The Hidden Flame (28 page)

People were laying out pallets containing the very sick. Others were supporting the aged and infirm down the lane, settling them into places against the opposite wall. The process continued until one side of the avenue was completely full. Yet there was no crying nor wailing, as would have been expected from such a gathering of beggars and others who clearly were in pain and distress. Instead, they simply waited, their friends and families along with them.

"Why do they gather just along the one side? There's room-"

Alban raised his hand. "Wait."

"For what?"

"The answer to all your questions and demands. Here it comes."

The avenue grew very still. Even the wind became hushed, or so it seemed to Linux, as though the entire city caught its breath. In that moment, he spotted a procession headed toward him. At its front strode the tall bearded leader Linux recognized from the courtyard, the man who had healed Abigail. The man's name was Peter. They called him an apostle. His gaze had unsettled Linux mightily. He still recalled it in the midst of his nightly distress.

But the Peter who strode toward him now was a man transformed.

He seemed to have grown in stature. Not that his physical form had increased, but rather his inherent power was so great it seemed impossible that any physical shape could contain it. His face shone with an ethereal light.

And as he passed, people began to shout and rise up and cry aloud. And dance.

Peter did not look at anyone directly. Nor did he reach out and touch them. Instead, he merely continued to walk toward the Temple. And his shadow passed over those who had been set along the avenue, on the side opposite the sun.

One by one the people rose up from their pallets, revealing faces transformed by the same ecstasy that Linux had seen in Abigail's features. Once again Linux was beset by the same painful longings, as though this exhibition of miraculous power illuminated the dark musings of his own heart.

Alban turned to him, his eyes holding the same ethereal light as Peter's. "This is not a question of becoming a follower so that you can claim a woman as your own. This is a question of your life. Do you wish the Lord Jesus to be central to all you are, all you do? Do you wish to be transformed? Do you wish to be healed on the inside?"

The pungent force turned bitter in Linux's heart. The darkness he had wrestled with, the longings and the anger and the years of bitter struggle all joined together and swamped the sudden fire of longing. His mouth tasted ashes as he said, "You won't help me, then."

Alban's expression turned tragic. "Brother, that is exactly what I seek to do."

C H A P T E R

TWENTY-FOUR

ABIGAIL ROUSED FROM A NIGHT of conflicting dreams. So much had happened, and so quickly, that her mind could not take it all in. She had suddenly gone from a young woman being wooed by two objectionable suitors to betrothal with a man she deeply admired.

The betrothal ceremony was to take place following that evening's prayer service in the open courtyard to allow room for friends to attend. There would be little of the usual celebration, though Martha had insisted that the guests be served a refreshing drink. But the legal and religious rite would be full and complete. From this day forth, she would be known in the community as Stephen's wife-even though there was yet no date set for the marriage to be consummated.

Abigail knew with certainty that the day ahead of her would change her life.

But there was a cloud in her sky. A darkness that dragged down her soul even on this day when she wished to feel only happiness. Alban and Jacob were still in disagreement. And there was little time left to settle the dispute. Alban would be leaving for home soon with the traveling caravan. Already feeling the stress of being so long away from Leah, Alban was anxious to return. Though the coming baby was not due for another two months, he was concerned about her welfare.

Alban had invited Jacob to join him, declaring that there was plenty of work on his small farm for both of them. They could be partners, and Jacob would be in charge whenever Alban acted as guard for a caravan. He would even school Jacob in becoming a caravan guardsman if the boy desired. But even that promise could not persuade Jacob.

Abigail could imagine Jacob's cynicism as he weighed "carpenter" against "farmer." He had his heart set on becoming a legionnaire and hotly declared that if Alban would not help him, he was sure Linux would.

And with these angry words, Jacob had once again fled.

Alban had gone after him and searched well into the night, but the boy's knowledge of the back streets and alleyways made him impossible to find.

When Alban had returned, exhausted and worried, he informed Abigail that it was very late and she should try to get some sleep. He made sure she was safely in her quarters, promising to be at the compound in the morning to see if Jacob might have returned.

But Jacob did not return. Abigail had stayed awake far into the night listening for his footsteps.

Now as the sun rose, she knew that she must also. She dragged herself from her pallet and prepared for her walk to the compound. She would be late for morning prayers if she did not hasten.

Abigail was breathless as she entered the courtyard. Already a crowd had gathered, and Thomas was giving them all a word of encouragement. Abigail found a place at the back and rearranged her shawl over her dark hair. She was listening intently to the words being spoken when she felt someone brush against her side. She turned, hoping with all her heart to see her brother. But it was Alban who stood beside her. He looked haggard and weary. His eyes asked the question, and Abigail shook her head in answer.

