What happened to Moses? What if....

 Posted by Lisa Laree to Catching the Mosquito

It's been over two decades since I finished BSF (Bible Study Fellowship) or at least the courses offered then.  7 years of detailed Bible Study; I still recommend it.  The last class I did was Life of Moses, and, as I studied him, I began to wonder what happened when he walked up Mount Nebo that last time...and wondered if maybe God answered the request he had made many years earlier...  I think I have published this on one of the other blogs, but it may have been a Facebook note.  

This is from 2002.

                                Crossing Over

                                               

I was foolish when I was young; I ran from my folly and hid until he called me.

I was yet foolish when he called me – “Send someone else!”

But he would not.  Instead he gave me my own staff,

a charge to bring his people out of slavery,

                                and a promise to be with me.

And he told me his name, and I went.

 

Only one request of mine did he deny –

                to blot out my name from his book

                                if the people’s sin was unforgivable.

But he said no –  those who sinned against him

                would be blotted out of the book

I could not substitute my name for theirs—

And the people suffered a plague for what they had done.

 

Only one request did he partly fulfill –

                ‘Show me your glory!’ I begged,

                                Desiring to see at last the face behind the voice

                                To know even as I was known.

But he said he would show me his goodness instead,

                For no man could look on his face and live—

And he proclaimed his name as he passed by the shelter he gave me.

I saw only his back, and it was too wondrous to describe.

 

All the rest he granted.  Every last one.

He sent the plagues on Egypt, gave us water when there was none,

Sent his own presence with us, healed my sister…year after year,

                What I asked for, he gave. You’d think the people would’ve noticed the pattern.

But each hardship seemed to confuse their memory—

                Egypt, they remembered as a place of comfort and plenty (They were slaves!)

                The miraculous provision they’d had since they left there they remembered not at all.

 I finally lost my temper and hit the rock.  Twice.

                He had told me to simply speak.

                                What can I say?  I was wrong.

At the very end, I asked one more favor -- to be allowed to go in and see the land beyond the Jordan.

But that request only made him angry; I will get no special dispensation.

I must bear the consequences of my own sin…just like the rest of my generation.

So now I am foolish in my old age, and Joshua will lead the people into their inheritance.

 

It has been a long walk from Egypt.

                One more walk up the mountain to gaze into the land I on which I will never walk.

It is a good land, and green.  If the people learn obedience, they will do well there.

 

Here I am.  Yes, Lord, I remember asking to see your glory.

                Do you mean NOW?

 

Ah, my Lord and my God! The glory!  The glory! The glory…!

 

But, you said no one could see your face and live…

                Why are you laughing?

                I did?

 

Oh.  I hadn’t noticed.

Walk to the Well

 Posted by Lisa Laree to Catching The Mosquito

I originally wrote this back in...2005, according to the notes I have.  We were doing an Easter production at church, and the lady who was portraying the Woman at the Well endured a lot of good-natured chaff because of her 'floozie' character.  She took it well, but it kinda grated on me.  We look at this lady through our modern eyes and believe that she was the one who brought on all her trouble.  A woman of the first century really didn't have that kind of power.  So this  found its way onto a page; kind of my way of saying, 'you don't know what someone else is going through...'

I did publish it on the sewing blog early on; I believe I have made some small edits since then. Interesting that the Chosen, while keeping to the 'she's at fault' narrative, still has an element or two that are very similar to this story...

 

She stepped out into the midday heat as she looped the long rope over her shoulder before hoisting the empty water jug to her shoulder as well.  At least it was a legitimate excuse to get out of the house.  She didn’t want to be there when Zophah returned…the bruise on her cheek wasn’t quite faded from the last time he wandered in at noon after drinking all night and didn’t find some odd thing to his liking.  She thought a moment and realized she couldn’t even remember what had upset him that time.  Not that it really mattered – when he was drunk there was no telling what would set him off.  But if she wasn’t there, he would stagger off to his sleeping mat and snore away the rest of the day, returning to his normal sullen apathy when he awoke.  If she’d timed things right, there’d be no bruises today.

