Gathering – Once Upon the Ink – Kerri Lynn

The sun is a ball of overeager energy; its bright, fat, fingers of heat clutching the small windows and doors, trying to push their way inside – the smell of hot dirt and clashing cooking spices wafting through the air already, though it’s only morning. I sit, resting my head against the cool, clay bricks of the wall behind me; content to be sitting cross legged in the shadows on the floor close to Jesus, watching him as he waits. He just got the news about John, and I can see grief in the tilt of his chin, the way he glances out the window now and then. The seriousness hidden behind his eyes. It comes at him in waves, what happened to his cousin. But he doesn’t say anything. He just waits for his brothers to arrive from their travels, accepts a pitcher of water from Mary with a little lopsided smile of gratitude just for her, rests his head back against the wall and listens to the stories and the news that surround him from all those that come seeking him out. The crowd is never-ending, knowing he’s here, wanting to hear him say something profound, do something miraculous, solve all their problems.

If you know the real Jesus – if you even just catch a glimpse of his heart (I’m not talking about the false persona that’s used for political agenda or fear based teaching) you can’t help but seek him out. And I don’t blame the crowd that keeps coming through the door. Even if it feels like they’re only looking for a show of power. I’ve met few people like this man in my life; ones that exude such a gentle acceptance, such an intense regard and curiosity for whatever person is standing in front of them; such a delight and lack of judgement; that I understand the attraction – the desire – to soak him in.

So we sit, him and I, and wait. I know what he’s doing, I think. You always want family when sorrow walks through your door. Gathering is a necessary motion during times of grief, the folding in of those closest, the drawing together of that blanket of being known – as essential as the need for quiet and the desire to escape the fru-furah that Brennan Manning talks about – the “preoccupation with trivia” – the things that don’t matter (look up the All is Grace video on http://www.workofthepeople.com The Work of the People website – it’s worth watching).

It doesn’t take long for the men to start arriving in pairs. Mud-stained and weary, some boisterous, most full of new kinships after all the walking they did together. Excited about what they’ve done, the adventure they’ve been on – the trust they feel they’ve gained from Jesus to do this thing on their own without his supervision. They’re still riding on adrenaline – full of excited greetings and jokes and jostling, but it won’t be long before they crash into that tiredness of a long, uncomfortable trip of stretching and trying new things. It won’t be long before the memory of facing suffering wherever they went, and skepticism, and unfriendly church authorities, hits them. A few of them heard about what happened to John, and I see them catch Jesus’ eyes, studying him carefully – I watch as they clasp him on the shoulder, squeezing with that wordless companionship – that funny little unspoken way of true friends. My heart clutches as I watch Jesus soak in their familiarity, their fun and their love, fighting down his sorrow from time to time. There’s too many people, too many strangers around to talk about it.

It isn’t long before the room is full and they’re all together again, crowded around in a circle, shoulder to shoulder, sharing in that relief of being part of the whole, part of each other, part of him. They all have stories. Peter has everyone laughing with his grand gestures, John has everyone hiding tears, Thomas has his measured, careful thoughts that have everyone nodding thoughtfully. And Jesus is just listening to it all. Letting their tales and their banter pick him up and hold him close for a while. Carried by family. Held in the gathering.

There’s so many others, hanging in the window, crowded in the door, the sick and the lonely and the fearful. All impatient, all desperate to be seen, to be heard. And Jesus and his friends tend to them, the brothers still full of the pull of movement, of doing. Noon comes and goes and I watch as Jesus comforts someone, heals someone, encourages someone. But then he reaches the bottom of that human capacity – the one he lets himself be squeezed into for now – and he stops, exchanges a look with those closest to him, evaluating their slumped shoulders, the way they shift on their feet, how words are coming out more forced, less genuine. He knows they’re done too. He knows what they need, and he catches John’s eyes, chin lifting in a furtive motion, to the door. John nods, discreetly elbows James.

“Come.” Jesus says quietly to Peter, squeezing the back of his neck in companionship, “Gather everyone, let’s get away for a bit.”

