Twelve or more

Twelve or more | The Unnamed Ones

For some visitors, I am here… but for others, I am not.

It was Rya’s thirty-first birthday. As was their custom, her husband and parents filled the table with her favorite things—purple and green scarves from the east, sandals with just the right balance of weight and shine, and bread from the oldest bakery in town. It would be paired with her favorite recipe of lentils slow-cooked in fava bean stew.

There were also bundles of dyed thread and newly carved spindles for her newest weaving hobby, and last but not least, at the corner by the door, the goats they would take to the temple before sunset.

Her father, Jairus, a leader of the local synagogue for decades, started this tradition on her thirteenth birthday—because there had once been a day when he was sure the twelfth would be her last.

“So, my love…” came Aran’s voice. “It’s that time,” he grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“We are really doing this every year, aren’t we?” Rya asked, laughing with a hint of disbelief.

“Every year until you cross the river,” was his response, as resolute as the year before.

Jairus and Salma never tired of this story. They lived half of it, but it wasn’t until after the crowds had dispersed and the emotional dust had settled that they heard the other half. They smiled as they waited patiently, amused and deeply thankful that their son-in-law was as in love and amazed at their little miracle as they were.

“Well, why don’t you start this time, mother?” Rya said, her big brown eyes meeting her mother’s, equally big and brown.

Salma smiled. Then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

And a moment later, she fought a well of tears. But they came anyway. Jairus wrapped his arm around her, as he always did—too late to stop the flood, but never too late to stand beside it. She let them flow, and they took her to the day she sat by her daughter’s bedroom window and watched as Jairus ran out of the house, undignified and desperate.

He never left the home without his full regalia—robes pressed, tassels straight, every inch the leader men deferred to from a distance.

That day, he ran past them—robes undone, dust rising at his heels, a man no longer concerned with dignity, only time. He looked unrecognizable as he ran through the city streets toward the lake, where a crowd had gathered and was multiplying.

“That day, my sister Liora was visiting, and she had just made some lentil and fava bean stew. Rya had been sick for so long. Between the long nights of watching her shiver in her sleep, and the long days of waiting on doctors, it was Liora’s visits that kept me from breaking.” She smiled faintly, feeling a little extra thankful for her sister that morning.

“I found it very difficult to sit on her bed that day, so I stood by the window instead. I could still see Jairus running when Rya’s breath began to fade.”

She paused a moment.

“I froze, and I watched my baby take her last breath. And then… I just screamed.”

Aran clenched his jaw. This was the third time he heard the story, and this part broke him just as easily as the first.

“I don’t know how long I was screaming, but one neighbor came, and then another, and then another.” She paused for a moment, looking at Rya, alive and well, an image completely different from what her memory offered. “By the time my lungs began to hurt, Liora had already sent word to your father.”

Salma looked at Jairus, unable to imagine what would have been a look of hopelessness in his eyes.

They were silent for a little while.

Rya smiled softly, and the other three turned to her. “This is where I come in.”

“I remember falling asleep, and Ima, I remember hearing you scream. But it wasn’t the kind of scream that could wake me up. It just felt… distant. Like I was going to rest for a little while and then come back to you later.”

“When I woke up, I was outside. It was as if I fell asleep on the grass, so when I opened my eyes, I just lay there. It felt nice.”

Even now, her face softened at the memory.

“There was a dove,” she said softly. “It flew over me and landed on the edge of a nearby well to my left. I remember watching it for a long time… or maybe no time at all.”

She paused, her smile shifting to something more curious.

“And then it wasn’t there anymore.”

Her eyes flickered between her parents.

“There was a girl sitting where the dove had been. She seemed a few years older than me. She was so beautiful. Now, as I think back, the best words I finally have to describe her would be how King Solomon’s beloved described herself— dark as the tents of Kedar.”

She looked at Aran, a renewed excitement at finally finding the words.

“And there was something… flowing… about her eyes. They looked like they carried the wisdom King Solomon wrote about. She felt… familiar, but I was sure I had never seen her before. And I was sure I wanted to be her friend.”

The room held the stillness it typically did at this part of the story. The world moved along outside. Children played their usual games, the goats bleated patiently, and the rich aroma of lentil stew wafted between them. Rya continued.

“I opened my mouth to say hello, but my voice caught in my throat— the way it does when I feel shy. Then she smiled at me, and it was a big smile. She said hello, and I felt my throat loosen up again.”

Rya sank into the memory.

_____

Little Rya felt the grass between her fingers and toes. She was barefoot outside—something her mother would not be pleased to know. She looked around, wondering how she had gotten here and where her parents were.

Looking back at the girl at the well, Rya wondered why she had no memory of how she got here, or even what here was. To her right, a field of grass stretched as far as her eyes would let her see. To her left, the well with the girl, who was now walking toward her.

“Rya”, she said softly. “It is so good to be with you again.”

Rya frowned and stood to her feet. “Do– do I know you?”

