Seed of Simon

By Michael Goings

A story of a young African American man who has recurring dream of the trail of suffering of Christ where Simon of Cyrene is compile to carry the cross of Jesus unbeknown to Rafael Smith is historical lineage to Simon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glasslink Solutions
• Release date: Jan 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088086902

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Seed of Simon

by Michael Goings

Chapter 1 – Raphael

The crowd along the narrow lane kept as far from the heart of the procession as the hemming buildings would allow. Some were fascinated by the spectacle and asked each other what it meant. Others jeered. Still others wept or cried out in horror.

The man at the center of it all neither wept nor cried out. He was silent in his suffering, bleeding from myriad shallow wounds, staggering beneath the weight of the rough wooden beam he carried across his shoulders. His blood was not silent, not to the tall man in the thick of the crowd who had come here from his coastal home and now wished he had not. The silent man’s blood told a tale of persecution and torture.

The centurion who led the procession through the streets of Jerusalem waved his arms and his sword, roaring for the onlookers to stay, Back! Back! He turned as the man beneath the thick plank faltered and fell to his knees, the beam thudding to the cobbles beside him. Clearly, he could not carry the load any farther. Two women and a young man darted forward, arms outstretched, but the centurion’s men pushed them back.

The centurion surveyed the rabble, looking for someone strong enough to take up the burden the prisoner had cast down. I will have someone carry this, since the prisoner is too weak, he said. His eyes caught on a man whose skin was nearly as dark as the prisoner’s and who stood head and shoulders above the others. He opened his mouth to command him to come forward, but before he could utter another word, the man stepped from the crowd and said, I will do it. I will carry the beam.

The tall one moved to raise the thick, blood-smeared piece of lumber, and crouching to secure it, glanced into the face of the prisoner. The eyes, of a blue so dark it was almost black, penetrated his soul.

The prisoner spoke, You have work to do.

How does he know me?

#

It took several moments for Raphael to realize that he was awake and staring at the ceiling of his tiny bedroom, watching the shadows of tree branches dance with the muted light of street lamps. When his brain had shaken off that peculiar fog that dreams bring, he was puzzled. Why that dream? Why Christ on his way to his crucifixion? Why that moment when he stumbled and someone else had to step in to carry the burden?

Rafe hadn’t set foot in a church for over a decade. Bible stories were just that—stories. They still sometimes provided illumination, but to have one suddenly invade his sleep so vividly was weird. He swore he could still smell sweat and blood and freshly cut wood, feel the dry heat on his shoulders, hear the stew of sounds from the people thronging the narrow avenue. It was as if he’d been there.

Weird.

He glanced at the clock radio on his bedside table; it was two a.m. In three hours he’d have to get up and go to work.

Wish I hadn’t looked, damn it.

He sighed, wriggled back down under the covers, and returned to sleep. The dream did not come again.

#

Dressing for work, Rafe was surprised at how vivid the dream still seemed. Usually, the light of day reduced his dreams to tatters. This one hung on with the tenacity of Mrs. Priddy’s pit bull, Cyrus. He kept thinking about the tall man who’d come out of the crowd to carry the short beam of Jesus’s cross. He’d been in the guy’s head for the last couple of seconds of the dream, had looked into the dream-Christ’s midnight blue eyes.

His hazy memory of Sunday school and sermons preached at Easter told him that the tall guy was a legit figure from the Gospels. He couldn’t remember if he had a name. Curiosity sent him to the little bookshelf in the corner of his living room where he had a Bible he’d won in a quote-off in his twelfth year of life. It had his name engraved on its fake leather cover in gold letters: Raphael R. Smith.

He cringed at the memory of the teasing he’d taken when some of his friends had discovered that the R stood for Rufus. Rooooo-fuss! they’d hoot, then laugh like loons.

He shook his head as he flipped to the concordance at the back of the book. He would never again tell a living soul what that damned R stood for. He found a page of references to the cross, saw one in Matthew under the phrase bear His cross, and looked it up. It was Matthew 27:32.

Now as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name. Him they compelled to bear His cross.

So why did Simon of Cyrene have work to do, and why was Raphael Smith dreaming about it?

Rafe shelved the book, turned off the lights, and left his apartment. Something fluttered to the floor in the middle of the hallway. Must have been stuck in the door. He picked it up. It was a half-sheet flyer reminding him that there was a blood drive going on at Nazareth Hospital this week.