It’s like those words click, an unlocking of what’s been suppressed underneath. Suddenly, I can see it in him, the way his whole body vibrates with the desire to get to the outside, to the quiet of the forest, to find his Father’s voice in the wind and the stillness and the Earth. In his face weariness is carved in every line, grief sits heavy on his shoulders and he just wants away with his dad. He just needs a breath, a moment. To find that hope again, to wipe away the stain of what Herodias manipulated out of hate. His brothers all see it in him too, as tired as they are – even Peter, maybe especially Peter. And they become a wall around him, gently pushing out the door, assuring those that linger there will be more time, more talk later.

“And they gathered themselves together unto Jesus and told him all things, both what they had done and what they had taught. And he said unto them, Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest awhile: for there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat.” KJV Mark 6:30-31

I watch them go, this small group of kinship with all their different personalities and perspectives. Wish I was part of them. This little house is small and empty now that he’s gone out. I stand in the doorway and yearn. Wish I had a place on the inside of that group. Find myself anxious, my feet shifting, feeling that panic at being left behind. And I can’t help myself. I join the nameless crowd – the ones that are always there asking… needing. I find myself running down the shore. Bare feet jumping over branches and skirting bushes, following the boat where he sits with my eyes, gauging the distance to where he might land, streaming along behind the others. Worried about intruding on him, but not able to let myself stop.

You see, I have this worry sometimes, that I drain Jesus. That I ask too much from him, make him tired with my constant need for reassurance, my constant battle with doubts and insecurities. I often don’t let myself be part of the inner group. Wait on the outskirts to be invited in. I can’t think of anything worse than being a burden. We, the multitude, reach the spot where Jesus and his men pull into shore before they even get there. I hover in the background and wish and worry and feel guilty for intruding, and the crowd in front of me seems oblivious as they all find their spots around my favorite person. And of course, he feeds them, gives up his alone time, gives them more of himself just like that. It sparks a bit of envy, and hits on some more insecurities. If I had something really bad happen to me maybe then I’d deserve his attention, my screwed up religion says to me.

And then, to my surprise, arms steal around me from behind, pulling me backwards and out of the story, out of my sentences and my words about burdens and needy, nameless crowds and being hidden from him.

Until it’s just me sitting on my chair, staring at my screen, cursor blinking, as Jesus pulls me back against his chest. “No.” He says in my ear. His voice stern, but somehow teasing at the same time. “We’re not going down that particular mind trip.”

And he pulls me away even further. Pulls me onto a hammock with him in the shade. One of the places I first found him fifteen years ago.

“Not a single one of that crowd is nameless.” He tells me in a voice that reminds me I already know this. “Including you.” He sighs, and swings us with his foot, waiting for me to stop worrying and fretting and thinking and put my head down where it belongs under his collarbone. We swing in the dappled sunlight, silent and content and together, and I know,

I remember,

how much he loves being with me.

How much peace he feels when we’re together. That I’m already part of his inner group.

He could swing here in the hammock with me all day. Just being us.

Belief is a tricky thing. Some days I strive for it all day – reaching for something frustratingly elusive and mirage like. I can tell myself belief type sentences until I’m blue in the face – BUT it doesn’t change anything. I can tell myself I’m loved, that I am worthy, that Someone is with me. And none of it is anything more than BABBLE. And because my mind recognizes babble for what foolishness it is, I strive and grasp and try so hard to find faith. And then suddenly. All it takes is one little switch being flipped in my mind – my cynic self takes a backseat, my worry gives up – and I can see, I can know.

I know who I am.

Beloved. Best Friend. Beautiful intriguing companion and treasure to him. And I know who he is – at that quantum, below cellular, beneath atom and electron and photon state. There is no word for him. Not enough adjectives and adverbs and acronyms to convey the safety of him, the Love of him.

There’s no strife inside that mind switch of belief. No need to grasp or hang on or remind myself or convince myself of anything. It’s where joy has been waiting for me, hiding there inside belief where it always rests.

Because when my head is resting there snug under his collarbone, his heartbeat in my ear, I know I am loved. I know he is with me and I know how much we enjoy each other. And that is all and everything.

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Published by kerrilynn123

Writer, author, nature lover. I am passionate about stories and the power of words.

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