Take This Cup (45 page)

So the room was ready for our first supper.

The Day of Preparation dawned. The Sparrows and I rose early and went with Papa and Rabbi Kagba to select a lamb. I never liked this part of the Passover tradition. The choosing of an innocent, perfect lamb for sacrifice always seemed a sad thing to me. Even in our mountains, where lambs from my father’s flocks were plentiful.

In Jerusalem the stock pens were crowded with tens of thousands of lambs born and raised in Bethlehem. They were set aside for the very purpose of dying as sin offerings.

Papa knew what was good and best and better among the pens of milling sheep. He examined them all and finally picked an animal from the lambs that had not yet been washed. It was his intention that the Sparrows would learn to wash it and brush it, using the day to prepare it for slaughter. By the end of that time, the boys would be attached to it.

In this way they would learn the hard lesson that the sin
of all men required the atoning death of a gentle and beautiful creature that knew nothing of sin. It was a hard lesson to learn. I knew that firsthand. I recalled vividly the sadness and shock I’d experienced when the innocent lamb had died in my dog Beni’s place. It was far different in my mountains, when we lived our days with the sheep, than simply purchasing a chunk of meat in the city marketplace.

While Papa taught the Sparrows something about the care and feeding of lambs, Rabbi Kagba and I set out together to draw water from the well to wash it.

Hand-over-hand I helped pull up the bucket and pour it into the ceremonial jar. Rabbi Kagba balanced it on his shoulder, and we headed back toward home.

We had just turned the corner of our street when I spotted Peter and James walking toward us.

I waved. “
Shalom!
Peter! James!”

“Look!” Peter’s brooding face broke into a smile. “It’s Nehemiah and the rabbi.”

“
Shalom,
” Rabbi Kagba greeted them. “Is everything well with your master?”

“Aye.” Peter nodded. “Jesus sent us to find you—that is, I think he meant you. He told us to come to the city. He said a man carrying water would meet us and . . . we’re to follow you.”

My teacher’s eyes misted with emotion. “The first supper . . . ah, yes. So it will be as I dreamed it would be. Come along, then. Follow us.”

My father knelt in the dirt as we approached. The boys stroked the baby lamb and spoke kindly to it as boys often speak gentle words to small, dumb creatures. The lamb was sitting across Red’s lap. It laid its head against his shoulder and closed its eyes.

Papa stood as Peter and James approached. “
Shalom,
brothers. Is your master well?”

“He is well and sends his greetings.”

“Jesus is coming into Jerusalem for Passover?” my father asked. “In spite of everything?”

“He is,” James replied. “With the twelve of us.”

Peter added, “The teacher asks if the room is ready so he can eat Passover with his disciples?”

My father’s face lit with understanding. “I have just the place for your master. The upper room in my new house. Everything new and ready—no meal ever before eaten there. Please, if you will do me the honor. I’m unworthy that Jesus should enter under my roof, but if the Lord will only come and bring his disciples here to my new house, you’ll see. New dishes and cups. Please, yes, the table is ready. The room is prepared. If Jesus will eat the first supper here beneath the roof of my house, then my house and my family will be blessed forever.”

“He told us you would say that.” James’s eyes were somber, not like a man looking forward to a celebration. “Yes. Jesus will come to your house for dinner this evening.”

My thoughts flew to Joseph’s silver chalice. Not only would I present it to Jesus tonight, he would take his first drink from it in the upper room of my home!

Peter said to me, “And he told me, ‘Nehemiah will have the cup ready.’ I don’t know what cup he means, boy, but I suppose he knows . . . and you know, Nehemiah?”

I nodded but did not speak. Peter’s gruff voice and wild looks somehow always caused me to lose my voice.

My father embraced James. “You can’t imagine the joy! After my wife was healed—she would walk a thousand miles to fix a meal for Jesus. It’s her dream to feed him. Well, that’s a woman
for you. And her prayer! She mentioned it again only this morning.” He mimicked my mother’s voice, “If only I could cook a meal for Jesus!”

Peter said, “I heard she’s a good cook.”

Papa exclaimed, “Such a cook she is! But I promise if she never cooked another meal, she wants only to cook supper for Jesus. Could there be such an honor? Serving Jesus his Passover supper as he prepares to enter into his kingdom?”

“Why am I surprised?” Peter asked. “So, it’s settled. I suppose it was always settled. We just didn’t know the details—upper room of the weaver’s shop. Thank you very much. Tell your wife thanks as well. And now Jesus has sent us fishermen to select a lamb. I’m not very good at it. I get attached to the little things before I carry them home.”

Papa put a hand on Peter’s arm. “No, please. I am a shepherd and the son of a shepherd. This morning I selected the best lamb of the flock from Bethlehem. My boys are washing its fleece right now. What an honor it would be if Jesus and his close friends would accept the lamb I had intended to be offered for my family. If Jesus would accept the sacrifice from my hands for his good and the good of his friends, even though I’m not worthy for him to enter under my roof, then I’ll be doubly blessed!”

The arrangement pleased everyone and sent my mother spinning with joy. Jesus the Lord, her Healer and Redeemer, was coming to bless her upper room by breaking bread there.

A steady stream of pilgrims flooded the shop to purchase prayer shawls as Mama prepared the supper for our special guests.

My three elder brothers manned the counters for two hours
and then the shop was closed as preparation for Jesus’ arrival continued.