 

As her feet turned onto the rocky path to Jacob’s Well, she felt despair wash over her.  Nothing about her life satisfied the least of the dreams she’d had when she was young.  Dreams any young girl would recognize – a husband who cared for her, provided for her in a home that heard children laughing and welcomed friends and family.  --Where did I ever get the notion life would be like that, she thought bitterly.  The plainest and most awkward fifth daughter in a poor family, she was fortunate that her father even found her a husband, although when she raised her barely fifteen year old eyes to gaze upon her groom at the wedding feast and saw a fat, toothless man only four years younger than her own father, ‘fortunate’ was not the word that came to her mind. She was Gera’s third wife, his hope for offspring after his first two wives had died childless.  Not that he treated her badly, so long as she was available to him for the almost nightly attempt to sire a child.  She sighed, thinking how she used to welcome her monthly courses, as that was the only time she could count on a night to herself.  However, for whatever reason, despite all his efforts, those courses continued to flow and there was no child.

 

Then Gera had died suddenly after only eighteen months of marriage, simply collapsing in the vineyard he tended.  As he had no near kinsmen she’d returned to her father’s house, much to his disgust.  He had assumed she’d been too proud to allow the older man to share her bed, and her failure to produce a son for her husband became her shame.  Daily her father reminded her that she was a reproach to the family, a burden that they could not get free of.  For who would marry a cold widow woman who would not give her husband the child he wanted?  And what would become of her if she didn’t marry?

 

But there was an offer of marriage. After the mourning period had passed, Bered the butcher arrived on her father’s doorstep, proposing marriage.  He had two children already, his wife had died birthing a third, stillborn child.  Bered needed a young, strong woman to help him keep house and tend the children.  Her father was enormously relieved…not only would she have a good husband, but she would have all the fresh meat she desired!  What a match! 

 

-- Yes, she thought, passing the last house of the village and through the south gate – that was a good match.  Bered was a good man.  He told her he’d chosen her for his second wife because she knew what it was like to be bereaved.  An intelligent, thoughtful man, Bered was well able to carry on conversation with any who came into the shop for meat.  She had listened to the conversations, learning many things herself.  It was probably as close to happy as she’d ever been.  But it was such a brief time.  The fever that swept through the village two years after they married took not only her newborn son, her mother, three of her sisters and their families, but Bered and his daughter as well.  Bered’s brother took her stepson into his house but, as his brother had left a son, refused to take her, even as household laborer.  It may have been due to his wife’s insecurities, but it didn’t matter now.  --Nothing matters now, she thought with a sigh as she sat on a large rock, more to postpone the inevitable return to the house in which she dwelt than because she needed to rest.  Only a few insects droned about in the merciless sunshine and she smiled to herself, admitting that it was worth venturing out in the blistering heat to avoid meeting anyone who had an opinion about her.  No one knew what had really happened in her life…or seemed to care.

 

After Bered’s death, she had returned once more to her father’s house, grieving, lonely, and weak, having barely survived the illness herself.  She expected to spend the rest of her days caring for her family in her mother’s stead.  However, her father soon remarried and his new wife, Serah, scarcely older than she was, was determined to be the woman in charge of the day to day running of the home and began at once to demand that her husband find a suitable match for his now twice-widowed daughter. A good match wasn’t the goal…any match was acceptable.  After the fever had decimated the town’s population, there were several widowed men who would’ve certainly been at least as kind to her as Bered had been, but the first one to ask was the one to whom she was given, and he would not have been her choice. 

 

Ashvath was a big man, strong and, to her father’s eyes, well able to protect and care for his daughter.  But Ashvath was violent and prone to jealousy.  He frequently reminded her that she ought to be more grateful that he took her out of her father’s house, as homely and unlovely as she was.  She often wondered why he even bothered with her…and wished he hadn’t.  His wife had also died in the epidemic, and Ashvath held her up as the standard of perfection that the weary and worn young woman could not begin to equal.  At first, his temper tantrums were only verbal, but little by little they began to include physical violence.  He began frequenting the brothel in the village, telling her simply that she was too ugly to satisfy him.  He did spend the occasional night in her bed, however, and eventually a child was conceived.  The worst beating she had was when she informed him she was pregnant…cursing her, he declared that she had defiled his bed with another man while he was away.  He’d slapped her against the wall, then pushed her backward over a low bench and stomped off into the night, leaving her unconscious on the floor from the violent crack of her skull against the beaten earth.  How long she lay there she had no idea, but when she once more became aware of herself she was bleeding profusely.  The infection that followed the miscarriage nearly killed her again and apparently rendered her infertile as well, for she never conceived again.  She endured seven years of hell with Ashvath before he lost his temper with the wrong person and died in the brothel with a knife in his belly.