He felt a flush of guilt. Giving blood was something he’d been meaning to do for years, not just out of general do-goodism, but because a blood transfusion his mom had received while in labor had made the difference between him being a kid with two loving parents or the son of a single dad. He’d meant to give back, really he had, but just growing up, getting through school, and landing a job had consumed his time. When he wasn’t working he was volunteering at a local Boys and Girls Club. That, and reading. He loved books—avidly studied history and science—which he thought was pretty ironic, considering what a wretched student he’d been in school.

He pocketed the flyer and went to work, clocking in before anyone else, as usual. And, as usual, he said good morning to the security guy, Mel, turned on all the lights in the warehouse area, and headed for the break room to put on the coffee. The back half of the Staples office supply store on Chestnut was awake and buzzing long before the front half even thought about turning on its lights, but Raphael liked the quiet here before the rest of the crew came in. It was a different kind of quiet than he experienced at home in his apartment. Here was the quiet of anticipation—the waiting for the sound and chatter and camaraderie of his coworkers, the lull before the buzz.

He got himself a cup of coffee and went to his office—a neat little cubby with an ergonomic chair, a trim wooden desk (real wood, not laminate), wraparound glass, and a door that closed for those times the side chair was occupied by a member of his staff. He could see virtually the entire warehouse from here. He could smell it, too—it had the scent of newness and cardboard and the lemony cleanser the maintenance crew used on the concrete floors. This was where he always started his day, going over orders received and returns to the main distribution center, and planning his lunchtime foray to UPenn. When the weather was fine, he went to the Penn parkland areas; when it was too hot, too cold, or too wet, he went to one of the university’s libraries. He’d spent a lot of time in those libraries so far this spring.

Somewhere, a door opened and he could hear voices and laughter. The gang was here. He picked up his coffee and headed for the break room for the morning meet ’n’ greet.

#

The day unfolded pretty much like any other day. Rafe had spent lunch walking around Ace Adams Field in the cool April air and come back to the store feeling virtuously fit. It was Wednesday, so he declined Perry Torrance’s invitation to go out for a beer after work. He had nothing against beer, but he knew from experience that Perry could function on far less sleep than he could and that one beer inevitably led to another . . . usually in a different bar.

He was getting into the car when his jacket pocket crackled. He reached in and pulled out the blood drive flyer. He stared at it, feeling as if God had just reached down and tapped him on the shoulder.

Blood. There was blood on the wooden beam Simon had carried.

With the flyer and the dream both shaming him, Raphael drove to Nazareth Hospital to give blood.

Chapter 2 – George

Penny Weinstein was watching the clock. Her shift in Nazareth Hospital’s oncology pavilion was over in twenty minutes and counting. Normally, she wouldn’t be counting, but tonight was her second wedding anniversary and she and her husband, Joel, had romantic plans that included their favorite restaurant, a drive to the coast, and a quaint bed and breakfast just east of Wharton State Forest.

When her extension lit up, she almost didn’t answer it. She watched the light blink for a few seconds, sighed, and picked up. Oncology. Penny, here.

Oh, hi, Penny. It’s Art from the kitchen. Uh . . . I just got a call a little while ago from one of your patients requesting meal service, and I wondered why I wasn’t advised that his status had changed.

Penny took her eyes off the clock. One of my patients? Which one? As far as I know, there haven’t been any changes on the ward all day.

A Mr. Clement. Room 441.

Penny called up the record, though she knew George Clement’s status hadn’t changed. He was in and out of consciousness . . . and he was terminal. Sorry, Art. That’s gotta be a mistake. Mr. Clement is barely hanging on. There’s no way he could pick up a phone and place an order, let alone eat the food.

He didn’t just place the order, Penny. He received it. Carol delivered the tray moments ago.

Penny stood, a dark suspicion forming in her mind. Great. Today of all days, she was going to have to bust a freeloader. It didn’t happen often, but every once in a long while, someone would call for meal service from a hospital room occupied by someone who was either out for therapy or on an IV. It was a sneaky way of getting a free meal. It had never happened in oncology and certainly never to Penny Weinstein.

I’ll go check it out, she told Art, then hung up and called one of the male nurses over. Justin, would you come down to four-four-one with me and check on a possible trespasser?

Justin was a tall, muscular guy in his late twenties who’d be sure to put the fear of the Lord into any food thief. Penny was a pretty formidable person herself, though she weighed in at a mere 120 pounds and stood five foot five. Joel said she was fierce. She was that, she reckoned, when it came to protecting her patients. Nonetheless, she wanted Justin along, in case the gate-crasher was still there and gave her an attitude.

