Through the Roof

We had heard he was here.
We had been waiting for him.
We all wanted to see him, to hear his voice, to be close to him.
But, especially, we wanted to bring the boy to him; the boy who could not move his legs.
So the four of us picked up the corners of the boy's mat and we went to where we knew Jesus was.
All we had to do was follow the crowd.
The sun shone bright and hot, and though the boy was light, he seemed a great burden as we went in search of the teacher.
We ran into the crowd long before we reached him. The mob encircled the house, packed together like cattle, hot and sweaty, their whispers rising like a great din.
We could hear nothing, see nothing.
But I knew he was there. All five of us knew. We were so close. But the crowd was impenetrable. Leaving, however, was not an option.
We were so close to him.
Perhaps I imagined it. But I think I could feel him. Where I could not see him, when I could not hear him... I felt something stir in my heart. To the point I recognized his presence. And could not turn away.
We pressed through the crowd with all our might. Some moved aside when they saw us bringing the boy who couldn't walk. Others didn't budge. I became aggravated with the people. For being so large in numbers, for being so healthy, for being so close to Jesus when I was so far away.
We made it as close as the front step. The boy looked up at me. "Can we get any closer?"
But there was no swaying the audience. A huge, unwavering body. But we were so close. And something stirred my soul, and I knew...
All we had to do was let Jesus see the boy. I had heard enough of this teacher to know that was enough.
Later, I would question what went through my mind at that moment, what it was that caused me to act.
Maybe it was courage.
Or desperation. Just as much for myself as for my friend - my friend who'd never been able to use his legs.
Today, still, I don't have the answer.
But the four of us - the ones with the strong, sturdy legs of young boys - climbed onto the roof of the house in which the teacher sat.
No one noticed us.
The man who owned the house did not come out, yelling and scolding for cutting into his roof. He didn't notice.
Because he was listening to Jesus too.
Finally we scrambled back down to the ground; backs were sore, necks hot from the sun. And slowly, slowly, we picked up our friend and lifted him to the roof.
His face was full of emotion.
Trepidation and delight. He was going to see the teacher... surely He would heal his legs. But I think our friend might have been afraid we'd kill him before he ever made it inside.
I held onto one of the ropes, which would lower my friend into the room.
I leaned over and looked inside.
People swarmed like bugs... scurrying and pushing and buzzing. The air in the house wafted through the new hole in the roof, smelling of dirtiness and sweat. I swallowed nervously, seeking His face. Where was He? I could hear His voice above everyone else's.
And even as I searched the faces of the crowd... I saw Him.
Quickly.
We slowly lowered our friend, who now hung suspended in a makeshift hammock.
Then we heard the other people.
They were angry.
They shook their fists at my friend.
I was afraid.
We only had to get our friend to Jesus.
But what if we couldn't get past the crowd? These people, so selfish. So healthy. Standing on two feet.
Then Jesus looked up.
The sun shadowed His face so He squinted -- lines around his forehead and the corners of his eyes deepened.
I almost lost grip of my end of the rope.
Was that a smile?
Had I imagined it... or did the teacher look... amused?
He told everyone to step back, to move out of the way, stepping forward to take our friend in His arms.
We felt our ropes go slack and watched as Jesus lay our friend down on the dirt floor on a mat.
Everything in me wanted to jump down too.
To be held in the teacher's arms like that.
He was a carpenter like my father. Big strong arms and lots of scars.
But I wasn't sick.
So I lay on my belly and lowered my head and shoulders as far as I dared. Just so I could watch.
Just so I didn't miss it when Jesus healed my friend.
But instead, everything went quiet.
I watched as Jesus knelt down and rested his elbows on his knees.
He asked my friend his name.
He smiled. There it was again.
Then Jesus said something and sat back down.
I couldn't hear.
I didn't know.
But my friend didn't get up.
Wouldn't the teacher make my friend's legs work?
I felt the sun beat on the back of my neck and strained to see my friend's face.
My belly flipped inside of me.
My friend looked upon Jesus with a face as radiant as the sun. His young eyes were wet with tears - tears like I hadn't ever seen him cry.
But his legs weren't moving.
Then Jesus said something else. He asked a question.
He shrugged His shoulders and I watched Him rub his calf - back and forth, like He was thinking really hard.
Then He nodded and smiled again.
And He reached out to my friend and whispered again.
I could see the muscles in my friend's legs ripple. And then I saw his toes move. Before I knew it my friend was standing on his feet, rolling up his mat.
Then he turned and looked up at us - his friends who had brought him there to be healed.
He turned to Jesus and pointed. Jesus pulled him close and He looked up at me.
This time, He smiled right at me.
And beckoned for me to come down.

Later my friend would tell me the whole story.

About how Jesus had looked at him and forgiven him of his sins. "He fixed my heart first," my friend said. "The part I didn't know was broken. The part I didn't know was hurt..."

Jesus brought the five of us back later that day and climbed onto the roof with us to help mend the hole we had cut. The crowd was long gone... it was only Jesus and us then.

A carpenter. Like my dad. He explained how all our hearts were broken. How the inside was what needed to be fixed. And He could do that for us... because He loved us.