 

Since Ashvath died with no offspring, she found herself bound over in marriage to his brother, Aniam, as was the custom, in order to provide an heir for the family.  Unfortunately, Aniam was no less cruel than his brother.  He had sent his first wife away with a divorce decree, stating that she had repeatedly burned his meals.  His second wife had died giving birth to a son, who had only outlived his mother by two weeks before he died of milk fever.  Three more years of misery as Anaim’s wife passed before it became apparent to them both that she was barren.  Declaring her an unfit wife, incapable of producing an heir for either him or his brother, he’d given her a divorce decree and pushed her out of his house with only the clothes on her body.

 

She sighed, realizing she couldn’t spend all day on the trip to the well and stood, hoisting the jar once again and turning down the hill toward the well, which was in a small grove of trees ahead of her.  As she slowly descended in the shimmering heat, she remembered the humiliation of standing in the street, holding the small scroll that damned her as useless.  In almost unbearable shame, she forced herself to return to her father’s house.  There was simply nowhere else for her to go.  Her stepmother had stood in the doorway, refusing to let her in.  “You’re thirty years old!” Serah had hissed.  “Go and make your own way!”  Her father had unexpectedly taken her part, stepping into the door and pulling his wife back.  “There is no other way for her,” he’d bitterly commented.  “Would you have her go to the brothel?”  Serah had looked at her with distaste. “Let her go to her sister’s house.  She can care for her!”  She’d watched as her father looked from her to Serah and back.  “You could help Gomer care for her children.  Perhaps that would be best.”  --Yes, she thought, imagining what life would’ve been like living with Serah in her father’s house, --Perhaps that was the best.

 

Not that life in her sister’s house had been anything to rejoice over.  Gomer had eight children, one of whom had been born with deformed feet and had to be carried about.  She’d worked hard for her keep, never forgetting that it was her sister and her brother-in-law’s charity that gave her any semblance of respectability.  But it was at least somewhat peaceful…until her brother-in-law began to take notice of her in uncomfortable ways.  Dropping hints that she could certainly show him a little more kindness, since he’d shown her such kindness.  Furtively touching her when he walked by.  She began to be frightened that her sister would accuse her of attempting to seduce him and turn her out, but her attempts to avoid him seemed only to make him more insistent.  In desperation, she went once more to her father to ask him to find her a husband, saying only that she wished for a home of her own.  Surprised, he told her he had actually had someone ask about her that very week.  “Who is it?” She inquired, hopeful.  Her father had hesitated a moment before answering, “Jalam.”

 

Jalam was the town fool, the carcass collector.  The butt of all the jokes and the lowest man on the village social ladder.  She’d found out later that he had been lamenting to a group of men sitting in the town’s dung gate that he’d not been able to find a wife, and one of them – he wouldn’t say which one – had suggested that she might have him.  Although Jalam didn’t tell her they’d all laughed when the suggestion was made, her step-mother made sure she found out. But keeping house for Jalam, as foul as it could be at times, was still better than avoiding her brother-in-law’s attention.  Jalam was child-like, and she felt more like his mother than his wife.  She smiled slightly as she remembered some of the more foolish things he’d done…things that had made her furious at the time, but now, after he’d disappeared, seemed comical.

