alchemical experiment. Mixing historical knowledge, imagination, and the anxieties of our broken age, he brings the reader to the reality of Christs presence. This first volume of a narrative series shows how the spiritual journey can be conducted, and how far it can lead. ~ Bruce Chilton, Author of numerous books on the historical Jesus and Scripture including: Rabbi Jesus: An Intimate Biography, Visions of the Apocalypse: Receptions of Johns Revelation in Western Imagination. Iddings Bell Professor of Religion at Bard College, Rector of the Church of St John the Evangelist.
Travelers Tale First Book: Discoverings is at once a serious dive into issues of faith and truth and a compelling tour de force dialogue with the pivotal figures in the origins of Christianity. On his journey of discovery, Jack Castros questions and doubts are Everymans but his journey of discovery in this first volume is unique, a fascinating trip through ancient destinations with characters we have heard of but never known with such depth and intimacy. Its a wild ride through the magic and mystery of a sacred and powerful time, loaded with wisdom and wit. ~ Ellen Gunter, Author, Earth Calling: A Climate Change Handbook for the 21st Century

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524671785

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.

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© 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.

Scripture taken from Douay-Rheims 1899 American Edition (DRA)

Published by AuthorHouse 03/29/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7179-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7180-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7178-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902260

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.

Dedicated in memoriam to my mother, Charlotte, a storyteller.

Contents

Dedication

Curtain Up…

Preface

Acknowledgments

Before We Get Going…

Synopsis Of The First Book

Prologue

Holy Father’s File

Part 1

Maps

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

Part 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Part 3

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Epilogue

Appendix A: Dramatis Personae

Appendix B: Terms

About The Book

Curtain up…

[Stage Direction: Now clouds descend, the Father in a cloud]

FATHER: You feeble-in-faith folk afraid:

Of us together, be not in fear.

I am your God, that goodly made both Earth and air, with clouds clear. This is my son, as you have said, as he has shown by his signs here. Therefore, of him take heed and hear: where he is, there am I;

He is mine, and I am his.

Who trusts in this, steadfastly will bide in endless bliss.

(The three apostles hide their faces in fear)

JESUS: Peter, peace be unto thee and also to you, James and John.

Rise, and tell me what you see…

…and no more let your wits be gone.

PETER: Ah, Lord, what may this marvel be?

Where has that glorious gleam all gone?

The Currier’s Play: The Transfiguration, a mystery play (#23) of the York Pageant (ca. AD 1400)

Preface

This second book in the Traveler’s Tale series is a work of fiction and, like the others, it is about encountering and connecting with the interior experience of the divine within each of us. I call this book Openings.

While it is based on historical facts and are 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 man we call Jesus. The historical references and research serve to provide a backdrop, scenery for the mystery play of our own salvation.

If you remember this, you will be able to move through Traveler’s story with the right mind-set, not questioning whether this or that scene is possible or really took place, but instead asking what new understanding might be seeking an audience with your consciousness.

You may find a passage particularly unsettling, and that could be a good thing. You might put the book down and reflect on what the disturbance feels like. What would it mean if what you had just read was real? (How would your heart or mind change if this truly happened?)

This is not a book on 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 be expressed also as the connection of love.

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

"Namaste!"

The God in me reverences the God in you!

Roger Fiola

Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, 2016

Acknowledgments

This 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, and to Steve Squier who reviewed early drafts for content and flow. 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 books 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…

There is a clever architecture to this book and series. If you have not read the first book, although recommended, then good news! You can start here. A synopsis of the first book follows and refers to the characters and situations that occurred previously. These are made throughout the novel.

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. 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 was 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 work 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, deals with how he moves that into the hearts and minds of his people through preaching and healing. The third book, Amendings, will take Traveler through the mystery of Yeshua’s last days, his passion and death. The final volume, Returnings, deals with what follows that death and how it impacts all those who loved him and Traveler—and all of us who just love.

