The Transfiguration
The memory of that morning began with the smell of dew on stone and the ache of a steep climb. Peter’s breath came in ragged clouds, his sandals scraping against the flinty path as he followed Jesus up the slope….
Cleansed and Clothed
The stone floor of the vision was cold, a chill that seeped through the soles of Joshua’s sandals and climbed his bones. It wasn’t the remembered cold of the Jerusalem dawn, but something else, a clarity that felt like standing…
The Shepherd’s Burden
The heat in Tekoa was a dry, persistent thing. It didn’t press down so much as it seeped up from the pale, cracked earth, shimmering over the rocky hills where the sheep found scant purchase. Amos wiped the grit from…
The Scribe and the Sacred City
The air in the room was still, thick with the scent of aged papyrus and the faint, metallic tang of the inkwell I had just used. My hand ached, a dull, familiar throb from wrist to knuckle. I was old,…
Ezekiel’s Tale of Grace and Betrayal
The voice would not leave him. It came on the wind that scoured the valley, a dry whisper that settled in the bones. Ezekiel sat among the exiles, the dust of Babylon fine on his skin, but his eyes were…
The Governor’s Trust
The heat that autumn was a physical presence. It lay over the land of Judah like a dusty blanket, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on the ruins of Jerusalem and the scattered settlements where the poor, the vinedressers, and the…
The Vineyard’s Silent Lament
The heat in the vineyard was a physical weight. It pressed down on Anathoth’s shoulders as he worked, a dry, woolen cloak he could not shed. The grapes, fat and purpling, should have been a promise. But as his fingers…
Remembrance in Babylon
## The Names We Carry The dust of Babylon has a particular smell. It’s not like the dust of home—that was dry and chalky, carrying the scent of thyme and sun-baked limestone. This dust is heavier, silt-laden from the great…
Root in Dry Ground
The rain had finally stopped, but the damp clung to everything in the little valley of Ephrathah. It seeped into the cloak of old Micah as he rested against the gnarled trunk of what had once been a great oak….
The Whisper of Small Wonders
The heat in the port of Jaffa was a physical weight, a wool cloak soaked in brine and draped over the shoulders. I, Agur, son of Jakeh, felt it press upon my skull as I watched the Phoenician ships, sleek…