The Lost Children

Another Passover in Jerusalem. Another year mindlessly offering gifts. Another year with a heavy heart. I know G-d wants us to sacrifice, but it seems to be a one-way street; what has he ever had to sacrifice?

I used to like Passover. Passover celebrates that time when G-d spared Israel’s children in ancient Egypt from judgment and death. The Egyptians weren’t so fortunate. The amount of suffering must have been beyond comprehension; the firstborn of every family was slaughtered to show the power of G-d and to gain our ancestor’s release. The weeping…the weeping must have been immense.

When we left that place so many years ago, we headed to the promised land; a land flowing with milk and honey. I suppose it was just that…for a time. But we drifted away, we turned on Him. I guess we deserved our punishment.

But our punishment lasted for years. Decades. Centuries. Slaughter on both sides of the battle. G-d used the Assyrians, the Babylonians, and the Persians to punish us. Then He wiped them out by each other’s hands after sending us home. But now, we no longer rule ourselves; we live in enemy-occupied territory. But our nation’s punishment is not that for which my heart has wept so many years. Call me selfish, but my life is all I have — my family is all I have, or rather, had. The roots of my weeping began growing many years ago.

My wife and I were expecting a child. I finished our house and we were married; what a celebration we had. Even in Roman-occupied territory, it is possible to find joyful moments. My wedding day was such a moment. All of my friends and family were there. The celebration lasted far into the night. There was dancing and singing, drinking and giving toasts. Gifts filled our house. And how the canopy so beautifully fluttered in the night wind. Bethlehem had never seen such a celebration!

When I took my bride into our house that night…such looks of promise we gave each other. Such moments of gentle intimacy. I held her far into the night. Even after she fell asleep I could not sleep. I studied every curve of her face. I watched her chest rise and fall with her every breath. G-d gave me the greatest gift I could have ever received, and she was laying right there next to me. I saw in her face the shape of my future and of my children’s future. Before we wed we often spoken of children and how they would help me in the shop or would help her in the house. We spoke of how we would teach them Torah. We looked forward to finding them husbands and wives. We longed to see grandchildren. All of those future moments — every one of them — I saw in my wife’s face that night.

It was not yet three months after our wedding before Rachel was pregnant. Even though how it occurs is no secret, new life is still a mystery. Just imagine: G-d gave us a gift beyond understanding when he allowed for the love of a father and mother to produce a new life! In the beginning, he spoke us into existence; now, our love brings someone into existence. But, it was not long after she became pregnant that I began to realize how my joy dangled at the end of a weak thread.

One morning, a few weeks after we knew she was pregnant, I woke and found our bed empty. I called for Rachel. I searched the house. I found her in my shop curled up and weeping. I asked her what was wrong, but she could only weep. I held her and gently caressed her temples. I tried to dry her eyes but the flow from the wells of her soul was unceasing. After what seemed to be an eternity — both then and now, as I think back on the moment — she told me the child no longer moved. I placed my hand on her belly and joined with her in tears.

Months later I once again lay in bed watching her sleep. By that time I knew her face intimately, but for the first time, I saw a line on her face I had not seen before. That small line — that small crack along the edge of her soul — marred the face of my once pristine future. My love was not diminished for her — in fact, it was greater then than it had been before — but at that moment I saw sadness in her face that I knew would never leave. I watched her that night until the breaking of dawn and when her eyes opened I told her I loved her. I told her that even though we lost one child — a child we could never replace — we could still have another; G-d might still bless us. She smiled for the first time in months and kissed me. Afterward, we dressed and began the day with a feeling of hope once again rising in our hearts.

I went to the synagogue that morning and found the men discussing a new Roman edict demanding a census. Everyone was to return to the towns of their heritage. Most discussed what leaving would mean for their household, their work, and their belongings. My heart went out to them, but my heritage was in Bethlehem and I didn’t have to leave. As disruptive as this might be, I knew this could be a source for a few extra denarii for all of us as there were certain to be people coming to our little town in need of lodging.

A couple of weeks later I woke to find Rachel holding her stomach and smelling of vomit; but she was smiling. She was pregnant again! She said she thought she should work less this time just to make sure the child arrived safely. I agreed and did double my normal work — hours in the shop making shoes and hours in the house doing chores; I would do anything to assure our child’s safety.

As her time grew close, people from across the land filled our town. We who remained in Bethlehem rented the empty homes to travelers. Many of us even rented the extra space of our own homes. The town was packed and brimming with the sort of excitement that naturally follows large crowds. The time of the census was near.

Late one night I woke to the sounds of Rachel’s heavy panting and muffled screams. I ran to collect the neighbor women who would help with the delivery. I held my wife’s hand and did anything the women asked that night. Just after the sun crested the tops of the distant hills, my son arrived; we named him Aziel, for the Lord is our Strength. All of our hopes, tainted as they may have been with past pain, bloomed at that moment. God had provided for us. Rachel’s face, covered in tears, was filled with love. I looked at our son and held him for the first time while the women finished their work. I snuggled close to Rachel and held Aziel between us.