Synopsis of the First Book

2003. The beginning of the third millennium. In the old California city of Monterey, Jack Castro is a 43-year-old married man who lives in the affluent elegance of a golf community near world-famous Pebble Beach. He has two teenage daughters and a wife, Sharon, who is a cardiac nurse at the local hospital. Jack is successful, owning one of the leading agricultural insurance companies in the California’s inland farming valleys. By American standards, he has it all: happy marriage, college-bound kids, money, and lives in what he calls a natural paradise. However, there is something that is tearing at him, driving an unexplainable inner longing for… what? He cannot name it but feels just it the same. He’s haunted by it. It could be a spiritual longing, but he dismisses that. He was raised a Christmas-and-Easter Catholic but has no taste for religion in any form.

One morning he is on his way to a conference in the nearby Silicon Valley when his Benz nearly collides with a mountain lion chasing a rabbit out of the woods. He is breathless and disturbed by this, so disturbed that he stops in a nearby wilderness park and hikes down a familiar trail. He suddenly feels the longing again tearing at him, this time deeper and deeper still. A homeless man warns him to take care, but he challenges God or Nature or the Universe to stop torturing him and show him what it desires him to see.

He finds that he goes down a time-warp rabbit hole and ends up two thousand years in the past, in the mountains above ancient Ephesus. There he encounters a mysterious woman who invites him inside a small stone house. He recognizes it as Maryema, the purported house of Mother Mary, a place he toured with his family while vacationing in Turkey some years ago. She seems to know him and calls him Traveler rather than his real name. She introduces herself as Miramee and goes through the rules of the experiences in which he is about to participate.

The language he hears is American English but she is speaking her native tongue; she also hears his words in that tongue. The names of God do not translate however. If he says something that does not belong in the ears of the person listening to him, that person will hear nothing but gibberish. He is not there to change anything, in fact, all evidence and everything he touches and eats will return to the way it was before he interacted with it. The only caveat is that, while he cannot harm a fly, he can be physically wounded or killed while there. And that means he dies in the twenty-first century as well.

Thinking he understands what all this really means, he consents to go forward and is transported to the miserable prison cell of John the Baptist, the one who is called the Immerser in these times. From the grisly but benign Immerser, he learns that Miramee is really Mary Magdalene. He also tells of the baptism of Jesus (known as Yeshua) and that after the baptism, the man from Nazareth (Nasreth) heads out into the desert alone.

Back to Miramee. She related how she was poor and orphaned in a seaside village near the Sea of Galilee and how disguised as a boy she got employment in a caravan heading to Philadelphia, the ancient name for the current city of Ammon, Jordan. At an oasis camp, her secret was discovered and the surly vibrant owner, Havalah, and her family saved her life from the angry caravan master and adopted her. When she grew to young womanhood, she did not marry because she had the falling sickness or epilepsy. One day, an unconscious, injured man was brought into camp slung over a donkey. The caravan owner, the Samaritan, picked up the man on the floor of the desert the previous day. He convinced Havalah to nurse him back to health and was willing to pay all expenses.

Miramee was assigned to the sick man’s care and fell in love with him before he even awakened. When he did, they developed a quick and loving friendship. He was Yeshua and took her in confidence about his experiences in the desert. She recounts for Traveler in detail all the tests and wonders Yeshua experienced and of each of his three great temptations by the Tempter, Satan. In this walkabout of his, Yeshua struggled with his calling by God, often walking blindly, but maintaining his faith that an answer would come. And it did—not in a thunderstorm or another large, magnificent way—but in the smallest, quietest moment.

After his time in the desert he knew what he had to do. That is when he fell, fainted rather, from hunger and fatigue, and spent three days unconscious on the desert floor until the Samaritan’s caravan chanced upon him. During this three days, Traveler is gifted with sitting with the unconscious Yeshua with the four archangels protecting him.

Traveler then goes to the oasis where he meets Havalah in the flesh. She tells him of the departure of Yeshua from the camp and Miramee’s determination to find him. Havalah and her husband give Miramee her dowry, entrusting it and her to the protection of the Samaritan as his caravan travels back to the Sea of Galilee.

From the oasis, back to the Immerser’s prison cell; it’s clear that the birthday celebration of Herod Antipater, the Roman’s client ruler of Galilee, is well under way upstairs. The Immerser tells Traveler of Yeshua’s return to the river from the desert and his departure to begin his ministry in Galilee. That afternoon, the Immerser was arrested and brought to the castle prison. Traveler leaves the Immerser just as he hears the announcement of Salome’s dance, which sends an alarm into him as he heads into the next experience.

