I Lift My Eyes to the Hills.

He fell for a third time.  His friend fell with him.

He tasted the dirt upon his blood-stained lips, and used all his strength to try to bring himself to his hands and knees.  But the cross upon his back was too heavy, and he fell to his face and tasted the dirt once again.

It’s lighter than I expected, he had thought when it was first placed upon his shoulders.  But its heaviness had grown with each step, and doubled with each fall.  He felt it crushing the breath out of him, and tears of defeat ran from his eyes.  A voice came to him from somewhere else, but somewhere close.  It seemed to the voice a friend whispering in his ear.

It’s alright, it said.  Just let it end here.  You’ve done enough.

The idea was more tempting than anything he’d yet faced.  But a deeper voice rose up from within him.  No, it said.  This will be worth it.  Keep going.

A prayer moved almost silently upon his lips.  “Father, help me.  Please help me keep walking.”

The weight upon his back shifted, and was lifted from him.  It felt to him as great a miracle as any he had performed.  The man beside him, forced into service as he was, the man who had been walking with him for some time now, had lifted the cross.  Jesus looked to his right at the friend who was a stranger just a short time before.  The man’s eyes met his, and gave him a nod that said, “I have this.  Try again.”

Sand dug into his bloodied elbows and knees as he slowly raised himself up.  In a moment, he was back on his trembling feet.  He set his face like flint upon his destination, gave his friend a nod, and they began, slowly, to walk together.

His legs burned with strain at each step, as though his calves were made of lead.  He paused as his left foot stopped upon a wide, smooth stone.  He felt his heel shake involuntarily as he placed weight upon it to lift his right foot.  His companion sensed his struggle, and strained himself to take more of the weight, his arms trembling with tension.  The weight of the load was lightened.

“Come on,” his friend said.  “We can do this.”

It was the first the man had spoken to him.

“What is… your name?” Jesus asked through gasping breaths.

“Simon,” the man said.

A smile broke through Jesus’s bloodied face.  “I know… a Simon.  At least… he used to be.”  Something close to a laugh escaped his throat.

“I’m sure he’s a good man,” said Simon as he carefully took another step forward.

“He is.  But he doesn’t… know it yet.”  He looked up toward the top of the hill.  “It looks… much higher… from down here,” he said.  

His head pounded with pain.  He felt dizziness descend in spirals from the top of his head.  He willed his leg to move forward, and felt himself on the brink of another tumble.

Simon steadied him, and spoke something familiar.  “I lift my eyes to the hills…  From where will my help come?”

It took a moment to realize he was reciting something.  Jesus met Simon’s steady green eyes for a long moment.  He spoke in response through his pain.  “My help comes from the Lord…  the maker of heaven and earth.”  His voice was as torn as the rest of him.

“God will not allow your foot to slip,” said Simon, again lifting as much as he could of the weight of the wood from his friend’s shoulder.  “Your guardian does not sleep.”  He took another step forward.

Jesus’s left heel again began to shake violently as exhaustion threatened to take him again.  “Truly…” he said, his voice a coarse whisper, “the guardian of Israel… never slumbers nor sleeps.”

Together, they took several more steps in silence.  Simon took one more, and paused.  He laughed.  “I… can never remember… the next verse!” he confessed.

Jesus smiled weakly.  “The Lord  is your guardian.”

“The Lord is your guardian,” Simon recovered.  “The Lord is your shade at your right hand.”

At this, they both seemed to notice the striking heat of the nearly noonday sun.  It beat upon them in a steady beam, burning itself into their skin like a cattle brand.

“The sun cannot harm you by day,” continued Jesus, through something like a smile.  “nor the moon by night.”

They kept walking, creeping up the crest of the hill, as Simon began to speak the final words of the psalm.  “The Lord will guard you from all evil… will always guard your life.”  They came to the top.  Tears washed tracks through the dust on Simon’s face, as his left hand moved from the beam of wood to his friend’s shoulder.

Jesus set his eyes upon Simon’s.  “The Lord will guard your coming and going…  both now and forever.”  

This, indeed, was a promise.

The cross fell from their shoulders to the sand with a thud, covering them for a moment in a cloud of dust.  Jesus remembered the cloud that had met him not so long ago, on another hilltop, one that had been easier to climb.  His friend, the other Simon, had wanted to stay there.  One day, he would.  But that was later, after this hill, after this climb.

The cloud passed, and he did not fall.  Trembling, he knelt upon his knee, and kissed the cross that lay before him.  He felt again his friend’s hand upon his shoulder.  He lifted a hand to the one resting there.  He looked into the face of his companion.

“Thank-you,” he said.  “Thank-you.”

Simon’s green eyes shone out to him.  

“It is my honour,” he said, “to walk beside you.”

Walking

The young man sat in the shade of a small tree.  It was the heat of the day, on a day that felt as thirsty as the dogs that lay panting in the nooks and slivers of shadow.  A sparrow lit upon a ledge, its tiny beak open, too tired to sing. Few people were busy about the small town.  Three men sat under the awning of a shop’s front door, not speaking, keeping an indolent eye on the street.

