Chapter 13

The testy old physician, Gershon, had been attentive, but his medicines were ineffective. Rabbi Elimelech had called and was astonished by Hannah’s haggard appearance. The relentless fever had taken a heavy toll of her, as if she were gradually melting in its fire. Esther was doing her utmost to make the patient comfortable, but every hour increased her anxiety about Hannah, who lay half-conscious, unresponsive, rousing only to accept a spoonful of cold water on a parched tongue. Simon clumsily tried to help Esther with the housework. Most of the time he wandered about from room to room, rubbing his bearded chin and trying to make Esther say that Hannah was a little better.

Strangely enough, it had not occurred to the Big Fisherman that Jesus should be summoned. Somehow, Jesus’ ministry of healing seemed to belong to great crowds of miserable people, strangers, the general public. Simon sincerely believed in the Master’s power to heal diseases. Had he not seen it happen again and again? Indeed, he had become so accustomed to these breath-taking restorations that even while they were in progress he would calmly admonish the impatient cot-bearers, waiting their turn, to keep in line.

‘No crowding, please!’ Simon would say. ‘The Master will attend to you.’ Why—it was almost as if Simon owned the show and employed Jesus as an accomplished healer. Simon had enjoyed the sensation of seeing strangers tug their forelocks when they asked him, deferentially, if he would not speak to Jesus on their behalf.

And now, with such dire necessity for better help than old Gershon could offer, Simon had not called on Jesus. Looking back upon it afterwards he admitted to himself, with appropriate shame, that—without realizing the foolishness of his vanity—he had become a professional. Jesus could do, and had done, amazing things for the public; and Simon as partner in—if not manager of—this awe-inspiring enterprise had let his distinction go to his head. The public listened when Simon spoke—and obeyed him, too.

How long it might have taken him to become aware that he, Simon, desperately needed Jesus in the privacy of his own house!—now!—was left undetermined by Esther’s appearance in the open doorway of the living-room where Simon sat holding his shaggy head in his hands.

‘I’m afraid Hannah is growing weaker, sir,’ she said.

He rose quickly, mumbling that he would go and notify Gershon. She laid a detaining hand on his huge, hairy forearm, and murmured: ‘Had you thought of sending for Jesus?’

The girl’s query resounded accusingly in his mind all the way to Capernaum. Having reached the highway his rapid strides had quickened to a run. He was too heavy for such exertion. His lungs hurt and his mouth was dry; and his soul cried out against him. Why hadn’t he sent for Jesus? His mind was in tumult as he ran. What a weakling he was!…True—he had confessed to Jesus, that early morning on the lakeshore, that he was weak and sinful, and that Jesus had better not have anything to do with him. But he really hadn’t meant that he was that bad. It had seemed the right thing to say at the time. Within an hour, he had begun to feel that his self-abasement had been somewhat extravagant. Jesus had invited him to come and help him: Jesus knew what he was about; Jesus would not have asked him had Simon been as weak and wicked as he said… Well, now we knew how weak and wicked we were!

Through the early part of the forenoon, Jesus had been diligently at work on Ebenezer’s old lathe. It had rained all night, but had ceased now, and Andrew had been out in the door-yard bracing up some fallen vines. Passing the window, he observed that the Master had discontinued his labours and was sitting bolt upright on the battered tool-chest, staring straight ahead of him with troubled eyes. It worried Andrew; and after a while he decided to go in and inquire. Entering, he was relieved to find Jesus busily at work again, his tension apparently eased. Presently the Master walked to the door and stood looking down the street expectantly.

Simon was ready to drop when he arrived. Too breathless and exhausted to speak, he flung himself into a chair, panting.

‘Whatever is the matter with you?’ demanded Andrew, stooping over him. Jesus was slipping his arms into the sleeves of his robe.

‘Come quickly, Andrew,’ he said quietly. ‘Simon will follow us when he is rested.’

* * * * *