When at last she awoke still shivering, she knew she had to move, to get up and do something. She felt a brief moment of gratitude when she glanced outside and saw the sun drying the foliage. Stumbling toward the opening and stepping clumsily into the sunshine raised her spirits only slightly. The prospects of the day before her were not inviting. She knew she had to beg if she were to live another day. The nearest town was a mile away; for her, a two-hour journey.

Hobbling along the road, she tried to catch the eyes of passersby hoping for any glance of pity or mercy. Eyes diverted, avoiding her entirely. People did not care, or if they did, made no move to express it. They seemed to make it a point not to care. They had their own problems. They did not want the intrusion of eye contact with this disfigured, miscreant woman. Besides, did she care when she had her son, her husband and enough food to eat, a home in which to live? How many times had she walked by a beggar with money in her purse? How many times had she crossed the way to avoid those who looked as she did now? The callousness of those who now passed her by, served her right. She deserved no less. Yet the hunger . . . the mind-numbing pain of isolation and humiliation. She leaned heavily against her crude stick as her head drooped almost below her waist.

Before she noticed the animal, it had trotted up to her and stopped within an arm's reach. She, too, stopped, amused and strangely warmed by this curious creature. The dog seemed to sense her, to be aware of her misery in a deeper dimension than just curiosity or looking for a handout. A scruffy nose sniffed her extended hand; a friendly lick followed. She suspected the animal was a stray and thought to send it away. She could ill afford to feed a dog. But her heart resonated with its gaze. She saw something in its demeanor that spoke of acceptance, even love, or so she would like to think. This immediately comforted her, and with a gentle touch she patted the animal's head. She stroked the dog's flanks and scratched her behind the ears and was rewarded with more licks. After a brief moment of this, her new friend took a few steps away from her, turned and gazed at her with raised ears. She sniffed again as if trying to find an elusive scent in the afternoon air currents. Abruptly, the creature trotted away. Soon it was out of the limits of her stooped vision.

Mixed feelings flooded her. Struggling with her sense of sadness that the animal was gone, briefly entertaining the possibility of having even a little companionship, the warmth and comfort she felt in the encounter; feeling all of these at once, she whimpered. More emotions to deal with. Would they never cease? Would she ever know peace? She found herself longing for the cessation of life yet again. Her head drooped lower still.

Spending the morning in the synagogue was not my idea of the place to be. More and more these days, I found myself resisting the trappings of the Jewish religion, although I have been raised in it all my life. Jesus himself was a Jew, yet he held himself aloof from the Jewish religious system. He taught respect for the traditions. He seemed to hold a special regard for the old prophets, but his disdain for religious order and religious dictums seemed to grow everywhere we went. He had just completed one of his teaching sessions. It was amazing to me that people would come from all over to follow him traipsing about the country, just to hear the things he had to say. This was because much of what he said was repetition to me. I had heard his teaching so many times, yet on each occasion, he did seem to add something new and unique.

So much of what he said was never written down. Many years later, as I thought about it, it is astounding how much he did and said that was never written, never recorded for posterity. How can people think they really can know him from the little that has been written about him? I was thinking about these things when he exited the synagogue. As always, he left a covey of religious imbeciles arguing and dissecting what he had said, what he had taught. Shaking my head, I joined him in the street.

Laughing, he turned to me and said, "Justus!" He slapped my back and embraced me around the shoulders with his arm; "Justus!" he said again. "What do you think we should do with the rest of this beautiful day?"

I never knew quite what to do with this kind of exuberance. I think of myself as the more cerebral sort. I think about things. I was never very good at a quick, witty retort. I just smiled back at Jesus and said, "That is your decision, Jesus; but if it were mine, I think that since we started out for Jerusalem, that is where we should continue to go. Peraea is lovely, but it is time we moved on."

"Always the pragmatic soul!" said he back to me. "Are you the kind of person who never wants to enjoy the trip? Always pressing to get to the destination? Never stopping to rest or enjoy?" He was chiding me with humor. "Shall we stride through the night, Justus? Shall we look neither right nor left? Shall we keep focused on the path before us?" I was getting the treatment. Matthew and Peter were amused. I was saved by Abishag, who bounced up to Jesus and jumped up on him with her paws.

Jesus recoiled slightly and then began to play with the dog. He reached for her to cuff her behind the ears and gestured as if he would run to the left or the right. Then the dog did a strange thing. Instead of dancing around Jesus as was her usual bent when he was in a playful mood, she trotted a distance away and turned back to look at him. "Come, Abishag!" he called after her. The dog came instantly, wagging her tail and exchanging pets and licks. But when Jesus attempted another playful move, she trotted away again and looked back at him.

"Something's amiss. I think she is trying to tell you something, Jesus," said I. For a moment he paused and looked after her. She took a few more steps away from us and stopped, looking back again to see what we would do. Jesus called her to him again. This time she did not come. It was the first time I had seen that. Instead, she took a few more steps and stopped, looking back yet again. Jesus strode toward her, and immediately Abishag continued on her way as if leading us to a destination in a dog's world. What was she doing? Where was she going? Our curiosity aroused, and feeling an inquisitive alarm, we followed obediently. We could not keep up, but just as she was about to disappear, she stopped and looked back. She never let us out of her sight.

