His lips were crusted and striped with blood lines where they had split. “Do you recognize our son?” she asked him. Let your feet be among those which are called beautiful.”
Precious feet, now blistered-let them bear your weight to clean water and to sanctuaries for the soul. The last of your healing will consist in serving others. I bless your wounds that they will remind you of all you suffered, and thus remind you of others who suffer. Each one will be an emblem not only of how far you went from home but of God’s mercy in sending someone to help you. “Oh, these wounds! You will bear scars for the rest of your life. Now, let your neck do what it was intended to do-turn your head to the voices that invite you to peace. You were too restless, too preoccupied, perhaps too arrogant to bow your head. Nor would you bow your head at moments of our family’s prayers. You were determined, and perhaps you were ashamed. “For a time, you would not turn your head to look at me when I called you. Did the thieves, those who were once your companions, laugh as you fell? Remember the pain of their mocking and vow to never mock another. Laugh well, but never at the expense of another. Educate yourself in true and enduring things, and speak of them reverently. Now let your nostrils take in less exotic scents–of grain on the fire and of cypress trees and olive leaves. Hear these sounds just as you heard them from my womb, before you entered the noise of barter and betrayal. “Let your ears hear the quiet things, the whispers of angels and the patient river currents. Never look at another person without discerning beauty. And see God’s light in everyone you meet, just as the Samaritan saw it in you. Acquaint yourself with the glory of rain and the majesty of dawn. You have let yourself mock it in the past. “Let your eyes find beauty and interpret it well. Let the tangled philosophies of those who would trade debate for prayer unknot so that you might feel the strength of my love, which overpowers any words. Let your thoughts consider the grace that preserved you. As your mother I hereby bless your mind to calm, to settle into your healing.
Did they do this to you? But they did not kill you. And oh, you did have friends! They were like you and so you found each other. You were eager to be done with our petitions and get outside to run with your friends. I could see it as you fidgeted during evening prayer. You were hungry for action and mystery, restless for any new thing. I loved the way your mind worked! Always inventing adventures. You used to preen by any glass that showed your reflection. Perhaps even you will recognize your image. “Once this hair is clean and combed, you’ll look more like yourself. Oh, so many cuts!” She massaged soap into the hair and then poured cup after cup of water on it. Oh, how unruly your hair is now! We’ll wash these tufts. “Can you hear me, Son? I am anointing you, preparing you for healing. (Yes, the seeking always comes first, whether it be from curiosity or boredom.)
He was sure that the boy had perished in the caves and deserts, where he had sought and then fallen into a life of deception and drunkenness. He didn’t expect him, she mused-and certainly not like this. Her husband did not yet recognize their son. The oil shone on the boy’s thighs, which were naked to the crotch. The Samaritan had used oil and wine to cleanse the wounds. Both legs wore cloth bandages like incomplete shrouds. The boy’s legs were curled up, as though he had emerged from a generous womb, still wearing the blood of birth. Her husband helped set the body on the table. She knew it was her son the moment the Samaritan opened the door, carrying the bloody body.