“Not yet. But I know you,” Her voice sounded rich— much older than she looked. “I have known you for a long time, and the number of my years is much higher than you can count.”

“But—” Little Rya tilted her head to see her more clearly, “— you don’t look old.”

“No, I don’t,” the girl responded with a smile that reached her eyes. “I am what your parents would call ancient, but just for today, I have taken a form that would make you a bit more comfortable for our time together.”

Rya lowered her gaze and let her feet feel the grass. She felt confused, but strangely calm, and in no rush to leave the moment.

A thin stream of water slipped past her feet, moving from right to left. And she watched it, curious.

It widened. Slowly and steadily, it grew, until it was no longer something she could just step across.

A river.

On the edges of the river, the grass seemed to glow, and Rya was mesmerized by the sight. Her big eyes widened, and she wondered if she had ever seen anything more beautiful.

Her companion stepped closer. With her right hand, she gently placed her fingers beneath Rya’s chin and lifted her gaze.

“Look,” she said softly.

And then Rya saw it.

What had not been there a moment before now stretched across the horizon—a wall, vast and immovable, as though it had always been there and she had only just learned how to see it. In the middle was a thick pair of gates that glowed a lovely yellow. The glow almost pulsed, and it seemed to call to Rya.

Her heart fluttered.

There was a feeling of belonging at the sight of the gate—one she knew well. It lived at the table with her parents, in the warmth of her aunt Liora’s embrace, in the hours she spent playing with friends, and now, here, in the glow of the gates set in the middle of the endless wall.

She looked at her companion, curious about how to cross the river.

“Not yet,” the girl smiled. “We are to wait here just a little longer. You may cross the river today, or have to return at a later time.”

“Oh— okay,” Rya started.

She let a little moment pass. A thought rested gently on her mind. And she asked in almost a whisper, “Did I die?”

“Yes,” the girl responded simply. Frank, but soft.

Rya looked at her feet again, thinking about how sad her parents must feel.

As if reading her mind, the girl said, “Yes, they are sad and afraid of a life without you. Today will change them in ways they have never imagined possible.”

“Will they be okay?”

The girl took a moment and then responded, “No parent is okay after losing their child.”

She let out a long sigh, “It is not how it was meant to be… But they will have everything they need to live in a world that looks a little different now.”

A few moments passed.

“Why am I not scared?” Rya asked, half to herself and half to her companion.

“There is nothing to fear about being here, Rya.” The girl’s voice was gentle and certain. “This place was made for you; to wait a little while.”

Rya let her gaze rest on the water, then back to her companion. “What are we waiting for?”

“For your parents,” the girl said. “There is a choice being made today, but whatever they choose, you will not be lost.”

Rya shifted her feet in the grass, thinking. “So this is how it happens? We just… stand here and wait until our parents do something?”

The girl did not answer right away. Her gaze drifted to the river as it moved steadily beside them.

“No,” she said at last. “Not all the time. Sometimes the crossing comes quickly.” She glanced back at Rya. “But in your case, as with a few others, there is a little wait.”

She hesitated, her expression softening. “For some visitors, I am here.” Her eyes flickered, just briefly. “And for others, I am not.”

Rya looked at her companion, and before she could ask, the girl met her eyes and continued, “They can release you and accept what has happened,” then she turned back to the river, “If they do, the call of the gates will get louder, and you will answer.” She nodded toward the glowing distance. “And I will walk with you across the river.”

“Oh.” Rya let the word sit between them. “And if they don’t let me go?”

The girl smiled again, but this time there was something deeper in it—something Rya could not begin to understand.

“They can allow the Rabbi,” she said softly. “To call you back.”

Rya was quiet, turning the thought over in her mind.

After a moment, the girl stepped a little closer and placed a hand gently on Rya’s shoulder. “You don’t have to understand everything today, little one,” she said. “In time, you will. And when you do, your understanding will be complete.”

Rya looked at her, then at the river, then toward the distant gate.

“Okay,” she said.

And the word settled in her, steady and sure.

They stood by the flowing river, time losing its meaning.

And Rya thought she caught the faint aroma of lentils cooked in bean stew. She looked around to see if someone was cooking. But there was no fire and no meal in sight.

Then, she heard what sounded like a voice asking her to wake up, but it did not come from the girl.

Confused, Rya turned, trying to find it. But the world around her began to blur. The river slowed, and the air grew thick.

She looked back at her companion, a question forming—but her body was suddenly heavy, like sleep had found and embraced her.

Her companion smiled, a deep, knowing smile.

“The Rabbi is calling, little one,” and with a gentle shove, she caused Rya to fall slowly back into the grass.

_____

41 He took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha koum!” (which means “Little girl, I say to you, get up!”). 42 Immediately the girl stood up and began to walk around (she was twelve years old). At this they were completely astonished. 43 He gave strict orders not to let anyone know about this, and told them to give her something to eat.

Mark 5:41-43