But the women stayed longer than expected. One ran out of the house, returning shortly with another woman, older than all, who had seen her share of sunrises. I asked if there was a problem and they only said it was something they hadn’t encountered before, but they assured me the older woman would know what to do. I looked at my wife to reassure her, but her face, though covered with a smile, was paler now than it had been just a few moments ago. Her grasp on my hand loosened as the ladies were occupied between her legs.

I can still remember the look of peace on her face when she last closed her eyes. She didn’t speak but I knew she left me feeling as if all was right with the world. She brought Aziel into the world and gave to me a happiness I would never know again. Three days later, with Aziel in my arms, I buried Rachel. The months that followed, filled as they were with small moments of joy, were covered with pain and sorrow. I loved my son. I missed my wife. My heart was filled with joy and pain. I don’t believe the heart was meant to contain such opposing sensations at the same time.

One night a few weeks later I heard a man running from door to door asking for a room; his wife was pregnant and about to give birth. I had some extra space but I blew out the candle and went to sleep. I could not abide another pregnancy in my home.

In the following days, many filthy shepherds filtered through the streets at all hours of the day and night and they all appeared to be headed in the same direction. A neighbor said something about a child being born in the small cave at the edge of town. At the time, I briefly wondered if the father was the same man I heard looking for lodging late that night. But afterward, I never gave it much thought.

A few months later I was playing in front of the house with Aziel when I saw a procession of camels winding through the narrow streets of our city. The men on the camels appeared to have traveled from a distant land; they were headed in the same direction as the shepherds. I became a little curious about this baby and why he was attracting so much attention so I picked up Aziel and followed them. They dismounted their camels near the small cave and approached the opening. An older and gentle-looking man bowed and stepped aside as the richly dressed men entered. I crept up to the edge of the cave and looked in. In the back corner of the cave sat a woman holding a small child. The men were kneeling in front of them and were placing some gifts at the feet of the woman.

I stared at the mother and her child for a long time. Even though the child’s face was mostly unremarkable, there was something about the child that gave to me a sense of peace unlike any I had felt since Rachel died. But when I shifted my gaze to the child’s mother, my peace turned into fear, then to shame, then finally into jealousy. Why would G-d allow her to live but not my Rachel? Why did this cave feel like it was the home to so much love while my house, and my heart, were filled with anger and resentment? I spat on the ground and walked away.

About a week later I was once again playing in front of my house with Aziel when I heard the sound of many horses echoing through the streets. I assumed the Romans were coming again to perform some of their census tasks, so I gathered Aziel in my arms and began walking to the center of town. But when I turned the corner from my street and onto the main road I heard screams. It took only a moment before I knew something was wrong. I turned and ran to my house, but just as I got to my front door I was met by a horse bearing one of Herod’s guards. He dismounted his horse and, holding a bare sword dripping with blood, yelled “STOP!” I froze as he closed the space between us, pushed me to the ground, and grabbed my son. I wanted to fight, I tried to scream, but I couldn’t speak or move. I could only lay on the ground and watch as he decapitated my sweet boy Aziel. The guard dropped his limp body to the ground while his head rolled into the gutter. The guard remounted his horse and rode down the street. I still don’t remember exactly what I did next, but hours later I woke to find myself lying next to Aziel’s body, blood covering my robe, my hands, and the dust of the street. I was holding his head in my arms.

I looked into his face. His eyes were still open but instead of the usual glimmer of hope, I saw despair. His eyes pierced me as if he were asking me questions; Why, daddy, why? Where were you? Why didn’t you protect me? I had no answers. I still don’t. My tears have flowed every day since.

I buried Aziel next to Rachel and returned to my empty house. I sat for days holding Aziel’s blanket. It was all that remained of the love G-d had taken from me. The days turned into months before I heard rumors that the Herod’s guards had come to find one boy and kill him. But since they did not know which boy it was, they killed every boy in town under the age of two. I also heard rumors that the child in the cave and his parents escaped the night before Herod’s guards arrived. It was as if they knew they were coming but did nothing to warn the rest of us. His freedom cost me Aziel’s life; it was a price far too high.

Months turned into years and years into decades. All memory of joy passed with the years. My life was controlled by numb mechanical motion: I woke, I repaired shoes, I slept. I went to synagogue but thought of nothing other than how G-d allowed this to happen. Even though I no longer believed anything, I still performed my duties. Every year I went to Jerusalem for Passover. Every year I offered sacrifices. Every year I came home to an empty house. I did these things because somewhere underneath the cloud of despair I hoped G-d would be my strength and alleviate my pain, but he never did. I hated G-d and everything associated with him.

The passing years have made me older than any other man in Bethlehem. This will be my last Passover. It holds no meaning for me anymore and besides, the trip from Bethlehem to Jerusalem and back is not an easy one for me anymore. As I approached the gates of the city I heard more noise than usual ringing in the distance. Curious, I shuffled through the streets, always following the sounds of the crowd. The source of the noise was a large crowd gathered in front of Pilate’s palace. He was speaking.

