Begat

Introduction It was plague time and our lives were filled with disappointment. Careers, cafes, commutes and other comforts fled away. We locked ourselves in our homes, feared strangers, disinfected packages that came to our door. We did not expect this in our time on earth. In our time. That was our reference point and all that we knew. The ancestor’s voices were stilled. We lived now. On earth. Earth was our home. The only place we had. Heaven was a distant thought. A fantasy, like death, unlikely. The plague shook our complacency about our time on earth. It turned our thoughts inward, backward, forward. Made us doubt our sureties. A few of us did not survive this new disease. We wondered if those dead went to another place. We spared a thought for a place other than earth and a time different from now. Some of us had journeyed onward, died. If you have time, this is their story. Or at least a little part of their story. This is about one single person they met over there, one person among many. It may be worth your time because she is a most important guide. When your time comes, and it will, you will meet her too. It may surprise you that she is a carpet weaver, and that she will lead you backward. Her name is Sarai. Chapter 14: Fellowship of Suffering When John arrived at Sarai’s tent for her last story, it was clear that she had been busy. Two colorful carpets draped the front of her tent and bamboo poles propped the tent flap open. She greeted John with a smile and invited him to sit inside while she finished folding a carpet. John ducked into the tent, removed his shoes and poured two cups of tea. Sarai entered a few minutes later and sat next to the stove. She took her first sip of tea and laughed. “This tea is not bad, John Malcolm. You have learned much in your weeks here!” John winked with his good eye and reminded Sarai that he had merely poured tea that had already been prepared and steeped. “That is true,” said Sarai, “and that is what I want to show you today. You poured what had already been prepared. Someone else planted the tea bush, another tended it over years, yet others harvested the leaves. Time would fail me to tell who dried the leaves, shipped them to us, infused this tea with rose hips. What wondrous labor by so many brought this tea to our lips! We have not even spoken of he who mined white clay for this porcelain, she who turned the cup at wheel, they who painted, baked and fired this fine China. We give thanks to the Creator for each of them. Later I shall wash the cups and saucers. Now, in the middle, we drink. It is no small thing to drink. Without our drinking, the work of those before and after would be in vain. The Creator is pleased also with us, our smelling, tasting and each swallow.” John swirled the tea in his cup appreciatively and set the cup and saucer on the small table to his right. “I never thought about all that,” he said. “We are in the middle of a stream. This knowledge makes the tea sweeter.” Sarai laid a carpet over John’s knees and returned to her place by the stove. “You learned that your missing eye is a badge of honor. Even when your eye is healed, a small scar will remain to remind you that God loves your faithfulness. Today I will tell you about your other scar.” John was confused. “My other scar? I have some small scratches and marks, but no other scar.” “You do have another scar and it is a most important one. Reach your hand down and feel at the center of your stomach. You never thought of this small indentation as a scar. You barely thought of it at all. In Sweden, you called it a ‘navel’ and your American children called it a ‘belly button.’ Few took this scar seriously on the other side, but your mother did. Your mother was in this tent and told me her story. Some of it you know. Some that you know, you never thought about. Today we will think on those things. When your mother sat where you are now, she told me of your birth, and I wove it into this carpet. Put your finger there on that woven bed. The figure at its foot is a midwife. There is your father, waiting in another room. Your father could hear your mother’s cries, but births in Sweden were not for men to see. Your mother’s contractions became more frequent. The pain increased. The midwife wiped your mother’s brow with cool water and held her hand. Your mother pushed. The top of your head appeared, with dark hair. Then your face, eyes shut tightly. Shoulders, chest, tiny stomach. Ah, there, the cord! The cord through which your mother had fed you! And then, aha, you were a boy child. The midwife held you. She laid you on your mother’s stomach, cord still attached for a minute more. You cried. Your mother wept with pleasure. The thing was done. The midwife cut the cord and tied a tiny knot next to your belly. She covered your mother with a blanket, washed her hands and invited your father into the room. There. There he is, bending over you and your mother, kissing her cheek.” John Malcolm tenderly caressed the carpet’s threads. Tears ran freely from his good eye. “Well you may cry, John Malcolm. Well you may cry. It is a powerful thing. There was pleasure in your making. There was goodness. Well-loved food. Drink. Laughter. Anticipation and Joy. And there was pain. Suffering. In every birth there was suffering. Since the beginning. If you could trace each cord from belly to mother, from belly to mother, from belly to mother, it would reach back to the beginning of our race, like a chain of love, a fellowship of suffering. To be in this stream is to be connected to each one that begat another, and another, and begat you, and beyond you will beget yet more. No one sought suffering on the other side. It was a holy thing to relieve suffering. The Savior healed when He walked the earth. Took away pain. And yet, there was also about suffering a sacred wonder. Sometimes it was a privilege to be among the fellowship of suffering. You already know about the cross, the dying there. When the crowd looked up, they saw the hands nailed to the wood, the bloody visage from the thorns. If they had looked closely, they would also have seen a navel. Perhaps only one person standing among the many saw the navel. She wept for her son. She remembered the night thirty-three years before, the pain, the contractions, the cord. That also is the story of Christmas, John Malcolm. The noble suffering of Mary. And later, so many more suffered and considered it a privilege. A cloud of witnesses: They were tortured. Had trial of Cruel mockings and scourgings. Of Bonds and imprisonment. They Were Stoned. They were sawn asunder. Tempted, slain with the sword. They Wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins. Destitute, afflicted, tormented. Of whom the world was not worthy. These also are our mothers and fathers. We are among them in the fellowship of suffering. Sometimes your suffering, John Malcolm, was a sacred thing.” John and Sarai sat quietly for a long time. Finally, John broke the silence. “How can I thank you for your stories, Sarai?” Sarai rose from her seat and led John through the opening at the front of her tent. She pointed to two carpets draped on the front. “You can take these two forward for me. They are complete and will comfort some who sat in my tent long ago. One will go to a woodworker in the forest of Gilead. The other you will bring to the Forum where you will meet your Gloria, your Emilie and your dear mother and father. There, for the first time, you will know how to rightly thank your parents. There you will love Gloria and Emilie as you never could before.