They began their prayer time together. Many voices lifted in fervent entreaty, asking for wisdom, for courage to live their faith, to speak boldly whenever given opportunity. They prayed for their leaders. For those who daily came together as one. For those on the outside who still needed to hear that Jesus was the Christ, the Messiah they had long awaited.

Abigail became aware that the spot beside her was vacated. Alban was no longer there. She looked around. He was over beside the east wall, kneeling at the bench placed there for weary travelers. His hands were folded, his head bowed in prayer-and his shoulders were shaking.

Abigail was quick to leave her place and go to him. He was weeping. Weeping over wayward Jacob? A moment of anger swept through her. How could Jacob do this-to her? To Alban? How could he so hurt this man who had saved his life? Alban had given him his freedom when he was fully within his rights to keep him as a slave. Alban was his guardian. Jacob had no right to rebel. Not by law, nor by conscience.

Abigail knelt nearby, her own tears falling between her fingers onto the bench. She moved a bit closer to say, "I am so sorry. So sorry my brother has not obeyed. That he has treated you with disrespect when you did so much for him. I-"

"No," he said as he turned to her and shook his head. He rubbed his hands across his face. "No, that is not what brings me sorrow. The boy owes me nothing. Nothing. He has been only a pleasure to me for these many years."

"You saved his life...."

Alban waved her comment aside. "I feel ... I feel deeply that God has a plan for Jacob's life. He does not belong to me. And that is what troubles me. Jacob is not rebelling against me. I fear he is rebelling against God. I would gladly say, `Follow your dream. Become a legionnaire,' if it were that simple. But I've been there. I know where it leads. What demands are made on a soldier of Rome. And the days are darkening. I fear for the future. I fear the time is coming when the orders from Rome will demand ..."

He looked into Abigail's eyes and stopped. "Forgive me," he said. "I do not mean to frighten you. But I sense the tension building. We must be ready for the future-whatever it brings. We must cling to our faith with each breath we take. Being a legionnaire hardly encourages that, Abigail. That is why I weep. Though I can endure separation from Jacob, I do not want to lose him as a brother in Christ. His soul, Abigail. It is his soul that is of utmost importance."

Abigail felt a hand on her arm and looked up to see two of her dearest friends close by. They didn't ask if they could help. They simply knelt beside her and joined in prayer.

In the early afternoon Abigail and three others left for the Freedmen's Synagogue. It was a bit of a journey, and Abigail had never been there before. She knew it was located near the Damascus Gate in close proximity to the market used by the caravan masters. It was an extremely unfashionable district and one that women, particularly young women, were discouraged from visiting unattended.

But today was different. She had been invited by Stephen. As he had explained earlier that morning, the crowd was made up of freed slaves who were not welcomed in other synagogues. In many cases they felt cast out, despised and rejected by the very society they had once served. Abigail felt elated that Stephen had invited her to observe this work in which he had been engaged. She could hardly wait to hear him speak to this long-ignored sector of their city.

She expected Stephen to meet her with a new glint of anticipation in his eyes, maybe a little quicker step, but he greeted her with the same proper formality and sincere concern with which he greeted each of the women who accompanied her. She could not help but feel a twinge of disappointment. But she pushed the feelings aside. After all, this was Stephen's ministry to people who sorely needed someone to care. To nurture both body and soul.

It wasn't until after Stephen had finished speaking and was moving through the crowd greeting this one, reaching a hand to that one, stopping to pray with another, that understanding began to dawn on Abigail. He had not brought her to the meeting simply to observe his work. He wished her to share in his work.

She glanced about her place in the women's section. There were so many needs surrounding her. Old women with age-dimmed eyes felt their way through the crowd with walking sticks in hand. Ill-clad mothers, clutching infants wrapped in ragged garments, hoped for a meal for another day. Orphaned children hung about the door, not even daring to set foot in the sacred place, but hoping with eyes that pleaded for a small coin or a piece of bread. There were the lame, the obviously abused. The broken. How could she hold herself apart from these people?

Abigail also began to move through the group of women. At first she tried to imitate Stephen. Walking. Talking. Praying. Placing hands on those who longed for human acceptance. And then, something happened. It was no longer all about Stephen. It was not even about Stephen's ministry. It was God's Holy Spirit ministering through her hands, her feet, her lips. It was God who had brought her here on this day. To see the need. To realize that in his name she could bring them blessing. To do what he wished her to do for these discarded ones of society. People that he loved, had died for. People he had come to save.

The very thought nearly overcame her. She had never dreamed the Spirit could use her. But she saw it in the eyes of those she touched. Those she prayed for. And she had never felt more alive.