Read: Genesis 16:1-16; 21:8-21; 25:7-18

But Abram said to Sarai, “Your slave-girl is in your power; do to her as you please.” Then Sarai dealt harshly with her, and she ran away from her. The angel of the LORD found her by a spring of water in the wilderness, the spring on the way to Shur. And he said, “Hagar, slave-girl of Sarai, where have you come from and where are you going?” She said, “I am running away from my mistress Sarai” (Genesis 16:6-8 NRSV).

“When will Papa be home?”

The question came from my youngest granddaughter, Tikvah. She squirmed off my lap and ran to the open door of the tent.

“Just keep watching,” I said with as much patience as I could muster. She’d asked me the same question ten times a day for the last week. “It takes a long time to travel from Paran to Mamre and back. And you can’t expect him head straight home after burying his father, Abraham. He hasn’t seen that branch of his family for years. They’ll have a lot to talk about.”

Tikvah scowled at me, unconvinced.

“I’m sure he’s telling them all about you, Sweetheart,” I assured her. This prospect seemed to please her, and she skipped off to watch for her father with renewed enthusiasm.

Although I wouldn’t admit it to Tikvah, I was just as eager for Ishmael’s return. And I’d spent several restless nights wondering how the reunion was going. Still, when we’d received word of Abraham’s death, he could hardly ignore the news. I tried to reassure myself that Isaac would not have sent word if he hadn’t wanted Ishmael to come.

With a sigh, I reached again for the wool I had been winding before Tikvah had clambered up onto my lap. If you must fret, it’s best to keep your hands busy, I always say. And if I’m going to take a trip down memory lane, I try to focus on gratitude rather than grudges.

I have to admit, however, that the news of Abraham’s death has stirred up a lot of memories. Ours was a complicated relationship, to put it mildly. And don’t even get me started on my relationship with Sarah. Still, if it hadn’t been for those complicated—and yes, painful—years, I would not now be the matriarch I’ve become. My Ishmael has twelve (count them, twelve!) sons and almost as many daughters. The Hebrew God was serious, it seems, about making Ishmael a “great nation.”

So many babies—and so many names! It’s a challenge to come up with new ones at the pace they’re going! But Ishmael and his wife always consult me when it’s time to name a new baby. They know it’s a sensitive subject for me. My own name, “Hagar,” was given to me by my Hebrew masters. It means “forsaken,” and that’s often how I felt while I lived with them. Of course, it also means “flight,” which seems a pretty silly thing to name your slave. Sarah had no business acting surprised when I ran away—especially after the way she treated me!

But I said I was going to focus on gratitude rather than grudges, so I won’t go there.

Back to my interest in names. I suppose it really took hold when God appeared to me in the wilderness that first time. “Now you have conceived and shall bear a son,” the Hebrew God said to me. “You shall call his name Ishmael.” That means “God hears.” Well, I couldn’t argue. God had heard my cries out there in the wilderness, pregnant and afraid. I was so excited by both the rescue and the conversation (who expects God to show up for a talk?), that I gave God a name, too. “You are El-roi,” I proclaimed. “God who sees.” That God saw me—and that I saw God and lived to tell about it—are still a miracle to me.

When Ishmael brought me his youngest daughter, fresh from her mother’s womb, I knew just what I would name her. Tikvah. It means “hope.” Whenever I look at her, I remember how God gave me hope when I had none.

So, now you know why I have a soft spot in my heart for little Tikvah. Every time I see her, I know I may still be “Hagar,” but I’m not “forsaken.” I will always have hope.

Ponder: What do Hagar’s imagined reflections spark in you?

Pray: Name us as your own beloved children, merciful God. Then help us to treat one another as such.

Read: Matthew 2:1-19

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him…. Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage” (Matthew 2:1-3, 7-8 NRSV).

There is a fine line between wisdom and madness.

I became keenly aware of this on the trip west. I had set out with my friends and fellow star-gazers in search of an unusually bright star. At the time, it seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to do. By the time we’d been on the road a few months, however, I wasn’t so sure. Was this trip wisdom or was it madness?

