Clinging close to my side, Thar was ready to go with them: “At the home of Abd en Nom.”
Still full of excitement, his father took almost hesitant steps in the direction of the house—where he soon vanished inside.
Thar thoughtfully pondered aloud: “If I may not go inside and hear what is said, I’ll just have to speculate on what’s taking place. Father is right; marvelous things still happen. I myself played a big part in today’s miracle. Without my father knowing, the Donkey Driver and I came up with the plan that involved a note which would eventually lead Schamah to this place—and at this time. Effendi, you and your wife have to agree that all of this could not have turned out any better. Wait for me here! As soon as I put all of this together, I’ll ask you to hear me out.”
He then left us. My wife and I went on to visit the ruins where we quietly shared our thoughts, almost as if we were in a church. We were completely alone. The site’s guardian had already gone for the day. The entrance to the Tomb lay open. Oh what thoughts seemed to come forth from that wide-open door. Daylight began to wane. Oh what a pure and clean breath of fresh air drifted down on us from the heights of the Mount of Olives. Inside of me, I heard something—or was it from somewhere outside? Was someone standing behind us? No human presence could compare to this feeling of a powerful force that embraced us as it seemed to call out: “Lazarus, come out!” Yes, nothing is so surreal as the physical association with miracles that seems to connect the dead with the living.
From somewhere up above, softly sublime and aerial two-part harmony voices floated down to us—once again, the boys were singing “The Song of Bethany,” recalling how the Savior went to visit His brothers and sisters. Per Thar’s instructions, the boys had climbed behind the ruins and were now repeating the verses they had sung at the Pool of Siloam. It was the song of Christ, the one who caused the blind to see and the dead to live again. As I thought about this song, it almost seemed irreverent and profane to use common words to allude to matters of blindness and death. Such things are deeply rooted in feelings. Herein, I can’t instruct you— I can only tell my story.
When the song faded away like an evening vesper from the time of Christ, Thar returned to us. He and his playmates had parted ways, and each had returned home. Once again, his father came out of the house. His sister-in-law and Schamah accompanied him. When I saw their expressions, these biblical words came to mind: “And their faces glistened brilliantly.” Thar saw it too: “What an hour, what a blessed time,” he said.
“Adding in the song, who could have arranged all this?” I asked.
Pointing to himself with both hands, the boy answered: “I was the one.”
“Were you really the one who’s responsible? To me, it seemed as if this was some sort of greeting from your mother.”
The widow joined in: “It’s also from my departed husband whose life ended, yet his spirit lives on as his dying wish now comes to fulfillment.”