Tall Girl from Galilee

*This is an historical fictitious account of two of the many miracles not mentioned in the Bible (John 21:25 ), inspired in part by a trip to Israel Maureen Miller took in 2003.*

“But he was pierced for our [sins]…upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5 ESV).

A tall girl…

I stood out in a crowd. Long and lanky at the age of nine, I heard the mockery. “She’s like a shepherd’s staff” or “Any skinnier, she’d blow away in a stiff Galilean gale.”

It was true.

Like my father, or so I’m told. My late abba, that is. Killed when I was two, he was crucified as a criminal. His offense? Failing to pay taxes. “Make an example of him,” they snarled. All I know—with his death, I was orphaned.

That’s when Mathias took me in, became my abba. And his wife—plump, cheerful Shifra? Imma.

Mathias named me Mara. “Suffered her share of bitterness,” he said. “But one day, her mourning will turn to joy.”

Abba mended fishing nets, a lucrative business on the Sea of Galilee. Probably why I loved water, the smell of buttery tilapia over fire, the gentle rustle of wildflowers dancing on the coastal hillside.

I’d been picking daisies the day John came rushing from his boat. Breathless when he reached us, he was a panting, frazzled puppy. “Mathias, we’ve… we’ve met him.”

Abba lowered the net he was mending for John’s father, a favor for his old friend Zebedee. “Who? Who’ve you met?”

Standing at Abba’s side, a wispy bouquet in my grasp, I noticed John brush his palm against a sweaty brow, then flick, sending small beads of perspiration flying. He choked out his one-word response.

“Messiah.”

Abba dropped the net as his jaw, too, fell. “What? Messiah? Are… are you certain?”

But running to catch up with the stranger already surrounded by several fishermen up-shore, John only hollered over his shoulder, “I’m sure.”

Abba rubbed worn hands on his grubby tunic, then tightened his belt. “Come, Mara. Let’s see what this is all about. If true, this man will suffer for our peace, bringing salvation.”

We soon learned his name.

Jesus came and went from our small coastal village over the next couple years. He had a gentle demeanor and a kind smile crinkling his golden eyes. Though rumor had it he’d performed many miracles, I’d only witnessed two—both from a distance. Perhaps each went unnoticed, some arguing neither was a miracle. After all, the recipient of the first was a mere…

Cannan dog.

I’d sneak the stray pup a bit of lamb from time to time, and she’d lick my finger, lifting her mangled paw in gratitude. I named her Galit, meaning “wave of the sea.” After all, her tawny coat curled along her backbone in gentle ripples, like the water of the Galilee.

How she’d been injured, I’ll never know, but her front right foot was twisted, jutting toward the left in a crude manner.

Though she sometimes hobbled about, she rarely abandoned her post near Josiah’s market, and that’s where I witnessed this miracle.

It was a bright morning.

The sun beckoned children, Come, skip in sunlight. I’d been playing Tiv’ol b’Kivun—stretching for scattered shadows—when Imma called. “Fetch some salt from Josiah’s, Mara. I don’t know how, but I’ve managed to run out. I need more for bread.”

We heard Jesus had returned, though I’d yet to see him. Thus, I wasn’t expecting to round the corner and—

Right there, kneeling by Galit, Jesus stroked her fur. And he smiled. His followers, that rough and tumble Twelve—some of whom were from our small fishing village—stood at a distance. Arms flailed and several kicked dirt. The issue of contention? I have no idea, but no one seemed to pay attention to Jesus but me.

That’s when our eyes met….

The first of only two occasions when our gaze locked, my heart skipped a beat. Jesus tipped his head and nodded, as if he knew I knew, then turned back to Galit to lift her deformed paw. Only, when he let it drop….

I stared at the dog, wondering if it was a dream. And when I shifted my gaze, Jesus was gone. I rushed to my friend to kneel beside her. She, too, appeared amazed, holding up her once-damaged limb as if to ask–

“Is it true?”

I took it, then inspected her foot, discovering… Galit—a homeless dog of little account—was healed. By Jesus—a man who’d once been a boy. Who’d likely loved dogs, then grew up and was… just an ordinary man? Could it be?

Honestly, for some time, this event stirred questions more than offered answers, and, I’ll admit, I doubted. Abba wondered why the change—his once faith-filled daughter battling an internal war, one he couldn’t fight. “Why, Mara? Why doubt?”

I had no answer, only a niggling skepticism I carried until my next—my final—earthly encounter with Jesus.

Years passed.

Two weeks after my twelfth birthday, Abba died without warning. If Jesus was ever to perform a miracle for my family, I’d have wanted him to bring Abba back, but that didn’t happen. And Abba’s last words to me? “My tall girl from Galilee, you will see! Your doubt will fade, blossoming faith.”

Because Imma had no sons, we were forced to move from our beloved coastal community, traveling seventy-five miles south to Jerusalem’s outskirts, closer to Imma’s family.

I packed our things, loading Abba’s donkey Amos. Abba had only been gone several weeks, and his beast of burden seemed to search for the kind man who offered daily scratches and pats. “We miss him, don’t we, Amos?” I sympathized, strapping on the last of our satchels.

Life near Jerusalem was in stark contrast to the coast. Never silence. Few wildflowers. No sea breeze. Mostly, I missed Abba. A seamstress, Imma sold her wares at a market not far from our small apartment, an upper room we rented from distant cousins.

One afternoon…

Courage swept over me, a burning desire to explore the surrounding area. I’d saddled Amos, then ventured out. The day was hot, the air dusty. I hadn’t traveled a mile when I encountered a large, chaotic crowd. Many were shouting, shaking fists. But why?

I tied Amos to a fencepost before pushing past people. Nearer the front but still at a distance, I saw them—three gnarled olive trees, three crossbeams. On each, a man hung—his wrists and feet nailed to the wood.

A flashback of my father, the one before Abba—a man I never knew nor remembered, had only heard about—flooded my mind, and I trembled. Still, I forced myself to stand on tiptoe, look out to see the faces of the crucified men.

And the one in the middle?

Though beaten beyond recognition, I knew. It was Jesus—bloodied and naked, the man who’d healed Galit. Abba’s words echoed, “He’ll suffer for our peace, bringing salvation.”

And the second miracle?

As Jesus scanned that sea of people, a thorny crown on his head, he locked eyes with mine. Again, my heart skipped a beat as his gaze spoke truth—I know you know.  And right then, all doubt dissipated, blossoming faith. Yes, joy for mourning.

As I said, I stood out in a crowd.