Judging by what our servants were whispering behind their hands, I had a pretty good idea what they thought. Even my camel seemed to have an opinion, and it wasn’t flattering.

We’d been told (I can’t divulge how) that this star would lead us to “the child born to be king of the Jews.” So, when we got to Jerusalem, it made sense to us to ask around. After all, wouldn’t the Jews themselves know?

Oddly, however, they didn’t. King Herod consulted with some of his own wise guys and sent us off to the little town of Bethlehem. He seemed especially eager for us to find the child. At the time, I assumed it was because he, too, wanted to pay him homage. In retrospect, I realize he had more sinister motives.

It seems we were not so wise as we thought.

But off we went to Bethlehem, bearing gifts that turned out to be fabulously impractical. In our own defense, however, how could we have known where the star was leading us? Which of us—for all our wisdom—could have guessed that we would find the child in a humble house and not a palace? His parents looked a bit startled when we pulled out the gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but to their credit, they took it in stride. I got the sense this wasn’t the first time they’d had to deal with the unexpected.

Thank God we were warned not to report back to Herod. Even so, news of his murderous rampage reached us on the road home. It was madness to trust him. While I’m unspeakably relieved that the child-king escaped, I’ll carry the guilt of those slaughtered children to my grave. If only we’d been wiser wise men we would have been less naïve about his intentions.

I had a lot of time to think on the journey home, and I came to a few important conclusions. First, I realize now that true wealth is not found in a palace. Second, that true power is expressed in selflessness. Third, that true wisdom is born from humility.

So, it seems I returned to my country a much wiser man than I was when I left. The moment I got back I founded an orphanage. I find it much more fulfilling than star-gazing, and I have the strangest sense that it’s what the child-king would want me to do.

Ponder: What part of Melchior’s imagined memoir speaks most powerfully to you? How do his reflections shed light on current events?

Pray: As so many children pay the price of madness, grant us the wisdom to stop the slaughter.

Read: Luke 1:26-56 and 2:1-20

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.” So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The Shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them (Luke 2:15-20, NRSV).

You know how it is. Something incredible happens, and the next day your brain tries to convince you that it didn’t really happen.

That’s sort of what it was like after the angel Gabriel showed up to tell me that I would bear the One for whom we’ve been waiting. I had the presence of mind to point out to him that I was a virgin, but that didn’t deter him. “The Holy Spirit will come upon you,” he said, swatting away my question as if it were a pesky fly. “The power of the Most High will overshadow you;  therefore, the child to be born will be holy; he will be called the Son of God.”

Oh, well then, I remember thinking. That explains it all…

Still, when the Angel Gabriel is standing there waiting for a response, it’s best to say “yes” and leave any unanswered questions for later.

As the weeks passed, I decided I must have dreamed it. But then the morning sickness started. Then my cousin Elizabeth showed up. The minute I saw her obviously pregnant profile I remembered what Gabriel had said about how she was expecting as well (at her age!), and how “nothing will be impossible with God.” When Elizabeth greeted me as the “mother of my Lord,”  I knew for sure it hadn’t been a dream. As if to confirm that thought, I suddenly burst into a song I didn’t know I knew. It was a song about how all generations would call me blessed. But even more importantly, it was a song about how this child would lift up the lowly and fill the hungry with good things. How he would bring down the powerful from their thrones and send the rich away empty. How he was the answer to our people’s prayers.

At a certain point, you just have to get used to an idea, even if it does seem too incredible to be true.

So, when the shepherds showed up just after Jesus was born, I heard their words as a welcome confirmation of what I already knew. It was something of a relief to know that the angels were spreading the word to someone other than my immediate family.

All this is to say that God has given me a great deal to think about. Oddly, however, I also find myself pondering a story about our ancestor Moses. Do you remember the story about him hearing God’s voice from the middle of a burning bush? A bush that burned, but was not “consumed” by the fire?

I wonder if Moses woke up the next day wondering if he’d dreamed that! I’ll bet he couldn’t stop thinking about it, even so. And I can’t stop thinking about it either. It occurs to me that I am like that burning bush. Any other human who carried the Son of God in her arms—to say nothing of her womb—would surely burn to ash. Yet, I haven’t.