Traveler meets Yeshua as he prunes an olive tree in the orchard near Jerusalem called Gat-Shemanin (or Gethsemane.) Controlling his wonder, Traveler listens as Yeshua recounts the calling of his first two apostle-brothers, Kefah (Peter) and Andreas (Andrew) as they are coming in from fishing. Traveler then shoots to Greece, to a seashore and meets Andreas as an older man, who takes him out on his boat and tells him the story of his calling. When they return to shore, Roman soldiers wait for him, so he heads for a secret landing spot in a rocky cove to elude them. He is a hunted man.

Back in the olive orchard with Yeshua, Traveler walks as he hears of the calling of the next two apostle-brothers, Yakov (James) and Johanan (John, the Beloved Disciple) who also were returning with their fisherman father, Zavdai (Zebedee.) Over his loud protestations, the men leave him and follow Yeshua, who gives them the nickname the sons of Thunder because of their vocal father.

Traveler shoots ahead in time to meet Mother Salome, the wise matriarch of the Zavdai family in their luxurious seaside home in Tyre. Zavdai was very well to do apparently, having a beach house. She tells him of Yeshua’s first appearance in their local synagogue in Galilee. There, the four new apostles and Yeshua arrived and she relates how he transformed her when he exorcised demons from a man.

Traveler begins to feel overwhelmed after all these experiences and decides to go back. Miramee warns him it is too early but he is afraid and wishes to return to the familiar world of his life in Monterey.

In the transition, he suffers a heart attack and follows the archangel of death, Azra’el down into a cave where a brilliant light halts them both. It is the light from the sword of Micha’el Archangel who says it is too soon. Traveler then awakens on the operating table and realizes he will live in his body for a while longer even though changed forever by his meeting with Yeshua and the holy, and some not-so-holy, ones.

Prologue

Sings now the Archangel:

His heart leads him here,

To us, in the dark,

These tombs draw him near,

‘Neath the church, this Ark.

His eyes will open,

In peace through power,

Though he be broken,

Comes now the hour.

Among those who stir,

Through these shadowed halls,

He’ll feel the tear,

As God’s glory calls.

Then shall he full eat

of the Blessed Bread,

Giv’n now as we meet

In the City of the Dead.

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Part 1

IN THE TOWNS AND UPON THE HILLS

Maps

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Chapter 1

Knock.

Knock, knock, knock,

Knock, tap.

Jesus!

Startled almost out of my sleep, I hear footsteps creak on the boards of the porch. A bear? The knocking again.

Who’s wrapping the code?

Pulling aside the ringed curtains, patterned with those black bears that seem to be found only on mountain cabin windows, I peer through the moist glass toward the porch and, in the powdery light of a lonely yellow bulb, I see the form of a girl holding a leather pizza warmer. Can’t believe they have home delivery in these parts. I open the door to see the thin face of the girl framed by her jacket hood. Inviting her in out of the cold, she touches the lintel of the door as if steadying her slight frame then seems to skate inside.

Cold night for a job like yours, I say. She doesn’t reply but looks around the ordinary cabin as if fascinated by it; she places the pouch on the knotty-pine tabletop.

Peaceful…and wonderful, isn’t it? The cold night? she says, apparently happy to be shivering, The chill allows all the stars to shine brighter. She removes her hood, and I notice her very short-cropped hair, sandy colored, and her nose and eyebrow piercings; she’s very white. Taking the pizza box out of the bag, she places it on the table and opens it for me. I look around for my wallet.

The woman already paid for it, she says.

Cryptic. What woman? I’m alone. I think.

The tip, I say.

Even the tip, she replies, Look, it is ready for you now. Our special dough, which you can only get up here. On the mountain. You should eat of it while it is fresh. She talks funny for a delivery kid, but I’m more taken by the most amazing light in her eyes. And her voice, while young, has a smooth, rich timbre, unlike any I’ve heard before.

Thanks, yeah, I will, I say.

Please understand me, do not wait too long, she adds with more an advisory than an admonishing tone; she breaks out into a grin. In this place where you are, in the thin cold air, that which is warm can grow cold quickly.

