A.D. 30(123)

I would let Shaquilath see what she had ordered.

Distraught and drained, I began to walk toward the sound of her voice, knowing that Maliku’s blade would cut into me at any moment.

“She runs to her black slave?” Maliku taunted.

But he didn’t understand. I was the slave. And blindness once again my master.

I kept walking, but now a terrible sorrow welled up from deep within me and I felt as though I might weep.

Do not allow fear to bind you up, dear one.

I was simply placing one foot in front of the other, expecting a blow from behind, when Yeshua’s tender words, spoken that first night in Capernaum, whispered again to me there in the arena. And with those words, the world shifted.

Or I might say quieted, because Maliku said something behind me and he sounded far away. So did the calls from the arena.

But the shift wasn’t only in sound, it was also in speed, for the world seemed to slow. My pace by half, my arms swinging at my sides as though in water.

You will only lose what you already have.

What do I have?

I heard a very soft laugh that immediately reminded of Yeshua on the boat in my dream, unaffected by the storm. And I knew the answer to my own question. I knew what I had. He had given it to me in the olive grove.

Sight.

Sight to see all that I could not see with the eyes in my head. Sight to see that the storm did not threaten me. Sight to see that I dwelled in that kingdom called heaven. Sight to see my Father, who did not judge me. Sight to see that there was nothing to be afraid of. Ever.

Sight to see Yeshua and his way.

I took one more step, but now even my heart seemed to have slowed and I stopped there, in the middle of the arena.

His words came to me again, the same he’d said to his disciples after calming the storm.

Why are you afraid?

His truth flooded me. Was I not the daughter of Yeshua’s Father? Had he not made the sea? Was the desert not his resting place?

Had I forgotten so quickly? I had believed in Yeshua, yes, but had I known his Father? And was this not truly my Father?

I could hardly breathe for the emotion that choked me.

“Abba?”

The word came to my lips as the simple question of a young girl looking up into the eyes of a king to know if she was his. The mere call of a sparrow.

But it seemed to fill the whole world, now silenced and enshrouded by mystery.

I could hear nothing except my own heartbeat. The entire arena seemed to have faded into a distant realm. In a faint whisper, daring to believe, I spoke again.

“Father…”

His response came from the stillness. A breath.

His breath, flowing over me like life-giving water in the deepest sands. It washed over my face and down my neck and arms. Over my chest and belly and down my legs.

You are mine, his breath said.

“Yes,” I whispered, closing my eyes against tears that welled. “Yes…”

Trust me.

I felt my knees shaking. My tears spilled over and now trailed down my cheeks. I knew that thousands were watching me in the arena, and that Maliku might even now be raising his sword to deliver his final blow.

Of all this I was aware, but only as a distant abstraction. For I was now seeing through the eyes of belief in a different realm full of mystery and wonder to be embraced as only a child can embrace.

I was that child, made clean and perfect in the presence of her Father.

In me there was no shame, for I was now born into honor. I was Rami’s daughter only in name. And even now I would put my faith in a new name, born of a new Father who saw only honor in me.

A burning heat swept over my face, and there with my eyes closed, I saw more.

I saw them all, crying out to know and be known. I saw Judah. I saw Saba and Aretas and Shaquilath and Rami and Herod and Phasa. I saw Maliku. Children, like me, crushed by the desert, longing for love.

But they had not learned.

I saw Yeshua and I wept. I wept because he too had suffered and so had learned submission, and then he had shown me the way to follow. I wept because I knew that his suffering was not yet complete, however it might come.

But even more, I wept because Yeshua had finally shown me who I was.

I was the daughter of my Father. No harm could come to me. Ever.

Do you have faith, Daughter?

“I see…” I said, speaking through my tears. “I see…”

It is only the beginning.

The half of it, I thought. That half of Yeshua’s way was letting go of this troubled world to see another of peace and power. And how easily forgotten was that way. Had I not forgotten?

The air was perfectly silent.

But now I remembered.

I stilled my breath and opened my eyes.

I saw the arena swimming in my own tears. But the view was no longer milky.

I could see?

So I blinked. Then twice. The image of Maliku, not so far away, came into sharp focus. Shaquilath on the platform, much closer than I had assumed she’d be. Phasa and Aretas, beside her, staring out. Saba beside the camels. The guards with their tall spears, lining the walls, facing me.