At a certain point, you just have to get used to an idea, even if it does seem too incredible to be true.

Ponder: Fourth-century church father, Gregory of Nyssa, was the first person to connect Mary to the story of the burning bush. Later, Christian artists picked up on the connection. An icon of Mary Mother of God as the burning bush hangs at St. Catherin’s monastery at Mt. Sinai. How does the connection between these two stories enrich the way you “ponder” the incarnation?

Pray: Light of light, yet born of Mary, we worship and adore you.

Read: Luke 2:8-18

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!” (Luke 2:8-14).

Shepherds get a lot of time to think. But if I had an eternity to think about what happened that night, I don’t think it would be enough to get my head around it. And I only experienced the first part. Somebody had to stay with the sheep, after all.

You may think I was disappointed, and you’d be partially right. But I was also relieved. That first angel was bad enough, but then the whole sky was filled with them. It was deafening. It was dazzling. It was terrifying.

I don’t even remember falling to the ground, but that’s where I was when the angels went back to wherever it was they came from. For a minute, I tried to convince myself that it hadn’t happened. But then I looked around and realized that all the other shepherds—including my father—were also sitting on the hillside staring off into the sky with their mouths hanging open.

Oddly enough, the sheep didn’t seem particularly upset. You’d have thought they would have scattered like—well—sheep. But they didn’t. They just got on with their sheepy business as if heavenly hosts were part of their nightly routine. A few of the ewes were in labor, so you can’t blame them for just getting on with it, I suppose. But still. I guess it was a night for miracles.

My father called everyone together to confer about what we should do. It didn’t take long for a consensus to emerge. “Let us go now to Bethlehem,” my dad said, “and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.”

Then he looked gently at me and said, “Except for you, son. You stay with the sheep.” He must have read the expression on my face as disappointment because he quickly added, “We’ll tell you all about it. I promise!”

Like I say, I was more relieved than disappointed. (My legs still felt like they were made of wool.) And to be honest, I was also a little proud that he trusted me with the job. Lambing time is serious business.

It was a long night, and I helped deliver three healthy lambs. I didn’t have much time to wonder about what the rest of the shepherds discovered in Bethlehem. But when they rushed back just before dawn, my dad came straight over and told me all about it. Everything was just as the angel had said it would be. They’d found a young couple rejoicing over their newborn baby who was sound asleep in a manger.

I just smiled and gave the newborn lamb I was holding a rub with some fresh straw.

“What are you smiling about,” my dad asked. “Aren’t you disappointed you didn’t get to meet the Messiah?”

“Sure, I suppose,” I replied. “But I think the Messiah might understand that a good shepherd has to give up a lot for the sake of his sheep.”

Now it was my dad’s turn to smile. “I’m proud of you, son,” he said, ruffling my hair in the way that he does. “You’re a very good shepherd.”

Ponder: What does this imagined episode help you to notice about Luke’s familiar story? What does it say about the Messiah that the “first noel” was to “certain poor shepherds?”

Pray: May we never grow numb to the wonders of this story.

Read: Matthew 1:18-2:23

When Herod died, an angel of the Lord suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, he went away to the district of Galilee. There he made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, “He will be called a Nasorean” (Matthew 2:19-23, NRSV).

I’m one of those people who rarely remembers their dreams. Before I met my wife, Mary, I was always the one who sat silently by while other people recounted their fantastic nocturnal adventures. Even when they told hair-raising stories of nightmares, I often found myself a little jealous. Why was my own dreamscape such a big, boring blank?

My name made this worse. When your name is “Joseph,” people expect you to be both a dreamer and an interpreter of dreams. But alas. I inherited nothing from my famous ancestor. I simply don’t have the knack.

