Revelations(32)
I use that word a lot, don’t I? Always. Like a verbal mantle that will cover us and protect us, bind us to one another, forever and ever. Amen.
“Come into the water, Jude,” he entices me. Today—or should I say tonight, as I’m dreaming, therefore it must be night or does it matter anyway—we’re standing at the end of a large Hollywood-style swimming pool, one of those expensive in-ground things—not the kind shaped like a kidney bean, but one that could host an Olympic event. There is only the two of us though, that’s how it is in my dreams.
Just he and I.
We are both naked, and my eyes soak in his beautiful body hungrily, even as he beckons me to follow him. He glides his way to the diving board, climbs up the ladder. Is it my imagination or does he shimmy just a bit, for my benefit? Of course I’m right behind him, watching his every move. Spotting him, just in case he should fall.
Of course he won’t fall, for he is perfect. In every way. I’m there for him, nonetheless.
Jesus is at the end of the ladder now; he turns and holds out one hand toward me, beckoning to me. I am there—I am always there for him. I reach for him, my own hand yearning toward his, and just at the point where our fingertips barely graze one another, he begins to fall backward, in a long slow-motion drop I am powerless to stop. Why should I worry? The water will catch him, it will cradle and receive him, and I will be just behind him in the blink of an eye. But in that self-same blink of an eye, he has disappeared from my sight and he is gone.
I’m going in after him now, the muscles in my legs tightening as I prepare to dive in, frantic with worry that if I don’t hurry, I’ll lose him. Perhaps forever.
Before I can dive, I feel a hand upon my shoulder. I whirl about defensively, expecting the worst—aka Lucifer—but find myself face to face with his father instead. Jesus’ father, that is. Of course I recognize him, having two thousand years of familiarity with him. A handsome man he is, just like his son. Some might say even more so, but I’d disagree. Of course, that’s just my opinion, which tends to be rather biased.
He locks his dark eyes onto mine, and in that stentorian voice he uses when he wishes to get my attention—I know, you’re thinking that being who he is, that alone should do it, right?—he says to me, “Go to him. He needs you.” And then he too is gone. Instant adios in the blink of an eye.
I sit up with a start, my heart beating far too quickly, its rhythm a choppy staccato against my chest. It feels ready to explode, there in the darkness of the communal tent. Instinctively I reach for Jesus, for he was there when we fell asleep last night. He is not there now.
“Go to him.” The words echo in my head, and I waste no time debating their meaning with myself. I yank on my robes and depart the tent without a backward glance.
Despite the darkness, and the lateness of the hour, and despite the way my heart is hammering in my chest so that I can barely breathe, I have no difficulty in finding him for I’m so very attuned to him I could never lose my way. For he is my way, and ever shall be. I’m so relieved to see him I fall beside him onto the damp grass. My arms go about him protectively, overwhelmed by these feelings that bombard me, these emotions that impel me to be with him. All I want to do is to hold him close. He is so fragile, I can’t bear it, and I never stop to question what it is I’m doing—it feels too right.
“Judas,” he whispers, raising his face toward mine, and his eyes seem…
happy…to see me…Dare I think it, dare I hope? I love him, love him so very much, and have for so many years. I just need to admit it, tell him how I feel, and see if he feels anything of the same for me. That’s all. Sounds so easy, but can I do it, at long last? My heart is swelling now, almost unbearably, and my trembling hand strokes his face softly.
“Has something happened?” I ask, my concern for him undoubtedly spilling over, even as his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes of his, meet mine, and I can’t help but notice there’s something different in them. Something unguarded, almost vulnerable. Has it always been there and me too blinded by self-pity to see it? Or has he kept it hidden before? Or perhaps something has precipitated it? As he looks into me, a warmth steals over me and my breath catches in my throat. Oh dear God, is it possible? I have to know. I must know.
Our lips come together as if of their own volition, and there is no doubt he’s feeling something too, this is no fluke, no mere accident. His arms wind about my neck, and I pull him closer to me, the scent of him filling my nostrils, my desire for him only building the longer we kiss. No brotherly kiss, this one. Nothing fraternal here. There is no way to disguise this as anything but a kiss between lovers. Or would-be lovers. But my traitorous mind—damn, why do I have to be so logical at times—intervenes, and I realize he hasn’t answered my question, and dammit, why do I really have to know, right this minute? Is it because I’m afraid that whatever it is, I am but an outlet for his upset, for some sort of frustration he is experiencing?