It was mid-afternoon when Mama brought me in to the back room. Everything smelled of clean woolen fabric, fresh paint, and newly sanded wood. The shelves were stocked with fabrics made famous by the weavers of my family. I felt proud.

Mama opened the chest and, with a wave of her hand, motioned for me to come and see. “Nehemiah, these are the very best prayer shawls and
kittels
I ever made on my loom. Ever in my life. Sometimes something extraordinary happens, you know. When you pray or sing or create or just live, and God pours his love through us into something. So every year from our far mountains, from the place where Eden once was, I sent something special I had made to my sister for safekeeping. That is why these were saved from the fire that took everything. God saved them for this night, you see. These were never offered for sale. How could I sell such things? But I thought I saved them for special occasions in our own family. Like your
bar
mitzvah
, or your wedding someday. Everything here. Ready for the most holy moments in our lives. Or one day, when perhaps I might have a grandchild of my own. And here . . .” She held up a man-sized
kittel
, the white robe worn by a bridegroom for his wedding. Later the robe he wore at his wedding would become the garment a man wore for his burial.

But that night, I knew Mama thought only of the wedding feast of the Messiah, not his death and burial. “So, Nehemiah, what do you think? For Jesus, the bridegroom of Israel?”

The light glistened white as snow on the fabric. The detail on the border was like a grapevine and clusters of grapes. “He will like that one, yes. I think so, Mama.”

I tried not to think of the use of the
kittel
as burial clothes.
It seemed too ominous, considering what Jesus had said about his death.

“Yes, Mama. I remember how you sang when you made this one. And this too.” I wondered if she had something special for me.

She retrieved a smaller white
kittel
and held it up for me to see. “I made this one for your
bar
mitzvah.
Also grapevines. See? And
Kiddush
cups all around. I did not know what was about to happen. I just thought it was right for my son, Nehemiah, named after the cupbearer. You see? You should wear it tonight, I think.”

I accepted it, excited, fearful I might make some mistake, and thankful I had lived to see this day. Did she see the nervousness in my eyes?

I focused on the exquisite prayer shawls. Running my fingers over the fabric, I traced the blue thread of the fringes. I remembered my mother patiently knotting one strand after another by the lamplight in our camp.

Removing the stack, she laid them out on a bench. “And all of these—they’re the special ones. I want you to take them upstairs and put one at the seat of each of the disciples . . . and one for Jesus, as our gift.”

I knew that Joseph of Arimathea had given Jesus one of the special prayer shawls Mama had made, and Jesus wore it often. But my mother’s heart was so eager to give something extra. Her face beamed like a hopeful little girl’s as she asked me to help her choose. I embraced her, telling her there never was a woman like her, so talented and so kind.

Together, we selected the most beautiful
tallith
for Jesus to wear. It was the one she had named “Joseph’s Coat of Many Colors.”

“Of course,” I said, certain the Holy Spirit had guided my mother’s hands in the weaving and her heart in the naming.

The twelve shawls selected for the disciples were all different but of equal beauty and intricacy. But there was one gift that troubled me deeply—the twelfth
tallith
meant for Judas Iscariot.

I carried the precious gifts to the upper room and laid them at each of the seats. I only prayed that I was wrong about Judas . . . that somehow he would prove to be a true friend of the Lord.

She came up to inspect the room. As she stood before the painting of Eden, her eyes welled. “Eden. Like this house must be reborn. Beauty for ashes. Out of the ashes of my childhood, now the Lord has blessed me with this honor. Yes. Beauty for ashes in every life. My son as the cupbearer. My house rebuilt. Jesus coming here tonight for the first supper. I am blessed to have prepared it for him. What more could any woman ask?” She kissed my forehead. “I’m proud of you, Nehemiah. You have come a long way and suffered much to come to this night. Now go and wash and put on your wedding garment. The bridegroom of Israel is on his way.”

While I washed and changed into my new clothes, Mama took her place at the loom again and began to sing at the window. I smoothed the fabric of my
kittel
and studied my reflection in the bronze mirror. I looked very grown-up.

The sun was almost down when I carried Joseph’s silver chalice from the rented house, through the shop, and up the stairs of our restored home. The lamps and candles were already lit.
Matza
bread, wine from the vineyard of Lazarus, and all the ritual elements of the Passover meal were in place.

As the service progressed, Mama would carry the steaming platters of the feast to serve the guests.

Only the cup had yet to be placed in Jesus’ hands, and all would be fulfilled.

I was alone in the upper room. The sense of holiness was heavy, a tangible weight of anticipation in the atmosphere. Through the window the buildings of the Temple were bathed in golden sunlight.

With a glance toward the painting of the great wounded hart, I unwrapped the chalice and held it up to the light. The golden light of Jerusalem reflected in the polished silver.

I was ready for my task as cupbearer to the King!

My teacher had taught me the meaning of every blessing that would be recited over the wine in Joseph’s cup. This night, Jesus would bless and drink the four traditional cups offered at Passover from the chalice. Each cup of wine represented God’s plan of redemption for Israel and for all of mankind through the Messiah.

Suddenly my mother burst into song with the rhythm of her loom. I knew then that Jesus and his disciples had turned the corner and were coming up the street!

Peering out the window, I saw sunlight glint on the lettering of the sign above the door and read the words HOUSE OF PRAYER.