But then I got engaged to Mary. Suddenly the dreams started coming fast and furious. The first one hit me like a two by four on the side of my head. Strange as this may sound, I’m grateful for it. If the angel of the Lord hadn’t shown up in that dream, I would have called off the wedding. But there was no arguing with this dream or the angel that filled every inch of it with blinding light. “Joseph, son of David,” the angel said, “do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

Suddenly, I found myself sitting bolt upright in my bed. The angel was gone. All I could hear were the crickets outside of the window. But I remember thinking to myself, “Well, that’s a dream I won’t soon forget!” And I didn’t. As soon as the sun came up, I ran all the way to Mary’s house, and we set the date.

The dreams came at regular intervals after that, and always just in time to avert disaster. When King Herod sought to kill the child, the angel showed up again to warn me to flee with my family to Egypt. It’s a good thing we got out of town when we did—though I do wish an angel had shown up to warn all the other parents who ended up losing their little ones to Herod’s fragile ego.

Then, when we were in Egypt, another dream instructed me to “get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” I did as I was told, but I have to admit, I was nervous about it. Herod’s son had picked up where his father had left off, and I didn’t trust him. Sure enough, the angel showed up to confirm my suspicions. So, we headed north to Nazareth and made our home there.

I’m getting on in years now, but it’s been a joy to watch Jesus grow. Mary worries. But whenever she gets upset, I remind her of my dreams. I haven’t had one in years, but I like to think that angel would show up again if there was anything to worry about.

Mary just pats my hand and goes back to her gardening. She says she’s pondering my words in her heart.

Ponder: Nobody knows if Joseph was or wasn’t a “dreamer” before he was visited with the very specific visions recorded in the Gospel of Matthew. Still, one has to envy the clarity of these communications! How can we make wise decisions when God’s leading is not this clear?

Pray: Give us wisdom in times of uncertainty, gracious God, and help us to trust you even when we are not sure what you want.

Read: Luke 1:5-80

Meanwhile the people were waiting for Zechariah, and wondered at his delay in the sanctuary. When he did come out, he could not speak to them, and they realized that he had seen a vision in the sanctuary. He kept motioning to them and remained unable to speak. When his time of service was ended, he went to his home. After those days Elizabeth conceived, and for five months she remained in seclusion (Luke 1:21-24, NRSV).

Thank God I’d learned to read. Not every woman gets the chance, you know. But I was from the priestly order of Aaron, and when I nagged my parents as a child, they found a way to make it happen.

Why was it so important that I knew how to read? Well, think about it. The only way my husband and I could communicate during the nine months of my pregnancy was by writing notes.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a bit and fill you in on the story.

As my husband Zechariah himself said to the angel Gabriel, we were both “getting on in years.” Frankly, we’d given up on having children. There’s only so much disappointment you can bear, after all. But when Zechariah was chosen to offer incense at the sanctuary, the angel Gabriel appeared to him and told him that we would have a son, and we were to name him John. What’s more, he said that this child would be great in the sight of the Lord and would be good news for more than just the two of us.

So far, so wonderful. But my dear husband had to raise questions. That’s when Gabriel decided to strike him mute—at least until the words of the promise came true.

What woman has not, on occasion, wished her husband would be struck mute? But imagine my confusion when he arrived home unable to speak! He was obviously bursting at the seams to tell me something, but he couldn’t so much as whisper a word. Finally, I ran around to all the neighbors and collected as many writing tablets as I could get my hands on. Eventually, I got the whole story out of him.

Now do you understand why I’m so glad I’d learned to read? It would have been a long nine months trying to piece together that story using sign language!

Even when I did understand his words, I could barely believe they were true. But a few months later, I realized I was pregnant. And then my cousin Mary showed up for a visit, and well—let’s just say we had a lot to talk about.

Eventually John was born. (Yes, we named him John, even though everyone expected us to name him Zechariah after his father.) As soon as Zechariah wrote that message on one of our ubiquitous tablets, he was able to speak again—just as Gabriel had promised.

John is a teenager now and spends a worrying amount of time hiking in the wilderness eating goodness knows what. Zechariah and I are pretty old for dealing with a teen, but my friends tell me it’s not a picnic at any age. At least we can talk to each other about it. I really do appreciate Zechariah having his speech back. Among other things, we’d have gone bankrupt by this time buying all those writing tablets!

