A Healing Touch: A Monologue of Simon's Son
by Patricia Raube

Mark 1:29-39

I've always known I wanted to follow in my father's footsteps, from the time 
I was a tiny boy. I remember peeking out of my mother's arms in the early 
morning, while it was still dark, to see my father and my uncle Andrew, 
faces shining in the firelight, ropes draped over their shoulders, saying 
goodbye before heading down to the lakeside to climb into their boats.

My father was a genius with the nets. In fact it was always a point of 
contention-even competition-between him and my uncle Andrew. Who could find 
the perfect spot, the place where, when the nets were cast, almost 
immediately the men in the boat would begin to feel the rustle and sway that 
told them, ah. Here it is! The place where the fish are today! Ah. Tonight 
my wife will smile warmly at me, because the proceeds from this catch will 
feed our family for a week, maybe even two.

I saw the joy my father took in the catch, the way he would throw back his 
head and murmur a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord: "How good it is to 
sing praises to our God; for he is gracious!" I saw the satisfaction he took 
in a hard day's labor, that made his muscles ache, yes, but also made them 
strong. I saw the contentment he found in providing for his family. I saw 
all these things, and I thought: that is what I will do. I will follow my 
father down to the sea and into the boats.

It was grandmother who first told me that something was wrong. We lived with 
her, my mother's mother, in her home. And every day, the routine was the 
same. The men left for the boats, and the women left for the well, and the 
market. We children busied ourselves with our tasks; the girls might weave, 
or bake bread, while we boys would set to memorizing our psalms. I was the 
oldest, so I was in charge. Thanks to me all my brothers know every psalm of 
our ancestor David by heart. Psalm 147: "The Lord builds up Jerusalem; he 
gathers the outcasts of Israel. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up 
their wounds." After the psalms, our other chores-bringing fuel for the 
fire, repairing the mud roof, even going down to the lakeside to repair and 
clean nets. The women, my mother and grandmother, came home first, and began 
preparations for the main meal of the day, with the girls helping them. And 
we boys would go to the lakeside to await the return of our father and 
uncle, and their boats.

But on that day. something was different. The routine did not hold. The four 
adults left for their various labors, but soon, too soon, my grandmother 
walked back in the door, and my mother was not with her. My brothers and 
sisters and I stopped in our tasks, confused and quiet. We'd known families 
whose days had been disrupted and whose lives had been turned upside down by 
an accident. mostly by drowning. Everyone knows about the wild and 
unpredictable storms that spring up on the Sea of Galilee. I looked at my 
grandmother's ashen face and became convinced: my father had drowned. Or my 
uncle. Or both. There was a heavy silence in the air, and my grandmother 
collapsed beside the hearth.

"Is my father.?" I began to ask the terrible question. I was the oldest; it 
was my responsibility to know, to ready to be the man of the house now, if 
my father was indeed dead. She shook her head and looked at me with tears 
pooled in her eyes. "No, boy. No. Don't.." she hesitated, searching for a 
word.her voice was so strained, I almost didn't recognize it. "Don't . alarm 
yourselves," she said. "Go on, go on," and her voice resumed something of 
its normal tenor. "Do your work."

So we did, my brothers and sisters and I. But the girls had lost the rhythm 
of their weaving. The boys were fitful and distracted. Where was our mother? 
What was wrong?

The hours crept by. It was time for the main meal, and neither our mother 
nor the men had returned, and our grandmother was alternately standing in 
the doorway and pacing to and fro, a look of dread on her face. There was no 
dinner. The girls began to whisper together, wondering if they should start 
the fire, fetch the water. But no one moved. We were all suspended, waiting.

It was dark when my mother returned. She wore her veil clutched close about 
her face, and when she took it off, she fell into my grandmother's arms, and 
both women shook together, weeping, strangely silent. Minutes passed, and 
they pulled apart. My grandmother left the room without a word, stumbled to 
her bed, and turned her face to the wall.

My mother prepared a cold and hasty dinner, the tears still streaming down 
her face.  My sisters helped her silently, as best they could. At last we 
all sat around the table, and we knew we would, finally learn what act of 
fate or of God had turned our family's life upside down.

My mother had washed her face. She was pale but her voice was calm though 
her eyes were still red. "Your father will not be coming home tonight," she 
said. We waited. No one ate. Finally, I said, "Where is he, mother? Shall I 
go and find him?"