 

The smile quickly faded as she suddenly saw that she was not alone on the path.  About a dozen men were emerging from the grove around the well and heading up the path toward the village.  She took in their manner of dress as she realized they had not yet seen her.  Looking around in a panic, she saw a large rock between two large thorn bushes about ten feet from the path.  She quickly ducked around behind it before the men had gone twenty feet, and peeked out at them through the branches of the thorn bush to verify her first impression.  Jews!  What were Jews doing in that part of Samaria?  Jews never walked through Samaria!  They considered the Samaritans so corrupt that they would have no dealings with them whatever, lest their lives be somehow tainted with the Samaritan bad seed.  She had absolutely no desire to encounter any Jews.  She peeked through the spines of the thorn bush again to see that the men had stopped, looking back toward the grove as one hurried back as if he’d forgotten something.  She moved away from her vantage spot to make herself less likely to be noticed from the path and nearly held her breath until the man returned to the group and they continued up the path, past her hiding place and on up the hill.  She waited a full five minutes after the world fell silent again before she drew a deep breath, picked up the water jug and crept back out to the path.

 

Thinking of Jalam, she wondered again what had happened to him.  Eighteen months ago, after talking mysteriously about some plan he had to become wealthy, he’d walked away from the house at his usual time and never returned.  No one knew what had happened to him.  She hadn’t worried at first; he’d gone off before for days with expectations of finding treasure, or pursuing some wild plan that he expected to make him wealthy and the envy of everyone in the town, but he’d always returned, rather sheepishly admitting that things hadn’t gone as he’d expected.  But as the weeks passed she began to suspect that some horrible thing must’ve happened to him.  After a cursory search in the area, the townspeople gave up looking for him…or even caring what had happened to him.  The general opinion was that he’d decided to leave the village and the carcasses and pursue his crazy schemes in some far off place.

 

That meant she was alone, in Jalam’s house.  She knew she could glean in the fields and perhaps hire herself out as a laundress in order to survive, but it was more difficult than she thought.  Zophah began coming by the house, insinuating that he’d take care of her, if she’d let him move in.  She resisted him for about five weeks, then the tax collector came and told her he would turn the house over to Jalam’s relatives in the next village if she couldn’t pay the taxes.  She found herself in a desperate position again.  Without proof of Jalam’s death, she couldn’t marry again…and she couldn’t return to either her father’s or her sister’s house...and she was hungry.  The next time Zophah asked her if he could move in and take care of her, she swallowed hard and said yes.

 

She honestly didn’t think her place in society could drop much lower than it was as Jalam’s wife, but she quickly found out that there was a much lower place to be.  Living with Zophah made her the village slut.  The women nearly stoned her the first evening she came to the well for water after he moved in, so she began coming at odd times…like noon, when no one else ventured out.  Once again despair washed over her.  If only there was some way she could go back and start over…be happy….

 

Suddenly she stopped as she rounded the first tree in the grove which shaded Jacob’s Well and saw the well itself.  To her horror, there was a man sitting on the ground next to it with his back to her.  From the look of him, he was Jewish, like the others who had just passed her.  She felt tears rising as she realized this could mean the others were returning…but it could be as much as an hour before they did so.  Would the man sit by the well that long?    There was nothing to do but get her water and hope he left her alone.  She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, focused on the side of the well opposite him and walked as quietly as she could toward that spot.

 

When she was no more than two feet from the well, he suddenly turned around and fixed amazingly kind eyes on hers.

 

“Will you give me a drink?”

 

 

The Parable of the Apple Tree

 Posted by Lisa Laree to Catching the Mosquito

I originally wrote this piece in 2000; I have tweaked it a bit since then, but I did post it in its original form when I first started the sewing blog back in 2005.  Thought I would put the updated version here.

ONCE UPON A TIME there was a young apple tree.  This apple tree grew in a very large orchard owned by a wise and kind Farmer.  When the Farmer came by, he always congratulated the little tree on growing into a very good tree and said that the tree would, after growing enough, bear much good fruit.  The apple tree loved the Farmer very much and wanted nothing more than to make the Farmer happy.  The tree could hardly wait to be able to produce fruit for the Farmer.

However, it was such a very large orchard that the Farmer had many hired hands to help him tend the trees.  The hired hands told the little tree that it took very hard work to become a good fruit-bearing tree.  “The Farmer isn’t happy with trees that don’t bear fruit,” they said.  “If you don’t bear fruit, you’ll be cut down and thrown into the fire.”  This frightened the little tree terribly, so much that the tree tried and tried to bear fruit to make the Farmer happy.  But the apple tree was still too young and nothing happened.

