For months, he had hid himself. Protected and fed, his thirst quenched by the water flowing in the brook beside him, a brook he had not known existed. It was hot, extremely hot. Rain had not poured from the sky in months, and it seemed like years. Awakening every morning to a beautiful sunrise, he wondered how much longer his supply of water would last.
Where do you run Man?
Where do you run?
Water's almost gone,
Where do you run?[1]
As the months rolled on, the heat became unbearable, and the smiling sun drank out of the brook, where he had hid himself, and he watched as the vapor rose, until it was no more. The brook dried out.
Where do you run Man?
Where do you run?
Water's gone,
Where do you run?[2]
An impossible situation had occurred. He sat in the middle of chaos, the sun glaring down upon him, as he thought over what had happened. He pondered over the words, which had been spoken. The proclaimed words, which were draining all of the water resources in his beloved country drop by drop, had caused him to run for his life. As he sat beside the brook, he pondered over his plight, knowing every person in the country was looking for him. The king was outraged, blaming him for the trouble in his tiny little kingdom, and had put a price on his head. Thrown him into isolation from his people and from those whom he loved, the man stood alone.
Where do you run Man?
Where do you run?
Water's gone,
Where do you run?[3]
The voice rang out like a whisper in the night. "There is a widow in the land of Sidon, in the city of Zarephath, I have commanded her to feed you. Get up and go!"
Nothing else was said, no explanations of how long his visit would be, no breakdown of her financial net worth, no mention of her name; only the words, the widow has been commanded to feed you.
When he arrived at the gates of the city, the woman was busy gathering sticks to cook the last meal for her and her son.
"Son," said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"You've need of clothes to cover you,
And not a rag have I.
"There's nothing in the house
To make a boy breeches,
Nor shears to cut a cloth with,
Nor thread to take stitches.
"There's nothing in the house
But a loaf-end of rye,
And a harp with a woman's head
Nobody will buy,"
And she began to cry.[4]
Widowed, the death of her husband had long become her torment. She had been thrown into the role of caring for herself and her son, the boy her husband had left behind. As a woman, she had not been allowed to work as he lived, and when he departed the earth suddenly, she was without money, only what she had in her house was left in her care. She had joined the ranks of the penniless widows.
That was in the early fall.
When came the late fall,
"Son," she said, "the sight of you
Makes your mother's blood crawl,–––
"Little skinny shoulder blades
Sticking through your clothes!
And where you'll get a jacket from
God above knows.
"It's lucky for me, lad,
Your daddy's in the ground,
And can't see the way I let his son go around!"
And she made a queer sound[5].
Devising a plan to survive, she had planted the fields with her son at her side. She had hoped the crops planted would give her the necessary money she needed to provide for her and her son, and then the unexpected happened, the drought came. It had been months since water had fallen from the sky, and with every passing month, her hopes of saving her crops had died.
That was in the late fall.
When the winter came,
I'd not a pair of breeches
Nor a shirt to my name.
I couldn't go to school,
Or out of doors to play.
And all the other little boys
Passed our way.
"Son," said my mother,
"Come, climb into my lap,
And I'll chafe your little bones,
While you take a nap."
And, oh, but we were silly
For half an hour or more,
Me with my long legs
Dragging on the floor.
A-rock-rock-rocking
To a Mother Goose rhyme!
Oh, but we were happy
For a half an hour's time!
But there was I, a great boy,
And what would folks say
To hear my mother singing me
To sleep all day,
In such a daft way?[6]
A knot churned in her stomach as she opened the door to go out into the heat. She had eaten as little as she could eat, so the flour would last longer. Even though, the neighbors passing by, predicted a drought continuation of unlimited time, she had hoped it would not take place. She hoped it would rain, and she and her son would be spared from the tormenting death caused by starvation. She tried to calculate how long it would take them to die, as she walked out of the door to gather up sticks.
Men say the winter
Was bad that year;
Fuel was scarce,
And food was dear.
A wind with a wolf's head
Howled about our door,
And we burned up the chairs
And sat upon the floor.
All that was left us
Was a chair we couldn't break,
And the harp with a woman's head
Nobody would take,
For song or pity's sake.[7]
The heat glared upon her head as it rose in waves, as she walked towards the town gate. Weak, from not having enough nourishment, she had thought the man sitting before the gate a ghostly apparition, who had come to haunt her. He called out and assured her, he was human.
"Would you please bring me a little jar of water so I could have a drink?"
Water, she thought. He wants water, and she turned to walk back to her house to fulfill his request for water.
The night before Christmas
I cried with the cold,
I cried myself to sleep
Like a two-year-old.
And in the deep night
I felt my mother rise,
And stare down upon me
With love in her eyes.
I saw my mother sitting
On the one good chair,
A light falling on her
From I couldn't tell where,
Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
And the harp with a woman's head
Leaned against her shoulder.[8]
"While you are at it, bring me a piece of bread," he said, and the woman stopped. She only had a hand full of meal and a little oil, enough to cook a meal for her son and herself. Afterward they would die.
- Can't you see the woman standing before the man, as he challenged her to stretch her faith and take a risk, by giving what she had to him first?
- Can't you see her debating, whether or not, to give of what she had to a stranger whom she did not know?
- Can't you see her calculating the odds, knowing that the lives of her and her son were at stake?
The woman had a gut feeling, though, that something was happening, something she could not explain. There was something about the man that made her edgy, and even though he looked like every other man, he was different.
"As surely as the LORD your God lives I don't have any bread––only a handful of flour in a jar and a little oil in a jug. I am gathering a few sticks to take home and make a meal for myself and my son that we may eat it ––and die."
Her thin fingers, moving
In the thin, tall strings,
Were weav-weav-weaving
Wonderful things.