He reminded the people that every year at Passover he released a person of the people’s choosing. And this year there were two men as options; the first was a rogue named Barabbas, a known criminal and murderer, and the second was some man I never heard of who the Pharisees hated. It seemed like an easy choice, but who was I to know? Barabbas appeared as I might have expected, but when I looked at the second man I saw a gentle look that stirred my memories of a hope I had long since forgotten.

Pilate raised his hands and said, “Whom do you want me to release for you: Barabbas, or Jehoshua who is called Christ?” When Pilate said the name “Jehoshua” it was as if the years since Aziel’s death collapsed and I saw in the face of the man named Jehoshua the same face as the child I saw in that cave outside of town. The hope and joy and love I should have had in those intervening decades had become bitterness and hatred. And at that moment I knew, beyond all doubt, that the man before me named Jehoshua was the child from the cave. His very existence was responsible for the death of my son. And I was being asked whether he should die.

I joined the crowd as they chanted “Barabbas.” I cared not that he was a murderer. I only cared that I was finally given the chance to pour out my vengeance on the child who brought me such grief. I cried out “Barabbas!” Let his father know the pain of losing his only son. “Barabbas!” Let him feel real despair. “Barabbas!” I cried louder and louder. “Barabbas! BARABBAS! BARABBAS!”

The rest of the day was a blur. I raised my staff in the air yelling “Crucify him.” I followed Jehoshua through town. I felt no joy, but there was a dark sense of satisfaction coursing through my veins that upheld me; it gave me a strength I hadn’t felt in years. I was finally going to see things made right. With each snap of the whip across Jehoshua’s back, I saw my Aziel’s head lying in the gutter. With each tear of his flesh, I saw Aziel’s bloody and empty shoulders. Jehoshua’s blood poured onto the ground and I felt like I was finally seeing justice. I swelled with hatred and dark joy.

A cross was dropped on Jehoshua’s back and he was forced to walk through the streets of Jerusalem. I spit on him. I threw stones at him. I cursed him. And even though the rest of the crowd did much the same, I know they wondered what could possibly be fueling this old man’s hatred. Let them wonder. I had no need to explain myself. I didn’t care what they thought. I wanted to revel in the moment. I wanted to unleash the full measure of my life’s loathing.

Jehoshua walked up the steep streets of the city and headed to the place where the Romans crucified people. I was ecstatic. When Jehoshua stumbled and fell my dark joy swelled. But then the Romans grabbed a man from the crowd and made him carry Jehoshua’s cross. I yelled, “Make him carry it.” I wanted him to know the pain I’ve felt. I wanted his parents to see what death looks like. My hatred grew darker with each step. Another person was shouldering the load that should be his. My son died for him, the least he could do is carry his own cross!

My curses became ever more vociferous. But then Jehoshua turned his head. He looked at me. Our eyes were only connected for a brief moment but I saw at that moment that he knew his life had cost me my son. He cared. He understood my pain. A tear rolled down his cheek. He knew my only son died to save his life, but his look also told me that he knew it was somehow necessary. I didn’t know then why or how — I still don’t — but somehow I came to know this as well. I knew my pain was necessary. Then when he turned away I knew he was walking to his death. I knew he was going to die — to pay the price that my son had paid those many years ago. And somehow I knew that his death would bring justice to all the injustice of the world.

I continued following the crowd, but I was now silent. With each of his steps, the weight of my life-long hatred and anger diminished. When he reached the top of the hill the sky was dark. They dropped him onto the wooden cross and drove metal spikes into his hands and feet; all I felt was sadness. There was no longer any hatred, no longer any animosity, no more dark joy, only sadness. For Rachel. For Aziel. For Jehoshua. And somehow, for all of us.

When the last spike was driven into his feet, the rain began. The Roman guards lifted the cross and dropped it into the hole. It slammed into the ground and the nail wounds tore. Jehoshua cried out. I stood in the rain for the remainder of the day and watched him die. I watched him breathe his last. I watched his head and body drop. He looked like a rag doll stuck on a nail. A small group of people huddled together at the foot of the cross. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled. The sky went black. Somewhere, I thought, Jehoshua’s father was crying as well.

After Passover, I returned to Bethlehem and my empty house. But I was no longer filled with pain. It was no longer empty. I no longer felt numb. I felt the pain of the past, the pain of Rachel’s death, and the pain of Aziel’s death. I felt pain in ways I had never felt, but I was no longer in despair.

I found the small box into which I had placed a dried lily worn by Rachel on our wedding day. I opened the box and lifted it to my nose. However faint, it still gave off a sweet aroma. I found the little blanket my son was wrapped in on the day of his birth. It still smelled of him. I sat on my bed clutching these treasures and somewhere from the midst of my pain I felt something for which I barely had words. The pleasing memory of these faint aromas dug beneath the depths of my darkened soul and I once again felt the seeds of hope taking root.

This story is a revision (May 18, 2022) of a story originally posted on October 11, 2016. If you wish, you can read the original here: The Lost Children (Version 1).