The next time the Farmer came by, the little tree thought, “What if he says I must be cut down?” Instead of joy at the sight of the Farmer, the tree felt anxious and afraid.

          But the Farmer saw the tree’s distress.  “What has frightened you?” he asked gently.

          The little tree began weeping.  “Oh, master, I have tried ever so hard to bear fruit, but nothing has happened.  I’m afraid I’m not a very good apple tree and you will have me cut down.”

          The Farmer smiled and gently patted the little tree.  “I have planted you where you will get good sunlight, refreshing rain and good nutrients from the soil.  Lift your leaves to the sunlight and put your roots deep into the soil.  When you do these things, you will grow strong and then you will bear much good fruit.”  Then the Farmer dug around the tree and put fertilizer into the soil.  Just before he left, he smiled again at the little tree.  “I will give you everything you need to be a good apple tree.  Just trust me and all will be well.”

          The little tree sighed happily, thinking.  “The Farmer really loves me…I will do just as he says.”  So the apple tree put great effort into growing, lifting all the leaves high to the sun and pushing roots deep into the good soil. Season after season, the tree grew bigger and stronger and the Farmer was pleased.

          Then, one spring, the sun was so warm and the apple tree was getting such good nourishment from the soil that the tree was not only growing but making flowers also.  Amazed, the tree discovered that it wasn’t at all hard to make flowers, as the hired hands had hinted.  The apple tree was getting more food from the sun and the soil than growing required, and all the extra was producing many, many beautiful blossoms.

The Farmer was very pleased.  But the hired hands shook their heads when they went by.  “Oh, you’re covered with blossoms, right enough,” they said. “But blossoms aren’t the same as fruit.  You’d better make sure all those blossoms turn into fruit.”

          Their words made the apple tree anxious at first, but the tree remembered that the Farmer had promised to provide everything needed to make fruit.  Trust the Farmer, the tree thought, and lifted  leaves higher and pushed roots deeper.

          Spring turned into summer.  All the petals fell off the blossoms on the apple tree, and where the flowers had been little green balls now appeared.   The little green balls grew and grew into green apples.  When summer turned to fall, the apples began to turn red.  They were very heavy and hard to hold; some fell to the ground.  Even so, the Farmer came by and said to the tree, “You are doing exactly what you are supposed to do.  I am very pleased.”  The apple tree was very happy. 

But, when the hired hands came by to pick the apples, they shook their heads.  “Oh, sure, this is fruit,” they said, “But it’s not the kind of fruit the Farmer expects.”  Then they took the apples and went away.

          Puzzled, the apple tree wondered -- How could the Farmer be expecting any fruit other than apples?  But the Farmer did not come by again before the apple tree went to sleep for the winter, and the question was not answered.

          The next spring was much like the one before.  Again, the sun was warm and the soil was rich and the apple tree was covered with blossoms.  The hired hands came by and noticed that, around the apple tree where the apples had fallen in the autumn, tiny apple seedlings were growing.  “Ah!” they exclaimed, “This is more like it!  The Farmer will be very pleased with you...you have produced five more apple trees!” Then they dug up the seedlings to transplant them to where they could grow better.

          Now the apple tree understood what the hired hands had said in the fall.  It wasn’t the apples that the Farmer wanted...it was the trees that grew from the apples!  The tree resolved to let any apples that got at all heavy drop to the ground so they would produce more trees.  He so wanted to please the Farmer!

          So, when the fall came and the apples began to grow heavy, the apple tree did not even try to hold them.  Many fell to the ground.  Surely, when the spring came there would be a multitude of apple seedlings around the tree and the Farmer would be greatly pleased. 

But, with so many apples on the ground, there was a strong smell of rotting apples.  The smell attracted many small animals who came and carried away the apples… and all the seeds.

When spring came, there were no seedlings under the tree.  The hired hands all shook their heads.  “If you really loved the Farmer,” they said, “You would produce the kind of fruit he really likes.”  This made the apple tree very sad, for the tree truly loved the Farmer and wanted to please him.  The tree was determined to be as good a tree as possible and set about pushing new roots deeper into the soil and opening every leaf to the sun. Once again the tree was covered with many, many blossoms and felt sure the Farmer would be pleased.

