Читать книгу The Joseph Dialogues - Alan Sorem - Страница 6

I am still in shock from the news. A week ago Joseph visited me in southern Syria. There was the usual purchase of lumber. Today a traveler from the south brought word of Joseph’s funeral yesterday in Nazareth.

My dear friend, a man I regarded as a brother, is gone. I cannot control my legs, my arms, my whole body from shaking. Our conversations about politics, religion, and lumber—abruptly ended. “Dialogues” he called them, smiling as he pronounced the word.

Oh, Joseph. Why have you left me? Where is there justice in a God who would do such a thing!

Mere days ago my energetic and robust friend took his leave in the late afternoon. My warning about the storm clouds building behind Mount Hermon fell on deaf ears. Delighted at the price we had agreed on for a cartload of quality cedar, he was eager to get it home to his carpentry shop in Nazareth. He had a commission for a fishing vessel and the time line was short even with the help of his sons. I assisted him with his first hull. In the forty or more years since, fishing vessels always brought a gleam to his eyes.

Forty years of friendship.

I have aged today. My housekeeper brought me my cane when I could not stand without it. But Joseph, still young even as he approached his sixtieth birthday, possessed the exuberance and outlook of a much younger man. In his last conversation with me he spoke of new possibilities for his family and his trade.

I will hold my right hand with my left this evening to calm it so that I can lift a cup of my finest wine to toast him.

Until I met Joseph I held no religious beliefs at all except the worth of Roman coins in my cash box. Roman, Greek, Jewish gods—what value do they have in the marketplace?

Yet Joseph was my dear friend. A week ago I urged him to stay the night as usual. As enticement I offered good wine and fresh lamb prepared by my housekeeper.

We both enjoyed the dialogues we had that often lasted into the late evening. We were two men of a world much larger than the small villages in which we lived. His trade took him throughout Galilee, and he was familiar with Jerusalem and Alexandria as well. I knew the sights and streets of Damascus and of Tyre on the coast. As a youth, with my father and older brothers, I had visited cities much farther north: Antioch and the metropolis of Ephesus, for example.

I anticipated another evening of good conversation that day a week ago. But no, even though it was already late afternoon, this one time he was eager to be on the road to Nazareth with his prized cargo.

I looked to the south and cautioned him. Dark clouds were mounting up that threatened to spill over Mount Hermon and bring heavy rainfall to Galilee. He laughed at my fears and said he would push the horse to a fast trot and be home with Mary and his children that night.

And so he went on with a final wave as he turned from the lane onto the main road.

He did not outrun the chilling rain that fell. By the time he reached Nazareth he had a hoarse cough and took to bed immediately. Within the week he was dead, the traveler told me. In the telling, the traveler’s eyes were moist and his words halting. For him, too, Joseph had been a good friend.

I urged the messenger to stay a night so that we might commiserate together, but he was bound for Antioch and wanted to move along.

Joseph is gone and what I write expresses my deep sorrow. To honor our friendship I feel I must do something more.

I will write about our dialogues in the evenings we had together.