A man walked wearily toward him, a lone figure in the empty avenue.  He was a foreigner,  a soldier.  The three watchmen blankly followed him with their eyes, somehow giving the impression of both contempt and apathy.  The young man could see the soldier’s face shining with perspiration.  His shield was strapped to his back, and over his shoulder he carried a large tent pole.  With it was a simple wooden cross frame, his bedroll tied across the top and from which dangled a large pack and sundries.  A metal canteen and a small cooking pot clanked noisily with each step, echoing down the silent street.  

The foreigner was not an officer, just a simple soldier with a lot to carry.  “Marius’ Mules,” they were often called.  It was a fitting epithet for a legionary who carried his whole life wherever he went.

The young man hid a smile as the soldier, drawing closer, cursed in his native tongue and stopped under the shade of the young man’s tree.  He set down his shield and tent pole, then laid down his cross and pack with a grunt and a sigh.

The young man greeted the soldier with a quick grin and his best latin, though he was self-conscious of his accent.  The soldier jerked his head in a nod as he rested his hands on his knees.  He took his canteen and drank deeply.

“Gods, it’s hot.  I don’t know how you people do it,” he said.

“Neither do I,” the young man answered.

The soldier was taken aback by the local’s latin.  “Hello” and “Yes, sir” were all that most people in these parts knew.

“You speak latin, Jew?”

“Not very well.”

“Well enough,” said the soldier, and finished the last of his water.  “Get me more.”

He handed the young man his empty canteen.

The young man stood and took it obediently.  The soldier watched as he ambled over to a nearby water jar, drew water, and filled it.  He returned and handed back the container.

The two stood in silence for a long moment.  He looked up the street.  He glanced quickly from the corner of his eye at the young man, and turned to look down at the other end of the street.  He sighed.  A bird found the energy to chirp.  He spoke.

“Take up my cross.  Follow me.  I’m going to Simonias. You will go with me half way.”

The young man smiled.  “That’s more than one mile, you know.”

The soldier scowled.  “What I have said, I have said.  You will follow me half way.  Do you understand?”

The young man nodded pleasantly.  “Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“I would use less of that latin, if I were you.  Take up my cross.”

The young man lifted the heavy shield onto his shoulders.  He took up the tent pole, and awkwardly flung the cross frame over his shoulder.  The legionary was already on his way.  The young man quickly adjusted his load and, in a flurry of clinks and clanks, caught up.  He followed a few feet behind.

The two walked past the last shop on the street and out into the open road.  Neither spoke, and the silence between them stretched on for half a mile.

The young man watched the soldier’s feet in front of him as each step kicked up a small flurry of dust.  He studied the soldier’s shoes.  After a solid two minutes of study, he spoke.

“Do you make your own shoes, or do you have a shoe maker?”

The soldier looked over his shoulder, and turned back to face the road.  He seemed to consider ignoring the question, but relented.

“We have a man.”

The young man studied the shoes a little longer.

“They look well made.  Do you need to fix them often?”

The soldier glanced at him again.

“No,” he said.  “It’s one piece of leather.”

“No stitching, then?”

“Only on the heel.”

“Hm.”

The two walked on, the sun showing little mercy as it made it’s way through the barren sky.  The straps dug disagreeably into the young mans shoulders, and the tent pole was tricky to balance.  There was silence, except for the scrunch of the soldier’s leather sandals on the ground, and the rattle and sway of the young man’s burden.  Sweat poured from his forehead, and the salt stung his eyes.  He felt the perspiration gather at the back of his neck, and travel down his spine in a refreshing trickle.

“May I have some of you water?” he asked.

“Your water.  No.”

“ ‘Your water.’ Thank-you.”

They walked on.

“What is you name?”

“Your name.”

“Right.  Your name. What is your name?”

Another moment teetered on the edge of ignorance, till finally,

“Placidus.”

“Placidus.  Good to meet you.  I am Jesus.”

“Jesus.  Be quiet.”

He was quiet.

Simonias drew closer with each step.  In theory.  The aching in his shoulders and the sweat that now seemed to swathe him said otherwise.  The shield, wrapped in goatskin as it was, began to make an oven of his back in the afternoon sun.  They plodded on wordlessly, until the soldier stopped and turned.

“You are finished.  Go home.”

The young man looked at him, and looked at the road ahead.

“Do I have to?” he replied.

The soldier shook his head slightly.  “What?”

“Do I have to go home?”

The soldier carefully sounded his words.  The jew, apparently, had not understood him.  “You are f-i-n-i-s-h-e-d.  Complete.  Go home.”

“I know.  But you are not yet at your destiny.  I can see it from here.  I don’t mind walking on.”

“My de....”  A momentary chuckle escaped him.  “‘Destination’.  You mean ‘destination’.  You don’t have to come.  It’s at least another hour away.”

“But may I?”

“I...  You...  You want to carry my cross?”

“Yes.”

“For another hour or more?”

“If you will let me,” said the young man, shifting the weight of the shield and pack.

The soldier stood there, a bit confounded, and more than a bit bemused.  He laughed.

“Alright.  Come along.”

The young man smiled like a boy who was just given another whirl in his father’s arms.  “Thank-you,” he said.

And the soldier laughed again.  “What did you say your name was?”

“Jesus, from Nazareth.”

“Jesus.  Good to meet you.”