Are we talking about pizza here?

The room lights up and I feel a strong erotic urge out of nowhere. I am now in a palace, like the one Miramee described when she told me of the third temptation of Yeshua in the desert. The girl is still here but I know she’s not the same. She looks different but I don’t register the change much more than that.

I am the Angel Nura, remember? she says with a beautiful, radiant smile, her black hair in a thick braid that cascades down her right shoulder. She wears a classic Greek gown of white with a diaphanous layer of silken blue.

Sorry. I’m sure we’ve never met, I say, clearing my throat; she’s big breasted, sensual. Suddenly I remember that she is Satan in disguise and I lurch backwards. Her face reddens with anger; I think she could explode.

Pay no attention to Gavri’el, she says.

Gavri’el? I ask, Seriously? Was the kid with the pizza really the great Archangel Gavri’el, Eema’s angel, the one who asked her to conceive the infant Yeshua?

Yes, Jack Castro, she replies, You are so weak and ignorant, so easily deceived. Can you not see that she brings trouble for you? Stay away from the priest or, surely, you shall die and there are many, many others who will die as well. Stay in this land of yours, spend freely from the treasure given you and to which you have a right, and, please, live richly in peace—for your own sake. In the other place, in the other time, you shall do great damage with your unworthy presence!

She stares me down and I feel her darkness creeping into my heart. She’s right; my presence is unworthy but I have no intention of going back to Miramee, although I miss her every day. And Yeshua, I desire to see him but I’m fearful of letting go like that again. So, no plans to head back to his time and place; if you could imagine a presence like his belonging to any time and place. So, I have no idea why she’s come to warn me. Fear now grips me as she smiles and then giggles, now laughs at me derisively; a sinister laughter that you hear from villains in the movies—except hers rings in an intensified sense of self-hopelessness, an absence of any redeemable good in me.

Suddenly, her amusement ends when we are both startled by the whole palace beginning to shake violently as if it were a ship slammed by a rogue wave. A pillar crashes nearly missing me and she vanishes but, before she departs, I see the terror in her eyes. What’s happening here? The chandelier on a chain swings violently over my head.

Am I dying again? Am I dying here in Satan’s palace, amid the lavish lie of Hell?

Chapter 2

AD 2010 and the second year of the presidency of Barack Obama,

in the air above Rome

BUMP!

Eyes snap open. Turbulence. It was just turbulence. A relieved sigh wheezes out of me; another nightmare. A small thump gives a second love tap to the venerable 747. As if planned, the cabin lights brighten accompanied by the gentle, familiar chime.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we land at Aeropuerto de Fiumicino in thirty minutes, please prepare, grazie." The feminine lilt of the flight attendant’s Italian accent awakens us. I yawn now and stretch, realizing I slept most of the eleven-hour flight from San Francisco.

Ahhhhh! Another big yawn.

She offers me a small, crisp towel and I wipe the sleep from my face. Returning with a plastic trash bag and I plop in some crumpled tissues. Her dark moist eyes sparkle, seeming to smile as broadly as her full lips, as if I had just given her something to be treasured. The smile reminds me transiently of the not-so-angelic Angel Nura and I shiver reflexively.

Grazie and good morning, Mr. Castro, she says brightly, but frowns slightly at my reaction. I try to return a Good Morning as I compose myself, and then glance to my right and see the eyes of my wife flutter open briefly, and then shut lightly again as she shifts in the first-class lounge chair. Feeling better. What remains of the dream’s erotic wave washes over me briefly as I reach over Sharon’s curvy, blanketed hip to lift the curtain; the late morning sun streams in, the light crumpling her smooth forehead into a frown. Feeling more relaxed, I smile with a small, private satisfaction; in my dad-mode, I enjoy waking my family up.

Oh, Jack! I slept this time! Sharon yawns now and scans the cabin with groggy amazement, Those pills Mike gave me worked! She is speaking of Dr. Michael Kohen, her boss and the cardiac surgeon to whom I owe my life. Sharon blissfully closes her eyes once more.