She was especially fond of George Clement. He was a sweetie. A mensch, Joel would say. He’d been a successful businessman in the prime of his life, and had retired at fifty-five to start an international nonprofit for the education and literacy of women and children. At sixty-eight, he’d been taken down by a fast-growing brain tumor, but he’d refused to simply give up and die. He’d been in and out of the Nazareth oncology unit for months, battling the disease. Penny admired the heck out of him.

He’d been unconscious when they’d brought him in on Tuesday evening. At midmorning on Thursday his brain began to hemorrhage. Dr. Sakai had rushed him into surgery and removed part of the tumor that was pressing into his sagittal sinus. They’d nearly lost him in the OR and had only managed to save him by dint of Sakai’s formidable skills and several transfusions. Penny had already resigned herself to the likelihood that he might not be here when she came back from her romantic weekend.

With Justin in tow, she steamed down to 441 and through the door. She could never have been prepared for what she saw: George Clement was sitting up in bed, oxygen mask set aside, all but inhaling a slab of cottage pie. He looked up and smiled when the two nurses staggered to a stop at the foot of his bed.

Hi, Penny . . . and Justin, is it? I don’t know what those doctors did, but I feel great! Not so much as a headache. And my brain’s not sloshing like last time. He gave her a thumbs-up, then pointed his fork at the plate. I may need to have the kitchen send up another tray. Do you think that would be okay?

Penny could only stare mutely, nod, and wonder if she’d be asked to stay past the end of her shift.

Chapter 3 – Rachel

Penny Weinstein, Rachel knew, was not above a good practical joke. In high school, and when they’d attended Drexel University together—Penny in the medical college and Rachel in journalism—Penny had been the firecracker in their group of friends. The pip, as Rachel’s mom would say. So, when Penny called her Monday morning with a wild story about a miraculous cancer remission in the oncology ward on Thursday afternoon, Rachel had accused her friend of being hung over from her weekend celebrations. But no amount of sarcasm or threat or wheedling could get Penny to change her story. So Rachel had taken herself and her press pass over to Nazareth to see what Penny was so excited about.

The man Penny introduced her to in the pocket garden outside a first-floor visitor lounge was a fit-looking fellow she guessed to be in his late fifties. Turned out she was wrong. George Clement was sixty-eight and apparently healthy as a horse. He was due to check out the next morning, though he said he’d been feeling one-hundred percent since last Thursday.

The doctors say I’m an anomaly, he told Rachel with a twinkle in his pale blue eyes. I’m lucky to be alive; I know that much. I guess maybe God isn’t done with me yet. I suppose I’ve still got a lot to learn. I do wish Dr. Diaz would just accept my accolades and let me get home. I have work to do.

Would you allow me to interview you, Mr. Clement? asked Rachel. It’s for philly.com.

You bet. And it’s Geo. Do you mind if we do it here, where I can not be in a sick room? I want to catch all the vitamin D I can get. He smiled beatifically and turned his face up to catch the sun that filtered down through the carefully groomed trees, just now putting out their first greens amid some late blossoms.

Rachel seated herself next to him on the long wrought-iron bench and got out her iPhone. She quickly got the preliminaries out of the way, then asked what condition he’d been in when he’d come into the hospital on Tuesday.

Well, I can’t tell you firsthand. I had a sudden headache, got dizzy, and blacked out. Woke up in ICU, starving. The doctors tell me I was at death’s door. I can believe that. I’ve been fighting this thing for months and it’s been kicking my butt up until now.

Rachel smiled wryly. Somehow she’d expected something more dramatic than that. Can you describe how you felt as you woke up?

Completely refreshed. Light. Buoyant. As if I were floating to the surface of a sunlit pool. I had all this energy, and look—

He reached up to pull off the flannel hospital issue beret he was wearing against the coolish fall air. He tilted his head down so Rachel could see the crown of his head, which had been shaved. There was a surgical scar, but it looked as if it were months old. The line of new flesh was pink and healthy looking. As healthy looking as the man sitting next to her. There was no swelling. Rachel knew enough about head surgeries to know that there would normally be swelling this soon after surgery.

And that’s it? You just drifted up out of unconsciousness feeling refreshed?

More than that, he said, turning to face her more fully. I feel . . . renewed. As if I’ve gotten a second chance to do the things I should be doing in my organization and my personal life. I nearly died, Ms. Stiers—

Rachel, please.

Rachel. I felt the pull of the next world or phase of life or whatever you want to call it. And I was pulled back somehow. As I said, I feel that I have work to do. That I need to redouble my efforts to educate as many human beings as possible so that those lives will not be wasted in poverty and ignorance.

