Tell Blind Bartimaeus to Chill

 

The feelings I felt inside of me were not new. I groaned as I heard the pleas, again. The same whiney voice crying out for attention.

"We all have problems man!" the words formed in my brain. I wish I could help relieve the pain, but I really can't. Somehow, part of living in this fallen world, means that we will all experience pain. 

Suddenly, as I pondered these things, a verse popped into my head. I had often heard that verse, tucked in the middle of a common Bible story: "...they rebuked him... (Luke 18:39)" I often wondered why.

Why would anyone rebuke a blind man who was crying out for Jesus to heal him?! Even if they didn't have compassion on him as a person, wouldn't natural, human curiosity want to stand by and see if Jesus might heal him?

But, here I was, in the crowd, and my heart was saying the same thing. Suddenly I understood.

Maybe Blind Bartimaeus was well know. Maybe, every day he felt his way to the same spot on the highway and cried. All day, every day. 

"Even Samson ground grain when his eyes were poked out!" someone reprimanded. "Surely there is SOMETHING even a blind man can do!"

Sometimes he sat in the middle of the road. "I can't see." he reminded people when they complained. "You can tell where the road is." they argued. And, he cried again.

This was a main highway that people traveled on almost constantly. 

If there was a wedding, or a funeral, or some other kind of procession, everyone knew there would be one uninvited guest: blind Bartimaeus, sitting on the side of the road, dressed in rags, drawing the focus of the day onto himself, even if it was just for a moment.

"It's embarrassing," someone may have said, "to have him begging right outside our city gates."

Why do I think that?

Because I have thought those things as I watched someone begging for someone to notice him. The crazy thing is: literally everyone DOES notice him. 

No amount of pennies in a cup, or friendly conversations, or drinks of cold water, could change the man standing on the side of the road, just outside of the city gates. 

Not then.

Not now.

Some days, we are busy and tired and don't want to be bothered.

If I was in the crowd, this would have been a day like that.

Jesus of Nazareth had risen in popularity. He was a wise teacher. He told stories that made a person think. He talked as he walked. It was hard to hear with everyone around. Maybe I would have caught a word here, or there. 

The people in the front tried to quiet everyone down and clear the path, so everyone would have a better chance of hearing.

They were almost to Jericho, to the city gates, when a blind man yelled to whoever was on the road. "Who is coming? I hear a lot of people!"

"It is Jesus of Nazareth." they answered, hoping he would quiet down so they could hear what Jesus was saying. It was a really important topic. He was telling them about his upcoming death and resurrection. This was not the time for interruptions. Bartimaeus could collect coins all day every day. Jesus was only here for a little while and there was so much to learn. Couldn't the blind man hear that he was interrupting an important discussion?

"Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!" Bartimaeus yelled even louder, planting himself in the middle of the road. His young nephew, who had the job of leading him around, hid his face in embarrassment. 

"Stop! Just stop!" came out of MY mouth. And, I finally understood. ALL of the interrupted important conversations. All the celebrations that turned into being about him instead of the person who we met to honor. Even interruptions of my time with Jesus!

I paused when I heard it, and I saw the crowd and my Lord. Oh how I wanted to hear every word He had to say. Just this one day I wanted to be able to walk past the blind man without having to shower him with attention.

I tried to shush him, to shoo him away, but he just hollered louder.

Then, Jesus saw him...

                                        ...and stopped.

Jesus walked right up to that annoying, pestering beggar and asked him a question.

"What do you want me to do for you?"

Now don't go thinking that maybe I should have thought to ask him that question. Because, I had, many times. That exact question! 

True today I was hushing him, but many times I had stopped and asked him exactly the same question. But, his requests were always impossible! It was no use even listening to his outlandish demands.

"Lord, I want to see again." the blind man requested.

I held my breath.

Finally he was asking the right question to the right person.

"Receive your sight; your faith has made you whole!" Jesus said.

Suddenly the blind man wasn't blind anymore, but he wasn't quiet either. He was shouting the praises of God. But, now he wasn't blocking the road. He was following. Following the only One who could give him what he longed for.

The little boy, who was his guide, was smiling, a free happy smile, and so was I. 

And, now I also see that it wasn't just the blind man who received healing that day. Many other burdens were lifted.

Jesus, really did come to lift heavy burdens, set captives free and give life: abundant, beautiful life!

I don't know what this realization will change in me. Maybe nothing. Or, maybe, next time I feel like telling someone to "just chill" I'll just get out of the way and let someone handle this who can see deep into the heart and provide what I can not.

Friends Without Words

 

This week I have a family history story on my mind. (I have a Bible one on my mind too, but that one needs to wobble around in my head a bit longer before I can put it into words.) Speaking of words... this story is about a friendship that lasted many years, yet the young ladies never spoke a word to each other. 

My great-great grandma, Harriet Melinda Nixon was born in Ontario, Canada in 1858. As the ninth of ten children, she had a wonderful childhood. Her favorite place to play was in the chicken house down by the creek. She played with the glass eggs her Dad had placed in the nests to encourage the chickens to lay eggs in the correct spot. Little Hattie loved to set up house in the hen house. She brought her little tin cups and a small blanket and set up a nice table to serve her baby dolls tea. Mint growing down by the creek was perfect for making tea. 

One day a visitor stopped by her little house. He motioned to the tea and little Hattie nodded and smiled. She moved her dolly off of the stool and he sat and drank the tea. She gave him a biscuit from her apron pocket and refilled the little tin cup. He smiled his thanks and left. She wasn't scared. Her Mama often served their neighbors. The kitchen was always open. I guess it was a different world back then.

However, it wasn't long, and the man with long black hair was back. This time a shy little girl, who looked just like him, peaked out from behind him. He turned and walked away, leaving the children to stare at each other for a few minutes. 