Ponder: The Bible says nothing about whether Elizabeth knew how to read, but it does reference Zechariah’s writing on a tablet to confirm John’s name. No matter how they communicated, how do you imagine their faith was tested during those nine months of waiting? What about after John was born? How has God tested your faith? What would you tell someone who is being tested?

Pray: Give us the resources we need to meet times of testing. Remind us that our faithfulness may have consequences beyond just ourselves.

Read: Isaiah 7:1-17

Again the LORD spoke to Ahaz, saying, “Ask a sign of the LORD your God; let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven.” But Ahaz said, “I will not ask, and I will not put the LORD to the test.” Then Isaiah said, “Here then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also? Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel” (Isaiah 7:10-14, NRSV).

I was thinking about this incident just the other day. My son and I were taking our usual walk along the conduit of the upper pool on the highway to the Fuller’s Field. We’ve been walking there regularly for years. Though it takes me longer than it used to, I still like to get out there whenever I can—both for the exercise and the memories.

We always pause at the spot where we had that encounter with King Ahaz all those years ago. It’s not my happiest memory, although I do take some satisfaction in knowing I did the right thing. I followed God’s orders to the letter, after all. It’s not my fault Ahaz acted like the arrogant young idiot that he was.

I ask you. Have you ever begged God for a sign? Well, I have. And even though I’m a prophet, God doesn’t always serve up signs just to suit me. But that day, God offered Ahaz a sign on a platter—just to reassure him that if he trusted in God, the political storm would soon pass. “Let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven,” God told him. Talk about a blank check!

But would Ahaz ask for a sign? No. He muttered some mumbo-jumbo about not putting the LORD to the test, as if he were Mr. Piety personified. Well, that’s where I lost my patience, and I told him that God was going to give him the sign whether he wanted it or not. “Look!” I said. “The young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel (God With Us).”

I have to say, that got his attention! Every king wants an heir, after all, but to receive the news that the heir will be a son—and that the birth of that child will be a sign of God’s favor and blessing! Well, that’s more than any monarch could hope for.

Did the sign make a difference in Ahaz’ politics? No, sadly. He was so skittish about the two kings who were threatening him that he ran right out and made an alliance with Tiglath-Pileser III of Assyria. I don’t need to tell you what a bad idea that was. Sure, we survived the immediate threat, but we ended up as an Assyrian vassal.

Still, given what I know now about Ahaz’s son, Hezekiah, I can see why God said he would be called “Immanuel.” His reforms were a beacon or light that led us through some very dark days. I had high hopes for him, frankly, but even he disappointed me in the end. At the very end of his reign he made an alliance with the new international bully on the block—the Babylonians. I guess the unwise alliance thing must have run in the family, but honestly—I can’t believe he was so stupid as to give the Babylonians a tour of the treasury! I gave him an earful about that on God’s behalf. But all he could say when confronted with the prophecy that it would all be carted off to Babylon someday was: “Why not, if there will be peace and security in my days?”

In short, even Hezekiah fell short of my prophetic expectations. So, these days, I spend my time with my disciples “binding up the testimonies.” We’re writing down the prophecies I’ve delivered over the years, you see, because I’ve come to realize that God sometimes uses prophetic words to say more than we know. Sure, we deliver our prophecies as instructed, and they speak a powerful word for the present and the near future. But the whole Ahaz/Hezekiah incident taught me that God can—how do you say it—recycle such prophecies for another day.

So, that’s what I think about on our regular walk. My son assumes I’m thinking about the past. But I’m thinking about the future. I’m still waiting for that promised “anointed one,” whose name will be Immanuel.

Ponder: How do you feel about the suggestion that Isaiah’s words originally may have referred to the great reforming king, Hezekiah? Consider that the Hebrew word used in Isaiah 7:14 means “young woman” and not specifically “virgin.” As one Old Testament commentator puts it, “The sign is the child itself, and not the manner of its birth.” What do you think of the suggestion that the Holy Spirit can recycle ancient words for new situations?

Pray: Keep us faithful as we wait for the coming of Immanuel.