Rachel read George Clement’s eyes for a moment, realizing she’d get no more from him. She needed to talk to Penny, to his other nurses and doctors.

Thank you, Geo. Your story is both unusual and inspiring.

She left George Clement sitting in the early spring sun and went back to the nurses’ station in the oncology pavilion. Penny was on the phone arranging for a wheelchair to come take a discharged patient to curbside. Rachel waited patiently until she was off.

Another miracle cure? Rachel asked.

Penny smiled and shook her head. Nope. Just the usual kind. Mother of two. They got the whole tumor—encapsulated. She won’t even need chemo.

Great. Got a minute to talk about Geo?

I’ve already told you all I know, Penny said. But I asked Dr. Sakai and Dr. Diaz if they’d talk to you. Dr. Diaz said yes. Dr. S said no.

We wouldn’t publish anything without clearing it with the hospital, Rachel assured her. Or violate Geo’s privacy.

I know. It’s just . . . nothing like this has ever happened here. I mean, yeah, we’ve seen sudden remissions, but not this sudden. And did George show you his scar?

Or lack thereof? countered Rachel. Yeah. It’s pretty much healed.

Rachel became aware that someone had come to stand at her right elbow. She turned to see a petite Latina with gleaming cherry black hair worn in a bob, and eyes like Bambi’s mom’s, only sharper.

This the journalist? the woman asked Penny.

Yes, Doctor. Rachel Stiers, this is Mariah Diaz, Geo’s oncologist.

Diaz laughed. Ex-oncologist, don’t you mean? Dear Geo has gone and healed himself and left me nothing to do. Which I find delightful but puzzling.

Is there anything you can tell me about Geo’s miracle cure without violating doctor/patient privilege? Rachel asked.

Actually, I just talked to Mr. Clement, said the oncologist, raising one sleek eyebrow. He tells me I may speak to you freely with his permission. My office is just down there. She nodded toward an intersecting corridor.

Rachel followed her down the hall and around the corner into a quiet corridor along which were several offices. Diaz led the way into the first office on the right and offered Rachel a seat opposite her desk.

You’ve talked to the patient, I imagine, she said as she settled behind the desk.

Yes. He looks like a perfectly healthy fifty-year-old.

Diaz laughed. Indeed he does. He doesn’t know what happened. I don’t know what happened. I only know, and can only tell you, that he was near death. The tumor was growing rapidly and metastasizing. He went into crisis, was bleeding internally. Dr. Sakai took him into surgery, but he lost a lot of blood. They managed to stabilize him, but we honestly didn’t expect him to last the night. The first I knew of his . . . recovery was when Penny called me in.

His scar . . . , said Rachel, making a vague gesture at her own head.

Diaz nodded. That’s only the surface of it. We did an MRI. The tumor is gone. The entire inoperable mass. His brain tissue looks normal—as if it had never been there in the first place. The scar is already vanishing; the bone has knit together. He’ll go home tomorrow because we have no reason other than intense curiosity to keep him here. We’ve taken tissue and blood samples, of course, but . . . She shrugged. I don’t know what else I can tell you, except that his family members are overjoyed.

What will you do? I mean, are there tests you can run or have run?

Dr. Diaz seemed to withdraw just a bit. Yes. There are. But those, I really can’t talk about. That’s at the discretion of the hospital administrator.

Of course. Rachel turned off her iPhone’s voice memo app and rose. Thank you for your time, Dr. Diaz. I would like to report this story, but I’m sensitive to the sort of publicity it might bring to the hospital. If you’d like, I can publish a disclaimer asking that people not assail you with phone calls.

That would be appreciated, although we’ve already prepared our public information office for a deluge once this gets out. I suspect you won’t be the last journalist who wants to talk to us . . . or to Mr. Clement.

And I suspect, Rachel said as she slipped her phone into her shoulder bag, that when my story runs, everyone’s going to check their calendars.

Again, the elegantly raised eyebrow.

To make sure it’s not April first.

Rachel stopped back by the nurse’s station on her way out to thank Penny for the tip. It wasn’t Pulitzer stuff, but she hoped to make it an interesting read.

So, Penny said, did she answer all your most gripping questions?

Rachel shook her head, dislodging a corkscrew curl that escaped her hair clip and fell against her cheek. Not really. I was really hoping to find out how—or if—the hospital plans to research this further. She wasn’t ready to divulge that.

Penny glanced over her shoulder then leaned across the chest-high counter that separated the two women. "I can tell you one thing they’ve done. Friday morning, they ordered a complete analysis