Hattie handed the girl a biscuit and pointed to the little makeshift table. The girls played all afternoon with their baby dolls and busily picked tea leaves and made more tea and giggled as they played. It was so fun. All summer Hattie played in the hen house and often her little friend would join her. Their baby dolls napped together in one of the nests while the girls walked hand-in-hand to the creek to cool off.

One day Hattie's friend seemed sad. She was trying to tell her something. Finally Hattie realized it was time for their summertime neighbors to move south. The girls hugged and cried. The little brown-eyed girl held out her precious baby doll to Hattie. The little blue-eyed girl (or maybe green-eyed, she was Irish) accepted the gift. She picked up her dear little cornhusk dolly and handed it to her friend. The girls hugged again and Hattie's best friend left. 

Hattie's little friend never visited her in that chicken house again. Eventually the Nixon family migrated to the USA, or maybe Harriet migrated after she married a handsome farm boy from the USA named John Stratton. They settled in the hills of Missouri. I guess they probably lived in a log cabin, or maybe even a sod house. One day in late fall (I believe it would have been about November 1878), John left Hattie to care for the little farm while he took a trip to St. Joseph, Mo, nearly 20 miles away, for supplies. He would be gone three days. Mrs. Stratton was a woman now. She would be fine. She smiled as she waved to the wagon as it faded into the distance. She wiped a tear away. "It must be the dust." she thought. It was silly to cry. Alone in the tiny house, with no neighbors in sight, Mrs. Stratton looked for things to keep herself busy. Dear John would be home soon. Three days wasn't long. She busied herself getting ready for the little life growing inside her belly. She made a little bed next to their own. This time her baby wouldn't have to sleep in a nest of straw. She laughed as she remembered her hen house turned play house! She sewed tiny blankets and knitted little socks. It was early to make a bed. The baby wouldn't come until the spring, but it gave her something to do. The next morning she noticed the wind picking up as she did the morning chores. Was a storm coming? She knew how to prepare, and soon everything was ready for whatever nature might throw at them. Hopefully it wasn't going to be a tornado! She was scared to be without John. She may be a grown woman of 20, but as the ninth child in her family, she had never really been alone, not until now.

She lit a lamp and bolted the door shut and sat down to do some knitting. It got darker and darker outside. Then, it was all white. A blizzard? "Oh dear! I hope John has made it to St. Joseph. I hope he stayed in town and hasn't tried to head home." She began to pray, silently at first, but as the wind howled she prayed even louder! 

Suddenly there was a thump at the door. Was it a branch? An animal? She didn't go to the door at first, but then she heard something that sounded like crying. She unbolted the door and saw a mound of what looked like a blanket in front of her door. "It's a woman!" she realized as she began to pull her into the house. 

The young, native woman was weak and sweating with fever. She handed Mrs. Stratton a tiny bundle and collapsed onto the floor. The baby opened it's mouth to cry, but nothing came out. She laid the baby in the tiny bed and helped the woman into her bed. Then she got busy making broth. For a few days Harriet nursed her patients faithfully. The tiny baby got stronger every day. Harriet carefully brushed the woman's long black hair. She dozed in her chair in between cooking and tending to her guests. Hattie had never been so tired. One night she made herself a bed on the floor and fell fast asleep. When she woke up it was very quiet. The wind had stopped howling. The sun was out. She blinked her eyes. Something else was different too. She jumped to her feet! The baby was gone! The woman was gone. Her bed was made perfectly and in the baby's bed lay a little something. She walked towards the bundle, warm sunlight streaming through their one window. She picked up the little something and gasped. It was a little corncob doll. Some say that all corncob dolls look alike. Some say there is no way that could have been the same person who Hattie played with all those years ago. How could a Native American from Canada be in Missouri? Some say I am remembering the story my Grandma told me completely wrong and that I actually read it in Little House on the Prairie, or some other book written about that time period.

Maybe they are right. I do have an imaginative memory. But, I love this story and I do hope that it is true. I hope it happened many times 150 years ago. I hope it happened in my ancestor's house and Laura's and even your ancestor's home! More than that I hope it continues happening now. What is "it"? It is people from completely different cultures showing kindness and hospitality to other humans. It is people not being afraid to open the door and sit down at the same table and share our favorite and best with total strangers.

We have many family stories of those long ago days and the friendships made with neighbors who lived very differently from each other. DNA results and the census records can't seem to explain why my little blond haired boy's skin turns brown in the summer, or why my little Song Bird was born with straight black hair and a love for Native American things. Ancestry tells me we are Scandinavian, or British, oh, there is a little Swiss, maybe that's it. Or, maybe, just maybe, a young man and a young woman fell in love and they didn't tell the government. Maybe the everyday, average person lived differently than the history books and media of the time tell us. Maybe, most people, were able to live harmoniously. 

Want to know a little theory I recently heard about why Sodom was destroyed? (I just can't write a story without including at least a mention of scripture. 😉) It is said that it was because they were not kind. Perhaps that seems naïve because we all can list off quite a handful of wicked crimes committed by the people of that time and place. But, maybe the theory is correct that neglecting to be kind was the beginning of the cry that rose clear to heaven. Living to please one's self, is the opposite of kindness, is it not? Only Lot opened his doors to the strangers. The townspeople were angry that he would do such a thing! 

Sometimes I wonder if it is more dangerous now than it was then, you know, to open my door, to be friends with someone who doesn't speak my language. Sometimes it seems like Sodom outside my door, and just like the angels firmly showed Lot, there is a time to shut them out and protect your own family, not throw them to the wolves. But, the advice on how to treat others may be simpler than I realized: "Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you." Ephesians 4:32 KJV

May God bless you in this journey we call life.