My mother looked at me and smiled. "No, Samuel. There is no need. I know 
where he is. He has left his boats and he and your uncle are following a 
wise man, a preacher."  We all tried to take this in. My father wasn't 
coming home. why? Not because a sudden wind had come up on the Sea of 
Galilee, or because he had been swallowed by a great fish, but because. he 
had decided to follow some self-proclaimed prophet?

I jumped to my feet. One of the girls giggled, but when she saw the look in 
my eye, she stopped. "I'm going to get him." I looked at my next oldest 
brother. "Benjamin, come with me."

Then my mother spoke to me with a sharpness I had never before heard in her 
voice. No. not sharpness. Authority. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I did not 
need to be the man of the house. "Your father has made a choice. He is a 
good man, and we will see him again. But you will not go in search of him."

We ate our meal in silence. Afterwards everyone helped to clear away the 
meal, and I too found my way to bed.

I dreamed strange dreams of fishing boats and nets, and then I discovered 
that I was in the net, not wriggling like the fish, but resting, enjoying 
the rocking, a baby in a net cradle. I swam to the surface as dawn neared 
and an odd and wrong day dawned. no father, no uncle saying goodbye, and my 
grandmother staying in her bed. Only my mother rose, and took her water jar, 
and left the house.

As the day dragged on we realized that my grandmother had become ill. When 
my mother returned she went into her and sat with her a long time, holding 
her hands and smoothing her brow. Now the girls did step forward to make the 
meal, and the boys too. Our family disruption had shifted the roles all 
around. Boys helped with cooking. Girls brought in the fuel for the fire.

That night my grandmother grew worse, and my mother huddled close to her and 
tried to ease what was now a raging fever, cooling her face with a rag 
dipped in water fresh from the well. I could hear my grandmother's moaning 
from her fever dreams and visions, but nothing distinct. Every so often I 
would hear my mother say, "Hush, hush, it's alright. We're alright."

The third day dawned grey and strange again, and now my mother did not leave 
but sent my sisters to the well. As the sun rose well in the sky the girls 
returned, and a moment later, just behind them, a group of men came and 
stood in the doorway. At the front were my father and my uncle! I didn't 
know whether to laugh and embrace them, or to try to wrestle them to the 
ground and pound out my frustrations on them. Before I could decide my 
father approached me, and took me in his arms where I cried a long time. 
"There, there," he said. "It's alright. It's alright."

There was a man standing behind him; I almost hadn't noticed. He was not a 
large man, but he had a strange kind of stillness about him that filled the 
room. My mother came away from my grandmother's bedside, and, to my 
astonishment, gave a deep bow to the man. received him as a highly honored 
guest. Then she gestured to my grandmother's bed. The man walked forward and 
bent over the bed. He murmured some words I couldn't hear; then he reached 
out his hand. My grandmother-who had been either sleeping or delirious for 
nearly two days-reached back. When he pulled her to her feet, she looked at 
him a long time, her eyes clear, her fever gone, and she said, simply, 
"Welcome, rabbi." She gestured to him to recline at the table, and began to 
prepare a feast that more than made up for our three days of makeshift 
meals.

Later than evening I sat outside with my grandmother beneath a fig tree. The 
man-his name was Jesus-was still inside our house, but so were dozens of 
neighbors, and more dozens stood outside, straining to see in the windows 
and doors. There were probably a hundred all told, all of them, come to see 
the rabbi, the preacher, all coming for his healing touch.

"Grandmother, what happened?" I asked. She shook her head and smiled, and 
was quiet a long time. Finally she said, "I had a fever, and he healed me. I 
had anger, and he healed that too." And then she said, "You know your psalms 
boy. Say it with me. Psalm 147: 'The Lord builds up Jerusalem; he gathers 
the outcasts of Israel. He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their 
wounds.'

I knew my father would be leaving again. I knew that he would follow Jesus. 
Now I had the beginning of an idea why. I've always known I wanted to follow 
in my father's footsteps, from the time I was a tiny boy. I've always wanted 
to be that man, face shining in the firelight, ropes draped over my 
shoulder, heading down to the lakeside to climb into the boat. My father 
tells me that now, he fishes for people, to make them followers of Jesus, 
followers of his way. I see all these things, and I think: this is what I 
will do. I will follow my father down to the sea and into the boats and 
wherever it is that Jesus takes him.

(With credit to Miriam Therese Winter's book WomanWord)

(Comments to Pat at pastorunionpres@stny.rr.com.)

First Presbyterian Church, Oneonta, NY