Our young guide knew the method perfectly. Driving the dogs out of the way with his cane, he led us up a steep path to the house of a man who was a dwarf, badly crippled. He was to take us to the tomb of Lazarus which he did, when we had paid the piastres he asked. He insisted upon telling us the story before we went down the long winding stone steps worn smooth by the passing of men’s feet for centuries. He told it in very graphic fashion. We had only the dripping candles to light our way. Following him, we could hear his call at each turn, “Have care! Have care!” We decided not to make the entire descent of sixty steps but contented ourselves with looking down from the fortieth step into the black pit below. The air and sunshine were most welcome when we climbed back and, giving more piastres for the shepherds’ slings the old dwarf took from his pocket, we left him happy. We stood for a few moments at the entrance to the tomb, thinking of all that spot had meant in the centuries since it was recorded that, in warm human sympathy with the suffering sisters, “Jesus wept.”
We stood a long time on the wall of the ruins that covered the spot where the home of the three friends of Jesus had stood. It looked out over the valley on one side and toward Jerusalem on the other. Our guides, big and little, sat down on the stones and were silent. Nowhere in our journeys through Palestine did we trouble our souls over the arguments of men as to exact spots and identical places. If not to the place of this ruined wall, then to some spot near by Jesus came. Came to receive rest for His body and comfort for His soul. Came to forget for the moment Jerusalem with its noise and confusion, its need and its hate. Came to talk with one who seemed to understand and sympathize—and there were so few. What it would mean to us today if we could know the many things about which Jesus talked that have never been recorded for us! We remembered that it was from Bethany over the hills through which we had come that Jesus made his way to Jerusalem on the day when He found the colt and rode triumphantly through the streets to the temple, amidst the shouted hosannas and waving palms that filled the Pharisees with jealous anger. It was here that he may have spent the nights of that last crowded week until the night of the Supper when he sought the Garden. One could feel, standing there looking toward Jerusalem, something of the agonizing sorrow that swept over that household when they learned of the trial that was a mockery of justice and the condemnation of their beloved friend to death on a cross.
When we were ready to leave, the young guide asked if we would like to go into one of the houses and see the upper room where a guest may sleep. We hesitated to walk in this fashion into a home but he explained that we were sure of a welcome and a little back-sheesh would pay.
The upper room was a dean and quiet spot. There were small woven rugs, a cot with handmade covers spread over it. A bed roll stood in the corner. There was a heavy metal basin for washing and two lamps, ages old, filled with oil. The window was open toward the road that leads to Jericho. It was a place where one might rest his soul. “Many guests came to this room before the war,” said the boy, “the family is large. Some live far away in Damascus. They come for the feasts. But not since the war—there is not money and some have died.” The back-sheesh was accepted gratefully with many words of thanks by the two women below—one very young with a baby in her arms.
Our next stop was at the spot where once had stood the home of Simon the leper where a woman did the Great Teacher high honor as she broke her very precious box of alabaster and, in an abandonment of love and gratitude, poured the fragrant perfume over His head. We could hear the petulant voices of those who complained because the ointment had not been sold for a good price and the money given to the poor. But Jesus understood.
“This is all for Bethany,” said the guide of fourteen years. “It is not large and it is poor.” We did not need his words to make us realize it. The little girl who had called herself guide so proudly had not spoken a word, but, as she had climbed over the steep places, had waited patiently, had listened intently to the boy, and had given us at every turn a smile which we remembered for many a day, she had earned her fee. When she received it she ran madly toward a house near by and disappeared. The boy walked with us courteously to the edge of the village. In response to our query as to where he had learned English he said, “Off a merchant I worked for since I was six. He lives just outside the city.” The “off” with which he began his sentence sounded as though the merchant might at one time have lived in America.
At the outskirts of the village, where we had met them as we entered, were the children. They ran beside us shrieking “back-sheesh” and holding out their very dirty little hands. We shook our heads vehemently. It meant nothing. Then we stopped and reminded them that we had paid our two guides and all the people who had helped us, but that they had done nothing for us. “We are poor,” said a girl with a baby in her arms as though that were reason enough for her demand. I shall never forget the thin face, the piercing black eyes of a boy, perhaps ten. “America rich,” he said, “plendy, plendy, plendy money.” There was the deepest reproof in his voice.
“Some people are very poor,” I said, “the children cry for bread. In the winter they are very cold. There are many very poor people in America.”
“No,” said the boy stoutly, and I saw that he did not believe me, but he repeated what I had said to the others. It was very hard to refrain from giving them money, but we remembered the request that we should not help to train a new generation of beggars and steeled our hearts. When we started on again a few accompanied us but we paid no attention and one by one they dropped out, having followed us almost a mile. Some said good-bye cheerfully, others made gestures of disgust. One lone lad still walked patiently beside us. He had great hollows under his eyes and, now that we could see him separated from the others, we noticed how very thin and pale he was, how ragged and dirty. In his arms he carried a baby whose eyes were in a pitiable condition, one so swollen that it was entirely closed. He said faintly in a weak, tired voice, “back-sheesh—back-sheesh” over and over. He looked as though in dogged determination he would follow us back to the city gates. Unable to resist the pleading we yielded, gave him some coins, watched the light come into his eyes, saw him turn and make his way slowly back—one of these little ones who so easily perish while waiting for the coming of the kingdom of God—the kingdom that Jesus said was theirs. It may be that the school now being opened in the little village will help to bring them their rights.
When we told Jamil next day of the children he said, “Ah, that is why you should have me! The guide saves you. You should not go alone, and walking you cannot get away.”