Author Note: I wanted to try and imagine what it would have been like to be in different scenes in the Bible. No guarantees on updates but I figured I would leave this open just in case.
By the Pool (John 5:1-15)
There are far more people at the pool today than usual. I can barely see the glint of the water through the sea of moving legs. A small curl of frustration wells in my chest. Of course there are; it's a feast day. I had known that but…
It seemed like the Stirring happened more often on such days. (After thirty-eight years I considered myself something of an expert on the matter.) I thought that if I found a good place in the morning I would have a better chance of being the first in. But… Well… One thing lead to another and by the time. James and Sarah got the kids settled it was already late in the morning and we arrived to find all the good spots taken. I was lucky to find a place at all.
I sigh and shift on my mat. Pain scratches through my muscles as I adjust my legs so they won't go numb. I didn't need a repeat of that debacle.
The day wears on and the heat increases. Sweat beads on my forehead. The light sends sharp knives of pain through my eyes. Fog builds in my head.
Despite the sea of people surrounding me I feel so so alone. I find myself missing my family. I wonder how their visit to the Temple is going. An old ache stirs in my chest.
"LORD, please…" I pray in my heart. I can't bring myself to breathe a word out loud. "Please!"
Something catches my eye -I'm not sure what- but I look up to see a man staring at me… No staring isn't quite right… watching me. I start in surprise.
He meets my gaze without embarrassment and doesn't look away.
I'm not quite sure how to respond his continued scrutiny so I return the favor and study him. I find there's nothing particularly special about him. Nothing in appearance that sets him apart from the thousands of other pilgrims that I see pass through the city. Dust clings to his dark curly hair. His face is lined and leathery in a way that speaks of long hours under the sun. His clothes are worn but sturdy. Dirt cakes his feet.
My eyes are drawn up to meet his once again. There I finally find something. I'm not quite sure what, but something in his gaze holds me. His dark eyes meet mine with a familiarity that makes me feel almost exposed. As if somehow by merely looking at me he knows my every thought and secret. My heart beats a little quicker and a chill runs through me despite the heat.
"Do you want to be well?"
The question is spoken in an even tone but its suddenness startles me. I'm shaken out of the trance that his gaze held me in.
Do I want to be made well? Do I want to be made well?
Indignation stirs in me and I find myself reevaluating my impression of the stranger. Does he think I was sitting at the pool because I like watching people's legs? I almost want to scoff.
Or perhaps he was one of those who thought that because my sickness was not as visible as the others I am just making it up. Lazy. Liar. The words clung to me like stubborn thorns.
I open my mouth to retort but stop.
There is no derision in the strangers gaze, no mockery. But there is still that something that I can't quite but a name to. It compels me to think carefully. In the back of my mind something whispers: "This is important."
Do I want to be made well?
For the first time I truly think of what that would mean. It's been thirty eight years. The woman I was betrothed to has been given to another. I have no job. No home but that of my sister and her husband. My skills have deteriorated as the sickness made even working with my hands a miserable torture.
What would I do? Where would I turn to? Could I even start anew at this point in my life? Who would I be?
But…
I shift and the scratch of my mat against my leg makes it feel like my skin is being torn off.
The man is still watching me. Waiting.
Despite the uncertainty I can't help the hope I feel stir in my chest. The mere thought of being without pain stirs a desperate longing in my chest. To be able to walk easily. To be able to play with my nieces and nephew. To simply enjoy being.
I want it so desperately.
I want to be free.
"Sir," I say finally. "I have no one to help me into the pool. Whenever I try to get in, someone else always gets in first. I never even make it to the edge."
I didn't quite answer his question I suppose, but I'm certain he hears the longing in my voice.
He nods.
For a second he glances away toward the pool. His eyes trace the air, as if he's looking at something I can't see, and his lips move soundlessly; then his gaze snaps back to me and I straighten my spine under the force of it.
"Rise," He commands, firmly and irresistibly. "Take your mat, and Walk."
In a moment I'm on my feet and rolling my mat up. To disobey doesn't even cross my mind. You don't disobey that sort of Voice.
I'm standing there, in the center of the porch, my mat rolled up and slung over my shoulder ready to go home before I register exactly what has happened.
I'm not in pain.
Not only that but I'm standing easily… Effortlessly.
My pulse quickens. My eyes widen. I stare down at my legs in shock. Then I hold out one of my arms. I clench my fist and it moves easily, no flair of agony dogs the movement. The muscles that wasted away with the illness have been restored. With mounting excitement I try each part of my body and find that everything works as it should, as I had almost forgotten it could.
This shouldn't be possible… but there is no denying it.
The excitement mounts into joy, a smile spreads across my face and spills out of my mouth in laughter. With a wild and childish whoop I leap into the air just because I can.
I can't believe it.
I can…
"What are you doing carrying your mat on the Sabbath," a voice sneers.
I startle at that and look around for a moment before looking rather dumbly at the man and his companion glaring at me.
I blink at them, trying to comprehend their disdain and relevance of their statement before I realize that carrying my mat could count as working on the Sabbath. I don't even think of putting it down.
"The man who made me well told me: 'Take your mat and walk'," I explain.
And I was not going to disobey him.
Their incredulous and disdainful expressions tell me that they don't believe me. I recognize them now that I think of it. They were some of the ones who often accused me of being lazy.
"Who is this man who told you: 'take your mat and walk'," the older one of them asks.
"Oh it was…" But as I turn to look for him I realize with a shock that the man is gone.
I never got to ask his name. I never even got to thank him.
It's later in the day and I'm in the temple court. I made a quick stop by home early to drop off my mat and grab the little bit of money I managed to save up. With it I had bought a thank offering. The sun warmed stone of the temple floor is smooth and hard against my knees.
A quiet part of me revels in my ability to do this.
"You are well," A familiar voice says at my side.
I look up and see that it's the stranger.
"Sin no more," he continues. "Lest a worse thing come upon you."
Before I can process what he said, he starts to turn away.
"Wait!" I yell.
The man stops and turns back toward me, one eyebrow raised.
I struggle to my feet and run over to him. Some of the other temple goers are glaring at me. I ignore them.
"Who are you?"
I have to know.
A slight and almost mischievous smile steals across his face, causing his eyes to crinkle at the edges.
"I am called Jesus of Nazareth," He says.
Nazareth? That's surprising. I wouldn't have expected him to come from such a backwater place.
"Thank you," I say, bowing my head. "Thank you for healing me."
I want to say more but I can't speak past the lump in my throat.
A hand touches my shoulder and I look up. My breath catches. I have never seen such love in someone's eyes before. He smiles at me and, for just an instant, it feels like the two of us are the only people in the world.
He pulls me into his arms and holds me for just a moment.
"You're very welcome, my child," He says.
Then he lets go and, just like that, he vanishes into the crowd.