Elijah’s Mantle Series: Lined with Praise #19
Characters:
Jorai: meaning God is my light
Simchara: meaning Joy
Davey: friend of God, beloved, darling
Jorai sat on the wooden log, a bowl of soup, if you could call it that, in his hands. All it did was make him hungrier, more desolate, despair creeping closer and closer eating away the sweetness of hope. Memories of Simchara and Davey came as light in the darkness but the light of them was quickly snuffed out under the conviction of his failure—too late he realized the trap he continually walked into.
Was it the memory of boyhood freedom, false confidence that he was invincible. What could a walk in the woods hurt anyone, he’d thought. The danger? What danger? The woods called to him, called him in to escape from the daily responsibilities, to come play, to test to see if the woods were really as dangerous as people said. What made him want to leave a wife and son he adored?
One day, how long ago he couldn’t tell. He’d lost track of time months ago–or was it years? On the way to market, wrapped in the mantle of his father, mended by his wife since they’d been married, he’d pause to speak to the beggars on the side of the road and share the bread Simchara had made for the journey. The beggars fingers brushed his in the exchange. At first, that touch would spark a terrible hunger. He’d laughed off the feeling.
A few miles down the road, he’d climb down from the wagon and go into the woods, searching for water to drink. That water took him to dizzying heights. He laughed. He sang silly songs. After he’d drank his full, he’d jump back in the wagon, head to the market, gregarious, generous. He gave away more than he sold. He made enough money to call the business day a success, though.
When he returned home, SImchara was sitting on the bench beside the front door, Davey playing in the hard with a set of bowling pins he’d made. Simchara was humming a tune which he picked up as he climbed off the wagon, singing praises to The King of All Kingdoms. Simchara greeted him with a kiss at the door, looking at him askance.
“What,” he said, laughing.
“Your voice,” she said. “It’s off key. Is all well,” she asked, worry creasing her brow.
“All is well,” he said, as he walked back into the yard to bowl with Davey.
That evening, as they sat by the fire, Simchara sang a lullaby, soothing Davey to sleep. Jorai hummed softly along, but didn’t join in as he usually did.
By the end of the first week, Jorai came to himself, his voice finding again the right harmony. A few mornings, Simchara heard him singing in the workshop.
The next time, when he saw the beggar on the road side, his feet tapped the buckboard in anticipation. Something within him both wanted him to stop and share his bread with the beggar, but something else nagged his consciousness, urging him to pass on without stopping.
His hands, as if they had their own mind, drew back on the reigns, pulling the horse to a stop. He tore the bread in half, handing it down to the beggar, whose fingers touched his. As he left a hunger and thirst took hold of him so violently that he stopped the wagon, threw off his mantle, and ran into the woods. Running, he sought the stream, pausing every few minutes to listen for the melody of the water. Was the stream farther away this time? Or was his thirst to be filled so impatient?
By the time he returned to the wagon, he was out of sorts, his nerves frayed. His frayed nerves left him short-tempered with his customers. He sold some of his toys and wares but many gave him a wide berth. He counted the coins in his money bag. There wasn’t much to take home. The edginess still hadn’t abated. His mantle lay beneath his feet on the floorboard on his way home.
He heard Simchara singing in the kitchen when he returned home. It frayed his nerves even further, these songs praising The King of All Kingdoms. He went to his workshop and worked on a wooden cup until the house was quiet and all were asleep.
Over the next few months, each week when he left to take his wood work to market,
he returned in a darker mood, angrier. He spent more time pacing between his workshop and the road, looking down it as if to will the beggar to show up and spend time with him or that the stream would run through his back yard and quench the insatiable hunger and thirst wouldn’t go away. He stopped wearing his mantle all together.
When Simchara sang, he would ask her to stop—or he would storm out of the house, going for walks that led to the woods. Simchara would watch from the door, her heart torn and broken for the man whom she loved so very much. She’d pull her mantle around her and her son and sing. She sang faith stongs, hope songs, come home songs to the King of All Kingdoms. If the seams frayed on her mantle, she would restitch them with the thread and silver needle her mother had given her on her wedding day. When the dismay and hurt overwhelmed, her fingers would trace the songs that lined the mantle, begin a small hum that grew and grew into a song trust the King of All Kingdoms heard and had the all-is-well answer.
The woods were just like wolves, they claimed. As the wolf would make friends with the neighbors beloved dog, inviting it out of its yard with friendly play, taking it farther and farther away from home, so did the Woods Where No Man Comes Out Unbroken. At first it was so fun, so playful.
Just like the wolf and the neighbors beloved dog romping, chasing, playing hard and playing easy until the beloved dog, now so far from family and safety, found itself betrayed by its new friend and surrounded by a pack of wolves that would tear it limb from limb to satisfy their base hunger.
That’s what happened to Jorai.
One day he left—left the workshop, left the wagon, left behind his mantle, left Simchara and Davey and ran. This time he ran straight into the woods, deeper and deeper to find that stream.
On that day, he found himself surrounded by the wolves.
Wow! What a warning for us all. “Lead us not into temptation.”
Such a great description of the world luring you away to play and then turning on you like a pack of wolves …
Such a fascinating tale you are weaving!
A cautionary tale for sure.
“Pay attention, Michele!”
Love this, Maryleigh, we can all use a caution now and then!
Oh may God never say “You have forgotten me!”
I want to always always be faithful to Him, to honor Him, to adore Him. I love Him so.
Thanks for this reminder to remember His faithfulness, to committ to deeper faithfulness to Him, Maryleigh. It’s good to connect with you this morning!
May we know that He never forgets us! So glad to see you here!