Many bright threads,
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp strings
Rapidly,
And gold threads whistling
Through my mother's hand.
I saw the web grow,
And the pattern expand.
She wove a child's jacket,
And when it was done
She laid it on the floor
And wove another one.
She wove a red cloak
So regal to see,
"She's made it for a king's son,"
I said, "and not for me."
But I knew it was for me.[9]
The woman stood there waiting on the man's reaction. Her hands trembled, and her body shook. She knew he had the power to force her to give him her last meal; she was at his mercy as she stood before him shaking out of fear.
The man looked at her with compassion in his eyes.
"Don't be afraid. Go home and do as you have said. But first make a small cake of bread for me from what you have and bring it to me, and then make something for yourself and your son. For this is what the LORD, the God of Israel says: The jar of flour will not be used up and the jug of oil will not run dry until the day the LORD gives rain on the land."
The words spoken by the man breathed life, hope, faith, and trust into the woman. She skipped, no, ran, to her home to make the first cake to feed the man whom she had never met in her life.
She wove a pair of mittens,
She wove a little blouse,
She wove all night
In the still, cold house.
She sang as she worked,
And the harp strings spoke;
Her voice never faltered,
And the thread never broke.
And when I awoke,––
There sat my mother
With the harp against her shoulder,
Looking nineteen,
And not a day older,
A smile about her lips,
And a light about her head,
And her hands in the harp strings
Frozen dead.
But piled up beside her
And toppling to the skies,
Were the clothes of a king's son,
Just my size.[10]
Months later, the woman and her son and the man, whom she now thought was a prophet were still eating every day from the flour in the jar. It was a strange experience for her. She was the first woman with a jar of flour that was never empty and a jug of oil that never ran dry.
- Who is the man?
- Is he a prophet of this God I have heard about who is supposedly the LORD?
Questions, which pounced on her mind every day, questions, which made her think about her existence, questions, which made her examine the reality of her own life.
- What do you do when you are at the end of your rope?
- Who do you turn to for solace?
- Where do you go when the fires of life are testing you?
Thinking they had weathered the storm, rejoicing over the victory she had won, happily beating the odds of death for her son, the woman did not see the dark cloud which had hid itself behind her worry of providing food for her household. She did not have any idea that an even greater danger laid ahead. She had not seen the last battle before the dawn. Her son became ill and died.
Angrily she lashed out at the man of God who she considered to be a prophet. It was here that the prophet shone at his best.
- Here, the hand of God reached out and restored one widow's son;
- Here is where the testimony of God's love shone at its best as he cared for the lonely foreigner who had nothing but a son,
- Here is where the confession of faith flowed out of a woman's mouth who had been tried and tested on the battlefield of life.
The last battle, which appeared before the dawn of her life, had been won and her son was restored.
- Where are you today?
- Are you contemplating bankruptcy, or have a physical or mental disability, or fearing the lost of a job, home, or a debilitating sickness that hampers your movability?
- Are you tired from fighting what seems to be a losing battle? Weary, because you do not know what lies ahead?
- Or have you weathered the storm only to be fearful to rejoice, afraid that it might start again?
Changes take place by steps,
It's true you know––
Nothing lasting has comes out of quickness!
It's not the fastest who succeeds,
It's not the smartest who takes the crown,
It's not the most talented who stands in honor,
It's the one who holds on,
Marching on through the last battle,
Until the breaking,
Of the dawn.[11]
Shalom,
Pat Garcia
[1] Where Do You Run? Pat Garcia. 2012.
[2] Where Do You Run? Pat Garcia. 2012.
[3] Where Do You Run? Pat Garcia. 2012.
[4] The Ballard Of The Harp-Weaver. Edna St. Vincent Millay. 1892-1950. The Mentor Book of MAJOR AMERICAN POETS. Edited by Oscar Williams and Edwin Honig. Pub. New American Library. 1962.
[5] The Ballard Of The Harp-Weaver. Edna St. Vincent Millay. 1892-1950. The Mentor Book of MAJOR AMERICAN POETS. Edited by Oscar Williams and Edwin Honig. Pub. New American Library. 1962.
[6] The Ballard Of The Harp-Weaver. Edna St. Vincent Millay. 1892-1950. The Mentor Book of MAJOR AMERICAN POETS. Edited by Oscar Williams and Edwin Honig. Pub. New American Library. 1962.
[7] The Ballard Of The Harp-Weaver. Edna St. Vincent Millay. 1892-1950. The Mentor Book of MAJOR AMERICAN POETS. Edited by Oscar Williams and Edwin Honig. Pub. New American Library. 1962.
[8] The Ballard Of The Harp-Weaver. Edna St. Vincent Millay. 1892-1950. The Mentor Book of MAJOR AMERICAN POETS. Edited by Oscar Williams and Edwin Honig. Pub. New American Library. 1962.
[9] The Ballard Of The Harp-Weaver. Edna St. Vincent Millay. 1892-1950. The Mentor Book of MAJOR AMERICAN POETS. Edited by Oscar Williams and Edwin Honig. Pub. New American Library. 1962.
[10] The Ballard Of The Harp-Weaver. Edna St. Vincent Millay. 1892-1950. The Mentor Book of MAJOR AMERICAN POETS. Edited by Oscar Williams and Edwin Honig. Pub. New American Library. 1962.
[11] Where Do You Run? Pat Garcia. 2012.
{12} Photography Pictures: The Sunrise, courtesy of Linda Halpin, Writer and Photographer, New York, New York
{13} Photography Picture: The Battle, courtesy of Linda Halpin, Writer and Photographer, New York, New York
{14} Photography Picture: The Heat of the Day by Pat Garcia
{15} Photography Picture : Breaking of the Dawn by Pat Garcia
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