Timothy part two.
At thirty-four, some saw him old, some
young, but only two were bold enough to
call him little child.
His mother and the man reviled through all
the world as foolish Paul.
And by some strange design, a call was
sent from both, unknown to each by letter,
if perhaps to reach and summon Timothy to
leave his church in Ephesus and cleave to
her in Lystra, him in Rome.
To help him, as they say, get home.
In Rome, Paul lay in jail to wait
the whim of Nero's fear and hate and
wrote, Dear child, almost bereft I lie, for
Luke alone is left.
In Lystra, Eunice lay diseased and wrote, Dear
child, I would be pleased if you would
come and help me die.
And now, how should a son reply?
Two letters here, two loves, and one must
wait and neither can, and none is lesser
than its ardent twin or likely in a
war to win.
One love will lure him west, one east,
yet neither summons most or least.
How then should such a love decide when
one child's heart cannot divide?
He made his choice on this, If I
in God's good will before they die could
see them both, then first I should attend
whom I more likely would survive, and then
give my goodbye to him with whom I
well may die.
And thus he made his journey east, and
watched with love as Eunice ceased to breathe,
and felt his father's touch and blessing on
his head with such a power after twenty
years to make and double all his tears.
And then he sailed for Rome.
Before he left, he took his father's hand
and swore, If I survive my time in
Rome, then I will come and take you
home with me to Ephesus and care for
you and Grandma Lois there.
But if I don't, then Father, hear this
word from what Paul wrote to cheer my
soul if he should die.
The fight of faith I have fought long
with might, but not my own.
The bloody race is all but done.
I set my face like flint to finish
well, and grace has given strength to keep
the pace.
The precious faith my soul has kept, and
now with all enticements swept away by prison,
age and hope, I lean with longing toward
the rope, the scaffold, fire, or sword, where
I will shortly meet the Lord.
Goodbye.
I love you, Father, much today, and thank
you for your touch.
The journey on the sea to Rome was
rough, and winter waves with foam rolled early
round Aegean isles, and frigid winds stole sailors'
smiles and made them tell dark jokes.
What's worse, they asked the passengers in verse,
than winter on the sea, but none could
answer.
Tell us.
Have your fun.
And so the mates with flashing teeth replied,
Why, winter underneath.
Then Timothy with boldness said, Ah, yes, good
mates, but there's a dread much worse than
both.
Come try your skill to solve my riddle
now.
What still is worse than winter on the
sea or underneath?
Come answer me.
We can't imagine anything, they said.
So tell us.
What's the sting that's worse than winter on
the sea or underneath?
Then Timothy replied, To freeze above the swell
or drown, it's worse to wake in hell.
Nobody laughed.
But in the days to come, the sailors
found their ways to ask him, when the
waves were high, if he knew how to
safely die.
And he would take his precious scroll that
Paul had sent to him, unroll a portion,
then the sailors, iced and cold, declare the
warmth of Christ.
At last in Rome, a winter's night, so
cold and clear and moonlit bright, that one
could see his comrade's breath, or not, and
mark the signs of death.
Found Timothy and Luke outside the city wall
where they had cried till there were no
more tears to cry.
Too late.
Too late to say goodbye.
Paul lay between them dead, beside the Osten
Way where Nero's pride was fed again with
Christian blood.
He stared down at the red-streaked mud
and murmured simple phrases from the letter in
his coat.
Please come before the winter, son.
Too numb to feel the bite of night,
all he could feel was this.
Too late to be here when he needed
me.
Too late.
My son, please bring the great cloak when
you come.
I'll need it in the winter.
And there he lay so thin, blood-soaked
with just a shirt.
And son, please don't forget the books.
It's done, my father, I did not forget.
I have the parchments too, and yet, too
late.
Too late.
Oh, father, did you need them at the
end?
Forbid, oh God, that I withheld the food
he needed just before they hewed him down.
Oh, God, no books, no cloak, no friends
but one.
And thus he broke off murmuring.
His satchels lay around him now in disarray,
all full of things to make Paul strong
and able to endure the long, hard winter
of a Roman jail.
Luke, watch the force of guilt assail the
battered faith of Timothy.
Then said, Now listen well to me, young
man.
The greatness of our friend and father did
not simply end as if a sword could
silence what he preached and wrote.
What you have got there in your letter
did not fall nor ever will.
The voice of Paul was not the mutterings
of man and will not perish in the
span of one short life.
It was the voice of God.
Now you must make your choice.
Go follow now the feelings of your guilt
and come to naught, or love your father
better and believe.
Let not the face of guilt deceive.
You did not err in caring for your
mother as you did.
One door of sacrifice is all that we
can enter at a time.
But be assured, this is not so with
God.
While we in single pathways plod, God treads
ten thousand ways and takes all our unplanned
delays and makes divine appointments of them all.
And so it was with you and Paul.
He paused and riveted his eyes on Timothy
and said, One dies and sows the seed.
Another lives and bears the fruit.
God takes and gives.
He was not late in Rome today, nor
was your eastern trip delay.
And now to know his plan and way,
keep vigil till the morn and pray.
When Luke awoke, the sunlight broke through crimson
clouds and smoke from all the fires of
Rome spread haze above the city like the
blaze of some great furnace of a king
in Babylon.
You know, we'd sing if Paul were here,
he said.
He had a song for every plight, both
bad and good.
Luke watched as Timothy methodically arranged the three
large satchels at his side, then took from
one a precious well-worn book and from
another Paul's great cloak.
He stared a long time at the smoke
above the city wall, then stood.
He lifted up the cloak and hood, looked
down at the apostle Paul, then put it
on.
Is that your call?
Luke asked, What are you going to do?
I'm going to preach in Rome.
And you, my friend, what of your night
of prayer?
I'll bury Paul and join you there.
And then Luke said, You're very young to
die.
I think Paul called it dung, what we
who know the Lord will lose when we
lose all but Christ.
Strong views, and I doubt much they were
designed for older men, as if we find
that youth should trade their God for earth
and find in it a greater worth.
More souls are lost by fearing death, I
think, than risking life.
Is breath more precious than the soul?
He smiled at Luke and turned to go.
A wild and solid hope filled all his
frame.
And in his hand, a book, a flame.
Now let the fire of candle two ignite
the wild and solid view that God, our
God, is never late.
And let it burn until the weight of
this all-conquering truth consumes our fear.
And even by the tombs of fallen martyrs
makes us dare to ask, Whose mantle will
we wear?