The Farmer and the hired hands soon came around again. “Well,” the Farmer said, “You have many blossoms again this year, but you need to hold on to the fruit.  We will prune you a bit...that should help you hold it.”  Then they trimmed some of the branches on the apple tree.  It was very painful, but, after the wounds healed, the tree was surprised to feel quite a bit stronger.  The apples didn’t seem nearly so heavy.

However, now the tree was really confused.  If the Farmer wanted more apple trees, the apples would have to fall.  Otherwise, there would be no seeds on the ground from which new seedlings could grow.  But the Farmer seemed to want the tree to hold on to the apples.  Finally, the tree decided to drop all the fruit that was not growing properly or that insects had damaged and hang on tightly to the rest.  Hopefully, that would please the Farmer.

          That fall, there were many good apples that the tree hung on to tightly, and several not-so-good apples that were allowed to drop to the ground according to the plan.  The Farmer came by with the hired hands when the apples were harvested and nodded approvingly to the apple tree.  “You’re doing well.”  The tree was very happy.

          The next spring was very different from the previous springs.  There was not much rain, and the soil was very dry.  Because the tree had grown so well in the earlier years, all the roots were deep enough to find water down in the soil.  But there was not enough water to cause the apple seeds that had fallen the previous season to grow.  The hired hands came by and shook their heads.  “Obviously, this tree does not love the Farmer.  There are no seedlings here.  It’s too bad...after all the farmer has done, too.”  Then they went away.

          The tree was heartbroken.  Making apples wasn’t difficult, but it was impossible to control whether or not those apples turned into seedlings.  The apple tree could not see any way to please the Farmer and grew very discouraged.  The sun was hot, and the ground was dry and hard, and the apple tree just didn’t have the heart to think about lifting leaves higher or pushing roots deeper.  Only a few blossoms appeared.

When the Farmer came by and saw the tree, he exclaimed sadly, “You have given up!  I know it is very dry, but there is enough water deep, deep down for you to produce more blossoms than that!  Why haven’t you reached down for it?”

          Once again, the apple tree began to weep.  Despite feeling weak and discouraged, the tree still loved the Farmer dearly and was pained that the Farmer was disappointed. “Oh, master,” the tree sobbed, “I did want so badly to please you, but the hired hands said I wasn’t producing the right kind of fruit.  I tried and I tried, but I can’t make the apples turn into apple trees.  First the animals came and took them, then the weather was too hot and dry for the seeds to grow.  Now you will cut me down because I didn’t produce enough fruit.”  And the tree was overcome with grief.

          To the apple tree’s surprise, the farmer wrapped his arms around the tree’s trunk and tears slipped down his cheeks as well.  “Oh, my dear tree, that’s not it at all! Apple trees are not fruit!  They are the products that come from the fruit.  You cannot cause the seeds to turn into trees...only I can do that.” He explained. “I have promised to give you all you need.  If you do as I have told you, you will produce many apples.  Then, I can take the seeds from those apples and plant them in good soil, keep the animals away from them and see that they have what they need to grow.  There were five seedlings that sprouted here two years ago, but I have over fifty trees growing from the seeds that we took from apples we picked from your branches.  You must trust me and grow strong.”

          Then the apple tree understood that all the Farmer wanted to see was a growing apple tree… then the fruit would grow as well.  So the tree took heart and pushed more roots down deep into the soil to where the cool water was and drank deeply.  Lifting leaves up to the sun, the tree grew stronger and encouraged.  Since the time for setting blossoms was past, the tree only produced a few apples that season.  But they were the largest and sweetest apples produced by any tree on the entire orchard, for the apple tree put all the love for the farmer into those apples.  When the harvest came, not a single one of those big, beautiful apples had fallen to the ground. 

Now, when the hired hands shook their heads as they always did, the apple tree did not get discouraged.  The tree had learned to listen to what the Farmer said, and the Farmer himself often came by to say, “You are doing well.  I am very pleased.”