Squinting out at the hazy Italian landscape below, my attention turns back to the flight attendant as she brushes past me again, her Milanese perfume lightly lingering in the musty cabin air. These last seven years seem to have brushed by me as quickly; all that remains is the same brief fragrance of memories. There’s a lot of life, a lot of calls, agricultural insurance policies written, speaking engagements, graduations, weddings, and even some funerals but still it seems… fast.

We lost my dad to cancer last January and Mom sold her house; all of us decided it would be better if she lived with us. She’s had a hard time adjusting to a widow’s life and it seems to have rekindled her religious faith. A month following Dad’s funeral mass, she decided to start attending services on Sundays at the old Carmel Mission. Because of her macular degeneration, her vision prevents her from driving anymore so I usually drop her off and pick her up. Typically, when Mom is in church, I have breakfast at Loulous’s, my favorite dive on the working wharf in my hometown, Monterey, which is the Steinbeck-ian seaport on California’s rugged central coast. I enjoy a leisurely weekend omelet as the boats chug in and out of the harbor. Mostly, I like watching the birds eat. The gulls grasp and plunge, fluttering around the pilings, joining the otters and seals in receiving Yeshua without knowing it is he. Maybe they do in some unnamable way; maybe we are the tough ones to convince. Andreas—the apostle Saint Andrew—told me in Greece that when I can find Yeshua in the bread, I can find him anywhere. No one has to instruct the gulls or the otters; they already get it. I’m a denser student so I am—so Traveler is—only beginning to understand that Yeshua is in the bread.

And everywhere.

No small task. I must allow him to rewrite the code for all the programming in my head and that’s a lot of work. That’s a lot of trust.

Traveler…

Only once in these past seven years did I break my silence about Traveler and the first century, and then to one person only. About a week before he died, Dad was at home on a morphine drip attended by those angels disguised as Hospice caregivers. His stomach cancer had spread and, even in his opiate-dulled agony, he was still aware that those were his final days. Our daughters, Sharon, and I, along with my sister, Becky, took turns keeping watch, and helping Mom.

Coming in for my late-night shift, I sent Mom to her room for some needed rest. She was as strong as her Missouri pioneer stock bred her to be and as self-disciplined as she was when she worked in security for a local office of the Department of Defense. But at seventy-six and with five weeks of this vigil behind her, she was slowly burning out. Dad was taking his good time. When the caregiver went out onto the deck for a breather, a smoking-type breather, I sat with my father who was fully awake, clear-eyed, and laboring to speak to me. I leaned my ear closer to him. He had been a man of few words throughout his life, always reserved, but he seemed to want to talk that evening.

Jacky, he rasped, you know your great, great, great—many greats—grandfathers built that old mission church. One was an Indian and the other was a Spanish soldier. They did not know then that their children would one day marry each other in that church. We are part of this place, our blood and bones are here, son.

Yes, Dad, I replied, wondering why he was reviewing the family history right then.

Jacky, you almost died that time, with your heart? Remember? he said, half voiced, half whispered.

Yeah, Dad, I remember.

Do you think there’s a Heaven? They always said if we were good in our lives, there was another place we go—up there—even though our bones belong here. Do you think it is true? His voice was stronger even with the morphine leaking into him. His bloodshot eyes watered up. The question was so simple, childlike, that I understood what Yeshua meant when he called people his lambs. The second innocence of the human being emerging at these critical and vulnerable life moments seems to stir up, or free up, the love within all those present. I paused a moment before I decided how to answer as he looked up into my eyes with the deepest, most hopeful, most innocent expression. Yet, I couldn’t help sensing that he suspected I knew more than I had spoken about these last seven years. I did.

Decision made, I cleared my throat. Here goes. It felt like diving into a deep pool, one where I couldn’t see the bottom.

"Dad, I haven’t told you this before. I haven’t told a soul—not even Sharon—and I am not going to tell anyone else, not even Mom. Not now. Because most of the time I’ve trouble believing it myself, yet, it is true, I’m certain. It happened the day I had the heart attack."

What happened, son? he asked, his eyebrows knit together in a familiar scowl.

How do I say it?

I saw the angels. The bright angels. And I saw Yeshua, Jesus. I saw him, too.

His beleaguered expression softened into wonder.