After some time, she stopped in front of a stooped creature. It was a woman dressed in faded brown rags. I had seen the poor before; I had seen them lying about, palms outstretched, some of them sightless, some covered with sores, but I had not seen so pathetic a human being in my life as this woman before me now. Abishag approached her gently and licked her hand.

She was genuinely surprised to see the dog again. She stopped and reached out to welcome the animal and felt its affectionate lick. The dog sat down. She had decided to do so as well when she saw in her stooped periphery the sandaled feet of a man standing near her. She aborted her intent to sit. The dog seemed to know him as it walked happily about him wagging its tail. "I see my dog has found you," he said. It was difficult to do, but she raised herself enough to look at his face. She did not recognize him.

"I am Jesus, of Nazareth." She stared at him blankly. She hadn't the slightest notion of who he was. "This is my dog, Abishag," he continued. "She has brought me to you."

"And why would your dog do such a thing?" she inquired, not knowing whether to be afraid or angry at this invasion of privacy. Only his eyes told her that she was safe, that he meant good, not evil. Still, life had taught her that good things do not really happen. She felt justifiably skeptical of good. Maybe it happens to others. It did not happen to her. The cold fingers of bitterness had wrapped themselves about her heart.

"Because she knows me, and I think, perhaps, she knows you as well."

"I am an old woman," she responded, reaching once again for the dog who responded eagerly. "Your dog has comforted me with her attention."

"She is good at that," said Jesus. "But you are not old; you are only forty-six. Today, isn't it? Happy birthday, Juliana Hebaav." He spoke her name in soft, musical tones.

The woman was stunned. The look of shock and surprise contorted her streaked face. She wanted to anticipate something good of this, yet she resisted for fear that it would be yanked away, yet another disappointment, yet another rejection from a cruel God, if, indeed, there was a God. I want no more of this! It was Solomon who said, Hope deferred makes the heart sick! For this sad woman, there was no hope; no hope at all--or so she thought. Waves of fear started in her stomach and she could feel nausea. She whimpered. The dog whined and nuzzled her hand, sensing that the woman needed comfort, needed her.

"Do not fear, Juliana." Jesus took her face in his hands and turned it so that she could see his. He kissed her forehead and then each of her eyes. Instantly, the dark shadows left her eyes and were replaced with smooth, radiant skin. Her eyes took upon themselves the freshness of a younger woman. The streaks were gone and her face and body cleansed as though she had just bathed in a river of rushing, sparkling water. Lifting her face again he spoke, "Stand up straight, Juliana." Before she could respond with "I can't," Jesus exerted an upward pressure on her head. Her back straightened without pain or discomfort. "For eighteen years," he said, "you have been bent over; destroyed by the forces of Satan who took your child, who took your husband, who took your life and left you destitute and alone. Oh, my dear, sweet sister Juliana, know that you are loved by the Son of Man, by God his Father and your Father. Arise and be whole." And then he whispered in her ear, "Be whole."

Almost two decades of morbid sadness evaporated. Her heart leaped within her and she reached out to embrace Jesus. Before our eyes, this person had changed physically from a bent, offensive crone to a stately, mature beauty, full of vitality. Abishag leaped and barked. "I know who you are!" she exclaimed. "You are the one come down from above," she said before Jesus could quiet her. "You are Messiah, the Chosen One of God!" And then she paused, and said quietly, "My son was slain that you might live." Once again, her heart was in her throat. And then it came pouring out. "After that terrible night, neither I nor my husband was the same. Over the following months we drew apart; he became critical and judgmental of me. And then, the beatings . . ."

Jesus stopped her, "Don't continue, Juliana, all that is gone now."

"But it is you! I must speak of this." Jesus seemed amazingly dense at times. Only then did he realize that this was a moment of terrible release for this woman. She needed desperately to let this all out.

"Speak, then. Speak, and leave out nothing."

"I was only sixteen when it happened. My son, only two months. For twelve years my husband beat me. He came home drunk almost every night, and after beating me, he forced himself on me. He held no love for me. I would service him, because if I didn't, the beatings became more intense. He blamed me for the death of his son. To this day, I have no idea why. The more he beat me, the more withdrawn and servile I became. I would do anything for him. I was deathly afraid to leave him. He would kill me. Besides, where would I go?" The words came in torrents. However, in a few moments the story was told. She sat on a low parapet facing him. Tears welling in her eyes, yet they were not tears of suffering. They were tears of blessed relief.

Jesus spoke, "These years of your agony are indefensible. There are no words that can compensate for the pain you have endured. Yet in your heart, know that your son lives with your Father and my Father. He is about my age, yet he looks as if he were twenty. Soon I shall see him, and I will bring him your love. Now, go my mother; God my Father shall provide your every need from this day and forward."

But she did not go. She had nowhere else to go but to follow Jesus. We purchased clothing for her in Peraea, and the next time we were in Capharnaum, Joanna insisted that she stay with her and the family. She spent over a year with Peter's family, thriving on Joanna's love and nurturing.

Juliana Hebaav became my wife. She died ten months ago, the love of my life for twenty-seven years. I miss her. I miss her as much as I miss the Savior himself. But she is enjoying her son now. Later perhaps, when I have finished this writing, I will join them as well.