DAWN
It was dawn. It was time to rise and to hear his mother’s voice carrying tones of healing. He stretched, letting his joints adjust. It was to be a new day, with much promise.
Thud. He heard the sound of footsteps trudging in the adjacent rooms. His father was an early bird: he would have two piles of wood cut into manageable pieces before sunrise.
Mother was in the room of offering, baking. He smelt pleasant aromas—the smell of freshly sliced bread and the sweetness of the early morning dew.
The boy took care to watch his mother as she took the earth-fruits with her bare fingers. She assorted the various vegetables into a pot. The minuteness of her subtle movements caught the boy’s eye.
“Did you sleep well?” she inquired.
“Yes, I had a very pleasant dream.”
“Well, you’d better get ready for class at the synagogue today. You have a test, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve studied.”
The sun was almost distinctly in the sky. He had to start moving soon, because today was his test on reciting the laws of the Book. The night before, he had carefully studied his scrolls, searching for any gaps in his memory.
He felt a tap on his shoulder before he was out of the house.
“Hey, let’s go.” David said.
“Yes, I suppose we should be on our way.”
The two, walking side by side on the dirt pathway, made their way out of the boy’s small abode. The synagogue was two hills north, beside a river at the base of the second hill.
“I’ll never pass the test,” David said, shifting his eyes. “But,” he continued, “I feel confident today.”
David was almost two years older than he, and had taken the oral exam almost four times. Each time something went wrong. During one of his exams, he fell asleep. On another, he lost his voice the night before.
“I have faith in you,” the boy said.
“Thanks.”
They paused by an olive tree, one that had seemingly been there for years. The two boys took three olives each, eating one and pocketing two.
As they passed more trees, the boy heard more noises – birds, insects, squirrels. He could hear the song of the mother bird, the familiar cricket of the grasshopper. Here in the forest he felt very much in tune, absorbing every sound one by one.
“Do you feel at peace here?” the boy asked David.
David was a kind boy, dark-eyed with a constant smile. David reminded the boy of his father, because they had hairy faces. David constantly brought new ideas into his mind, challenging what the boy had thought long ago. It almost seemed as though David was his practical side, always concerned about building things, creating things.
Then, they were approaching the end of the forest.
“You remind me,” David started, “we should gather wood, to make our boat.”
“Ah. We should.”
“And then maybe we’ll fish, and find your hundred fish!”
The boy chuckled.
There was a sense of lightness in the manner of their conversation. They talked about building boats, skipping stones, or synagogue in general. The boy felt he could sense David’s words before he said them.
They stopped by a pile of stones near a small stream. Upstream there was a waterfall, and a pond topped by fresh lilies each spring. Every morning they passed the stream, they would take note to add another stone. It counted the days they had since the first day of school.
“We probably can’t make it a steeper mound,” David remarked.
“Maybe we should make another one.”
So went each morning, filled with little moments. They appreciated each moment, having known that it wouldn’t last and feeling the slowness of personal experiences. By and by, it seemed so that there was less continuity between each moment.
“Here, boys,” called the teacher.
They left the serenity of the water, to a house made of straw. This was the instruction hall, in which first-years and second-years would receive lessons on the Book and be tested on their knowledge.
Today was the boy’s test, gauging his readiness to interpret the Torah properly. He was to recite from Isaiah.
But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
What did it mean: “by his wounds we are healed?” When the boy read this passage, he felt a sense of unease. Some parts of Isaiah he could recite, but a part of him resisted to understand.
“No, we can’t. I don’t get why, though, parents get their children stuck in a cycle. I don’t want to be a carpenter for the rest of my life,” David said to him.
“You don’t?” the boy said with a surprised tone.
“No, I don’t. Have you noticed how quiet, how monotonous a carpenter’s life is? Why would I choose to live in solitude like that?”
“Wait, what do you mean by cycle?”
“You have the moon each night and the sun each day. You have summer, then fall, then winter, and then spring each year. We sleep by night, live by day.”
“I think,” the boy said, “we’ll be different than our parents.”
“How reassuring,” he thought, “it is reassuring to think that we are to change the world.”
Their footsteps slackened, for they had reached the top of the second hill. The sun was descending near the horizon, spilling colors into the sky. The orange sky, and the trees afar, made the sunset an experience.
“The final chance to see the sun,” the boy remarked.
“So it is.”
“Until tomorrow.”
SUNRISE
Sunrise came, changing the colors of the sky. The father and the boy were up, and rearranging their beds. Samuel and Isaac were still sleeping. Father wrote a note on a scroll: Thank you for your generosity. We unfortunately will have to head off early, before the sun becomes too intense.
They put on their sandals, brown feet meeting scratchy, hard leather. Off they went, into the desert to the north. Their business was done in Bethlehem.
“Father, do you enjoy your work?”
“I do.”
“Why is that so?”
“It’s hard to explain. It’s been part of me for so long. But part of me is obsessed with building, creating. Every time I fix a house, I feel as though I am fulfilling my purpose.”
“How does one find his purpose?”
“It is not something to be found. Rather, your purpose finds you.”
“Do you think one day, I will find fulfillment in the purpose that finds me?”
“I believe deeply in such a truth.”
The boy thought: “What was belief? Was it following the laws and commandments of God? Was it going to synagogue every day? Could a beggar have deeper belief than the highest priest? There was no clear answer.”
It's morning again. The aroma of fresh bread arose slowly into his nostrils in a repetitive, unavoidable way. The boy awoke. Another dream, so vividly etched in his mind that he was unsure of the difference between the reality he saw through his eyes and the one in his mind.
He was walking to the synagogue on a dirt path, he had a companion with him—a young female named Mary. She was his friend for many years, and now as they walked he could feel her arm next to his. The sensation, vividly imagined, did not leave his mind. He wanted to be back in his dream world, constantly reliving the feeling of companionship he had with the girl walking next to him.
Arising from his bed he dragged his slender body off the straw mat, strolled over to Mother, and gave her a kiss on her forehead.
“Good morning,” he remarked.
“You are ready?”
“Soon.”
He was off to the dirt path, this time with no companion and sandals full of dirt from the trip a few days ago. He was to meet David again at the tree, to walk to the stream that they always did, attend synagogue as he always did. Yet today was a happy day—he would have time to himself, to draw and fish after his studies were over. Being a Saturday, synagogue ended early and David and he usually spent the afternoon resting.
He enjoyed synagogue, enjoyed learning, enjoyed people, yet he felt freest in the meadow, scribbling on a scroll, underneath the clouds. A deep connection with nature was what he enjoyed the most. His father seemed to embody this promise of contentment that he so desperately wished to believe in. He worked foremost to fix, to offer to others a sense of security in their homes. And the minutes and hours he spent carpentering, he sincerely enjoyed relishing the bead of sweat on his forehand, and the calluses on his hand.
Yet, he was fully aware of the world at large – a world that barely gave him any moment of rest and joy. It had to be made new again, he knew, because there was simply too much agony and labor. And only he knew the way – a broken peg in need of permanent glue, of a unifying bond that would put together thousands, if not millions.
This was the dawn he imagined, the dawn he would put together if it took his life. He could see it as an effort that required a sacrifice. In fact, he knew nothing that redeemed without sacrifice. It could not be done if he did not devote the entirety of his life to the cause. Shadows plagued the world, but he knew the end of darkness was coming. He believed in the rising sun.
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