You did? he asked, his voice crescendoing upward. The Hospice caregiver came back into the room but Dad waved her off. She nodded and two practical nurse shoes shuffled her round white form out again as the scent of L’Air de Cigarette lingered in the air. The door clicked and my throat tightened a bit. Onward, Jack! Shit!

Yes. I did, I said, swallowing down the lumpy fear forming on my vocal chords. And, Dad, when they are near, you cannot imagine the light and colors, the sounds and fragrances around them.

Really? he asked, Did you see… God? Calmer now, feeling a lightness within me, I waited for the right answer to come into my mind. Then,

Couldn’t miss Him, I said with a smile.

Ohhh, he exhaled with a sigh, smiling weakly, I’m tired now. Come back tomorrow and tell me more. I will wait for you, Jacky. The faint smile faded as he drifted off into sleep again and I sat with him for a while. I will wait for you, Jacky. Dad’s parting sentence that night bore a deeper meaning.

Over the next six days, I talked with him, careful to ensure no one else was listening; this was for him and him alone. I told Dad about the stream in the wilderness park—he remembered where it was—and how, through a process I couldn’t define rationally, I was able to go from there back in time to another place, without moving. I told him about the stone house in the mountains near Ephesus, about my guide, the golden-skinned beauty, Miramee, the nickname for Mary Magdalene, and about the man called Yeshua.

Dad marveled when I spoke of the Immerser, John the Baptist, and how I sat with him in his stinking pit of a prison cell, of how he told me of Yeshua’s baptism that day in the Jordan River. Miramee met Yeshua at a desert camp when a caravan had brought him in injured during his forty-day walkabout in what is now the Jordanian Desert. After Yeshua recovered enough to speak, they became friends, and he confided in her, telling in detail of his journey of self-discovery in the wilderness. I spoke more about the Immerser’s prison and the music from Herod Antipater’s party overhead.

Dad listened, never falling asleep. He even asked a question or two but they did not indicate doubt. Not the huggy, touchy type during his many years, he held my hand as we spoke, less for affection but more like a lifeline. I went on to tell him about the temptations, about how, in the desert, Yeshua came to the realization that he and the Father were one. Finally, I finished with the stories about Andreas and the calling of the first disciples, of Gat-Shemanin, the cave containing the large olive oil press hidden in an orchard near Jerusalem, the place we call Gethsemane, and of my conversations with Yeshua, as well as my encounter with the Tempter and Ose, the leopard-like Lord of Hell. He looked frightened when I told him of those two.

They are a disagreeable, yet essential, part of the whole, Dad, I said, Just as Yeshua, as Jesus is, or you, or me are parts, too. There can’t be his light in us without the cracks they create. At least for now, anyway.

I had no idea how I knew that but I’ve become accustomed to the inspirations or revelations that I call downloads; it’s been that way for seven years. He looked confused and tired. Then I shared the secret of Miramee giving me the little piece of Yeshua’s mantle; how it still is in the shirt pocket I wore that day. I think I shared that with him more for my peace than his. I needed to tell someone. Finally, I spoke about Azra’el, the Archangel of Death.

When the time is right, I said, the boy with the silver hair will show you where to go. He mustered a broad smile, his Spanish teeth still strong and bright white.

I know who you are talking about! I’ve seen him already, he said brightly as a shard of sorrow knifed through me. As he fell off to sleep and my heart fell off a cliff, I turned to see my mother standing in the doorway behind me. She appeared agitated.

How long have you been there, Mom?

Not long, she snipped, nerves raw. I wasn’t eavesdropping if that’s what you’re worried about!

It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. Sorry, I said as I hugged her slight but sturdy figure. She didn’t react as she normally does; she was stiff. I searched her worried eyes. You okay?

Fine, Jacky, she said, recovering herself, Sorry, darling. She then folded into me maternally. I looked back at the reclining sheeted bump on the hospital bed, oxygen tank connected, and thought, If Azra’el is here, Dad won’t be for much longer. Without warning, I felt a mountain of grief landslide into me and I began crying. Not much for showing emotion, there was a part of me that watched this reaction curiously, like a spectator standing back from it all. Our whole family is a reserved, controlled bunch, but Mom became Mom again, holding me for a long time. Later, I wondered how much she’d heard. I didn’t know—and she wasn’t about to tell me. The Celts can talk and laugh a great deal but, when they bear a secret, they are as silent as the stone cliffs of Donegal. And Mom was one hundred percent Missouri Irish. We both turned to Dad whose face relaxed into the most peaceful expression.