Read: John 4:1-42

Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?” Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, “He told me everything I have ever done.” So when the Samaritans came to him they asked him to stay with them; and he stayed there two days. And many more believed because of his word. They said to the woman, “It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world.” (John 4:28-29; 39-42, NRSV).

I’d like to tell you that everything was different for me after that day at the well. In truth, only a few things have changed, but they have made all the difference. Does that make sense? Maybe it will if I tell you a little bit more about what happened after that day at the well.

I’m used to being notorious, but after that day, I was notorious for a different reason. I was the one who had brought back the good news, after all. Suddenly I was a celebrity! Women who hadn’t talked to me in years were suddenly all chummy. To tell you the truth, it was a little disconcerting. And of course, it didn’t last. Does that sound cynical? Well, let’s just say I’m realistic about human nature. I suppose you could say I have trust issues.

Who wouldn’t? As Jesus pointed out during our famous conversation, I had had rather more husbands than most women. He didn’t put it exactly that way, but from what he said, I knew there was no use prevaricating. What struck me at that moment, however, was not just the fact that he seemed to know everything about me. It was the gentleness of his tone. He even smiled a little as he said it—as if he was teasing me.

I love a man with a good sense of irony.

That was the moment when our conversation moved past the usual platitudes. We started talking theology. I had always been interested in such things, but until Jesus came along, no one seemed to take my questions seriously. I drank up that conversation like someone who was dying of thirst…which I suppose I was.

Well, you know what happened next. I was so excited about the encounter—and so certain that Jesus was none other than the Messiah—that I threw caution to the wind and ran back to tell everyone about him. You should have seen the look on my neighbors’ faces! They were used to me going out of my way to avoid them (a preemptive strike on my part), but I rushed right up to the very people who had shunned me for so long. At first I saw revulsion—then wariness—then incredulity—then curiosity—then excitement. Finally, they had to run and see for themselves.

I guess you could say I had my fifteen minutes of fame after that. But I didn’t really mind when it passed. Fame is overrated. What hasn’t faded is my new-found self-esteem. Jesus gave that to me, and it’s growing every day—just like my relationship with God.

I’m pretty sure that’s why I no longer wait until the middle of the day to draw water from the well. Now I go when it’s cooler, like everyone else. Sure, some of them still shun me. (Old habits die hard.) But I no longer rely on their approval for my sense of self.

Oh, one more thing. I’m no longer living with that last guy who was “not my husband.” The only reason I’d been living with him before was because our society has no place for women who are—for whatever reason—on their own. It was that or starve if you know what I mean. But now one of my neighbors has taken me in. She’s a widow, but we get by with a little help from our friends. Thank goodness there are still a few people around who remember what Jesus taught us. I, for one, am very grateful.

Ponder: How has this imagined “update” from the woman at the well changed your attitude toward her?

Pray: Make us thirsty for living water, O God, and make our lives a reliable source of that water for others.

Read: Ruth 1-4

Then [Naomi]started to return with her daughters-in-law from the country of Moab, for she had heard in the country of Moab that the LORD had considered his people and given them food. So she set out from the place where she had been living, she and her two daughters-in-law, and they went on their way to go back to the land of Judah. But Naomi said to her two daughters-in-law, “Go back each of you to your mother’s house. May the LORD deal kindly with you, as you have dealt with the dead and with me. The LORD grant that you may find security, each of you in the house of your husband. Then she kissed them, and they wept aloud. They said to her, “No, we will return with you to your people.” …Then they wept aloud again. Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth clung to her (Ruth 1:6-10, 14 NRSV).

Dear Ruth,

I’m sure you’re surprised to hear from me after all these years. How long has it been? A decade? Still, I think about you every day, and I wonder if you and Naomi have found security back home in Bethlehem.

Of course, Bethlehem was not home for you, was it? That’s precisely why Naomi tried to convince us to return to Moab. I think about that day often, and I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d made a different decision.

Things have turned out well for me here in Moab. I married a good, kind man, and we have four healthy children. Two girls and two boys. I named the girls after you and Naomi! I thought about naming the boys after our first husbands, Mahlon and Chilion, but my new husband said that that was “a bridge too far.” I think he was secretly worried that the names would bring bad luck, and I can’t say as I blame him.

