For those of you who are new, each
Advent season now for these 18 years gone
by, I've tried to take a character from
the Bible and tell the story out of
my own imagination of what might have been.
The details are coming out of my head.
The spiritual truth, I believe, is biblical, and
my intention is that they be healing for
us as a church and that they be
hope-giving and faith-building and inspiring to
your own life of faith.
So, this year, the first two poems are
going to be about Timothy, and a couple
of things about Timothy, just to keep in
mind.
His mother's name was Eunice.
His grandmother's name was Lois.
These are all biblical facts.
His father was a pagan Greek.
He left his home in Lystra and went
to serve in Ephesus, and later, possibly, since
Paul asked him to come before winter, made
it to Rome.
That's all you need to know for now.
Those are kind of Christmas gifts from me
to you to say, I love being here
and I love the Bible and I love
you and I love Christmas.
Timothy, part one.
It wasn't yet two years since he had
sat like this beside the three most precious
people in his life, except for one.
He had no wife, but Paul had come
to be a kind of friend whose heart
was so entwined with Timothy's that where his
own desire would stop and Paul's alone begin
could not be known.
Two years almost since Timothy, with tears, had
sat beside his mother when she died, and
now, this time again, he sat with Luke
outside the wall of Rome with the Apostle
Paul dead and gory on the ground, blood
wet between them, where they found him after
Nero's men had done their work.
Two people called him son, his mother, and
the man they smote with Nero's sword, the
man who wrote the other letter in his
hand.
To Timothy it started.
To my beloved son.
These were the very words also from her
in Lystra.
My beloved son, please come in haste.
There is no one like you to bring
me comfort in the final battle with my
sin.
The memory was vivid still this night as
dark and winter's chill began to settle over
all the seven hills of Rome and Paul
lay lifeless at his feet.
Almost eleven days along the coast it took,
and then upcountry to the place where he
was born, and through the winding streets he
had not seen for eighteen years.
He was sixteen when Paul had taken him
away, and everyone agreed that day that it
was good.
At least it seemed to be.
They had never dreamed that it would be
so long.
And now with a letter in his hand,
somehow, the boy now turned to man, would
sit beside his mother's bed and try to
fit her for more life or death.
Before he knocked, he stood outside the door
and waited, praying for the word that if
God pleased, might heal or gird his mother
for the final fight, whichever God should deem
as right.
And then he knocked.
A woman cracked the door and asked with
gentle tact, Who's there?
Her eyes were almost blind with four score
years of being kind to everyone and watching
for the Lord.
She stood behind the door and asked again,
Who's there?
We've got a sickness here.
I think it's not a place you'd want
to sell your bread.
I have no bread, the stranger said, then
added this.
Grandma?
He saw the woman squint and move her
jaw the way she used to when he
was small.
But since she couldn't see, he said, It's
Timothy.
And then, is Mama still alive?
And when she heard the name, she opened
wide the door and said, Can it be
you?
It's almost 20 years.
That's true, he said.
But you still move your jaw the way
you always did.
I saw it through the crack.
Then Lois smiled and raised her wrinkled arms.
Oh, child, your mother's heart will leap for
joy.
She hugged him to her breast.
Her boy, she's going to see her boy.
She took his hand.
Come, let her have a look.
The little house was almost just the way
he left it.
Dishes, dust, hot coals and earthen pots, the
smell of wood-fueled fire and simmering swell
of boiling soup.
She led him by the hand halfway, then
stopped.
But why did we stop here, Grandma?
I need to tell you something.
He could read the worry on her face
and feel the tension in her hand.
It's real strange, Timothy.
No one thought such a thing was ever
done.
What thing, Grandma?
Your father's in the room.
My what?
He felt the skin turn clammy.
Timothy had not heard from his dad since
he had shot an arrow through the window
of the synagogue at Paul above the city
square and fled.
When he found out that night that Paul
was free to charge him with assault because
he was a Roman and the laws protected
him against such crimes.
His father was a Greek.
Sometimes he tolerated Eunice in his mother, Lois,
Jewish stand.
But when his wife and son became devout
believers in the name of Jesus, he was
furious and tried to kill both Barnabas and
Paul.
His son was 14 years of age.
The future bright.
His peers would all be high officials in
the province of Galatia.
Win the accolades of men and make their
fathers proud and rich.
But take the name of Christian in those
days and every job and all the praise
that mattered to his father then was lost.
He disappeared.
And when the boy at 16 left to
be with Paul and Silas, he could see
the hope was ended that perhaps his father
might come home.
He lapsed now 20 years.
And Timothy stands trembling by the door to
see his mother die and father live again.
He prayed once more.
Oh, give me grace and wisdom.
What to say?
And then.
From where his mother lay a weak and
gentle voice.
Who's there?
She said.
An answer to your prayer, I think, said
Lois.
Timothy reached out and pulled the curtain free
and stepped into the room.
It was soft lit and clean.
And warm because his father kept the hearth.
I got your letter, mom.
I'm glad it's not too late.
He knelt down by her bed.
She reached up, touched his beard and said,
you've turned into a man.
I'm glad you came.
She winced with pain.
How bad, mom, does it hurt?
She smiled.
We've had bad stomachs from the start.
I'm glad I've lived so long.
I'd like to have another 30 years or
so and raise you up so you could
go with me to Ephesus.
That would be nice, my son.
The Lord is good.
And we'll do what is best for us.
Now, there.
I sound like Barnabas.
Do you remember?
18 years ago.
I liked him.
He had tears.
He was a tender man.
She glanced up at her husband's face.
The lanced infection of his soul still dripped.
And every reminder ripped his heart.
The tears were plain to see.
Then Lois said, look, Timothy.
Do you know who this is?
His face I know, he said.
But in the place beneath, I do not
know who's there.
He is another answered prayer, my son.
The Lord is doubly good to me.
He brought you home.
And should I not now, after 20 years,
rejoice with you that there are tears upon
your father's face?
There is a man who calls me son.
And his are tears that I can trust.
He lies in chains in Rome because the
eyes of some seek money more than truth
and leave their lonely sons in youth.
You haven't called me son for more than
20 years.
I shut the door of memory a long,
long time ago.
And for your double crime, I thought that
you were dead.
A long, still silence fell.
Your heart is strong and wise, my son.
And you are right.
For I was dead.
And then, one night, in Ephesus, not long
ago, I heard a young man preach.
No show, no flair, no haughty eloquence, just
truth and passion and intense affection for his
flock.
He read a letter from a man that
said to Timothy, beloved son, and later preached
on how anyone who lives for worldly gain
and not for Christ is dead and has
forgot the reason he was made.
And then he said, of all the words
of men, the greatest is Christ Jesus burst
into the world to save the worst.
And there, from you, I tasted grace.
These tender words did change the face of
God.
I'm sorry, Timothy, that I have failed.
But it may be, tonight, that if you
will not say, I am your father, yet
you may, with love, accept me as your
son.
The blows all struck.
The battle won.
His mother's eyes were closed.
Her breath came slowly till it ceased.
And death spread over all her frame as
if a calm came down without a whiff
of wind and made the ocean still and
smooth.
But no one moved until the younger son
lay down his face on hers and felt
his father place the hand of blessing on
his head to bless the living and the
dead.
Oh, candle one, burn bright with peace and
beckon family strife to cease.
Come, melt with love the hearts of ice
and light the way to paradise.