Chronoscape__thundersnow_by_alexiuss
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Title: Hope for a Hopeless Failure [By Elisabeth Elliot]
Olive trees are not much good for leaning against. Too knobby. I kick
away a few stones and sit down on the ground, knees braced in my arms.
The other two stand for a while, eyeing the one who has gone off alone.
“Might as well sit down,” I say. They don’t answer.
Long day. Tired. I look up through the trees. Ragged clouds, thin moon.
Enough wind to move the olive leaves. My head’s too heavy to hold up. I
stare at my old sandals, one of them with a loose thong. Then I notice my
feet and remember–at supper– “altogether clean.” Dusty again now, but
they were clean, all right. Never had them so clean. “Do you understand
what I have done for you?” he asked. Maybe the rest understood. Not me.
And what was all that about being slaves?
My two friends sit down a little way off. Can’t hear much of the
onversation (they’re almost whispering). His body. His blood. (Strange
things he said to us tonight at the table.) How he longed to eat with us,
but would never do it again–until . . . something about a kingdom.
Yawn. Too tired to think now. I push away a few more stones and lie down
in the grass. No pillow. Well, my arm will have to do.
What do I hear? Not my friends–they’re flat out on the ground now, like
me. Some movement. Wind? An animal? No, over there, where he is. A
sort of gasp, was it? I strain my ears. Can’t tell. Maybe they can,
they’re nearer, but they don’t say anything. Silence now. Never mind.
Have a little snooze.
“Asleep, Simon?” I jump. He did ask us to stay awake, now that I think
of it. He’s standing over us and here we all are, snoring away. Poor
show. “Pray that you may be spared the test.” Yes, Lord. (Test?)
He goes off again. We sit up, shake ourselves. (It’s colder now, my
tunic’s clammy with dew.) We pray. We can see, from the silhouette over
by the rock, that something is very wrong. Wonder if we should do
something? But he said stay here.
“You will all fall from your faith.” We talk about that. What could he
mean? All of us? The other two lie down. I sit here, thinking of what he
said to me–about Satan, sifting me like wheat. He said he prayed
especially for me. My faith fail? I told him I’d even go to prison with
him. Die, if it came to that. Judas now–that’s another story. Wonder
what he’s up to? Left the table in an awful hurry. Never did trust him.
Shifty-eyed. Slick.
Ah-oh. Must have fallen asleep again. I can sense his presence, standing
close, but I’ll keep my eyes shut. What can I say? I wait. He says
nothing, goes away.
“You awake?” I poke the others. I remember he told me I was to ”lend
strength to the brothers.” They pull themselves up, and again we talk.
He said he was going away. Somewhere where we could not come. Peace . .
. Iove . . . the Prince of this world . . . persecution . . . the
breakdown of faith. Doesn’t sound good.
“What’s that?” (I’m the one who’s whispering now.) A soft noise–like
wings. There’s somebody there, bending over him in the moonlight. We
peer through the trees. Can’t tell who it is. It’s not good, his being
here in this garden. Too many people know they can find him here. What!
Whoever was there has–why, vanished! Just like that! He is standing
now, his face lifted up.
“That’s the third time he’s prayed the same prayer,” my friend says. I
didn’t hear it.
We keep talking, trying to stay awake this time. He needs me, I guess.
We’d better be on our toes. Not sure what’s going on. Is he in danger?
But he doesn’t seem to know fear. Has his own ways of getting out of
trouble when he wants to–remember the time he slipped through the crowd
that was about to dump him over the precipice? Yes, but we told him this
time he ought not to come up to the city. Bad timing.
What about what he said about our needing purse, pack, and sword now,
after sending us out barefoot, without a coin or a crust, the first time?
Said he had a good many other things he couldn’t tell us now, but would
send a spirit–Spirit of Truth, that was it–who would explain things that
were going to happen.
Hours go by. We lose track of how long we talk. Yawn, relax.
“Still sleeping? Up, let’s go forward.” On our feet like a shot. What’s
happening? “My betrayer is upon us.” Mob surging through the garden.
Lanterns, torches, swords, cudgels.
“Master! Here, quickly, get behind….” He doesn’t hear me. Walks
straight up to them. ”What is it you want?” I grab my sword, swing it
at one of the gang, only get his ear.
“Put up your sword,” he tells me. “This is the cup the father has given
me. Don’t you realize I must drink it?”
What could we do? I follow him partway, but I can see it’s all over. No
point getting involved.
Years have passed now. The memory of what happened during the rest of
that night is still sharp. A very dark night it was. But could I know
what I know now, could I write things I write in my letters, if it had not
happened?
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who in his great
mercy gave us new birth into a living hope by the resurrection of Jesus
Christ from the dead! The inheritance to which we are born is one that
nothing can destroy or spoil or wither. It is kept for you in heaven, and
you, because you put your faith in God, are under the protection of his
power . . . (1 Peter 1:3-5 NEB).
I know that mercy. I’ve been given that new birth. A hopeless failure, I
know that living hope. No one deserved them less than I. No one can be
more grateful than I, to whom so much was forgiven. Where would I be if
he had not risen?