Do you remember how long we waited for children with Mahlon and Chilion? It was a decade of disappointment. And then, disappointment turned to tragedy. There for a while it felt like everyone was dying. If it hadn’t been for you and Naomi, I think I’d have died, too. I’m not sure I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I loved—and still love—the two of you. Which is precisely why it was so hard to obey Naomi’s command that I return to Moab! Turning my back on the two of you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

I walked for miles that day. My feet were pointed toward Moab, but my heart was headed straight for Bethlehem. To be honest, I almost changed mind several times. I admired your courage and your loyalty, but I hope I get some credit for being obedient. Not that anyone is keeping score. At least, I hope they’re not.

One of the hardest things about returning to Moab was the expectation that I would continue to worship Moabite gods. At first, I would chime in when everyone else was praying to Chemosh. But the more I flourished, the more I began to wonder whether my blessings might be the result of Naomi’s prayer that the LORD would deal kindly with me. I suspect they are. So, I’m keeping a very low profile these days with regard to Chemosh.

Please give my love to Naomi. I pray she’s still alive and well. May the LORD (not Chemosh!) bless and keep you both.

Love and prayers,

Orpah

P.S. Find a scribe and write back if you can. I scrimped and saved for ages to pay for one to write this letter, but it will be worth it if it means I can get news from you!

Ponder: How did this imagined glimpse into Orpah’s story change your impressions of her? Why do you think her character often gets “bad press”?

Pray: Thank you for friendships that endure through the decades.

Read: Luke 15:11-32

Then [the elder son] became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him! (Luke 15:28-30, NRSV).

I get it now. I get why Dad killed the fatted calf and welcomed back my bad-news brother. But it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t quick. In fact, it took my frozen heart at least a decade to thaw. Looking back, I think there were three stages to it.

The first stage happened almost right away. Something inside me began to “give” the moment I  I heard Dad say the words: “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”

Talk about the prodigal father! He was throwing forgiveness around like it grew on trees. I, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to squeeze it out for love nor money. But I was struck by the way he said “we” had to celebrate. In my initial complaint I had only talked about celebrating with my friends. It also didn’t hurt to hear him say, “all that is mine is yours.” Maybe you think that’s petty, but let’s be honest—it was reassuring. Fair is fair, after all.

You’re saying to yourself, “He hasn’t really changed at all.” You’re right. I hadn’t changed that much at that point. But stay with me here, OK? I told you it was a slow process.

Another thing that helped in this initial stage was getting more information. As soon as I got back to the house the servants told me what my brother had said when he got back. You know—about how he was no longer worthy to be called Dad’s son. And to be honest, one look at my emaciated brother told me that he wasn’t the arrogant **** he used to be. Frankly, he looked like he could use a few extra helpings of prime rib.

The next “heart-softening” stage was triggered when Dad died. I know that people react to grief in different ways, but that mutual loss actually drew me closer to my brother. Did you notice that I called him “my brother” just now? Before Dad died, I’d persisted in referring to him as “your son”—as if he could be Dad’s son without also being my brother. But standing together at Dad’s funeral revealed that as the adolescent idiocy it was. I think that was also the moment when I decided that I would share the inheritance. Not that that decision did much good. Thus far, my younger brother has refused to take so much as a shekel.

The third stage was when I had sons of my own. I’ll spare you the details, but these apples have not fallen far from the tree. The whole experience has given me a whole new appreciation for what my “prodigal father” when through with the two of us.

“Whatever is mine is yours,” Dad had said to me all those years ago. Now I realize that the greatest inheritance I received from him was what I learned from him about forgiveness. And that—I hope—will always be with me.

Ponder: The word “prodigal” means to be recklessly extravagant. While this story is usually referred to as the story of the prodigal son, there is also a sense in which it’s the story of the prodigal father. How do these imagined musings of the elder son/brother help you to see that? What do you think Jesus was trying to teach us through this story?

Pray: Help us to forgive as prodigally as we have been forgiven.