That was it. The next day, with all of us around him, he passed peacefully; it was almost imperceptible, a good death, as they say. He had no more waiting to do for Jacky. Thus, with that last breath, taken so lightly, almost a long sigh, died the only person I’ve ever told and I’m keeping it that way for now. I’ve held the secret so closely, so tightly, and unvoiced for so long, that at times I wonder if it really happened at all.

What I said to my Dad was true in that moment, but the doubts return to me like thieves in the night, stealing my conviction again and again. I did have a serious heart attack and often my analytical mind determines that all those experiences, as real as they seemed, were simply hallucinations. Ephesus, Gat-Shemanin, the boat, and secret gatherings in Patras, Greece, were all the products of random but benevolent firings of neurons, my mind finding familiar and comforting cultural symbols to help me deal with the body’s impending demise.

A few days ago when packing for the Roman trip, those unwelcome thoughts began to edge once more into my brain like vague, nagging phantoms, until my eyes landed on the vinyl-clothing bag hanging at the back of the closet. I double-checked that no one else was approaching and then brushing the dust off it, I unzipped the bag and pulled out the oxford blue shirt worn that day; the shirt no one else is to touch. I felt inside the breast pocket and gingerly pulled out a small piece of rust-colored cloth. At the bottom of the pocket were a scattering of irretrievable, brown flecks as fine as ground red pepper. They’re the reason this shirt will never be laundered.

When I came home from the hospital, I discovered the sturdy paper bag of my belongings. In it were the shirt and other clothes I had been wearing when the EMTs found me by the stream. Luckily, the drama rattled the hyper-efficient Sharon and she forgot to have them laundered. As I said, before finding the shirt, I’d thought the whole Yeshua experience was a fabrication of my dying mind; then I saw the shadowed square in the pocket. Heart skipped a beat and I paused to catch my breath. Then, using my index finger and thumb, I carefully, hesitantly, extracted the coarse bit of cloth. As I did, electricity, like tiny bolts of lightning, fired into my hand and needled throughout my body. This was the piece accidently torn from Yeshua’s mantle, a gift from Miramee as I left the stone house. I’d placed it in the pocket of my tunic and there it was in the pocket of my shirt. In that instant, I was certain it had happened to me. All of it.

Taking a break from my packing, I held this brown cloth and I felt the energy again, slight, not as intense as it was when I walked with Yeshua that day in the garden, but it was there. Palpable. Real.

On the airliner, I shake my head and pull myself back into the present. Don’t wait too long, the pizza girl said in the dream. Don’t wait too long to eat of the dough you can only find on the mountain. A very mysterious message, if she was sending me a message. I don’t want to think she was; my heels dig into the carpeted floor.

Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts, we will be landing soon.

The great jet engines begin to throttle down as we glide into Bella Roma. Sophia, our twenty-year-old daughter, is beginning her junior year at an American university in Rome. She has the wanderlust and it took a lot of arguing to keep her at the local San Francisco university for two years; Italy was calling her. So, Sharon and I are helping move her into the dorm in the Eternal City. Gabriella, our eldest, just turned twenty-three, graduating from Stanford in June, she’s starting graduate school in international relations at a nearby institute. She’s holding down the fort, caring for Duck, our yellow Lab, as well as chauffeuring her grandma around town. Indulging myself in a self-congratulatory moment, I reflect on how proud Sharon and I are, in a time of narrowing viewpoints, that our daughters can think beyond the borders of their birth-nation. So all those educational trips stomping around ruins paid off, giving the world two more intelligent women with compassionate global perspectives. At my fiftieth birthday party last week, Sophia offered a toast thanking her mother and me for our love and the gift of that worldview.

The many tires of the 747 hit and skid on the runway. We are back in Italy again. Since the heart attack, I haven’t traveled for pleasure as much, preferring to stay closer to home. After the way I sort of teleported into different