John leaned back in his chair. He was tired. His eyes and hands ached after a whole day hunched over the desk writing. 

 

            That would have to do for today.

 

            If he could, hed continue tomorrow. He rolled up the scroll and wiped his stylus.

 

Im not as young as I used to be, he said to himself. His old age was daily more obvious, not only to him, but also to the whole community of Christians at Ephesus. Miriam, a poor but good woman, had taken to cooking his meals. Cephas, her son, had taken to accompanying him wherever he needed to go. They insisted on doing it, although John tried to discourage them. And John was grateful.

 

            He pushed open the door and eased himself onto the doorstep. The sunset was more than worth the poor area where he lived: it blazed over the sky, its glory heralding the first notes of chill in the evening. Winter was slowly creeping its way into Ephesus. The sun slid further and further down the mountainside, until all was blanketed in a deep purple, broken only by the stars above and the lamplight from houses.

 

            Thoughts - prayers filled his mind. No number of years could ever erase the memories. They were as vivid in his mind as hot coals, and he tended them as carefully. He must write. He knew he must write. God asked it of him, as did the Christians. Nonetheless, how could he describe in words what Jesus was like to those who had never known him, seen him, heard him preach? All those years he had spent with Christ as a young man walking from town to town, sleeping in open fields, talking into the late hours of the night he never thought hed have to tell anyone about them. Him? John? The youngest fisherman of the Sea of Tiberias, and the youngest disciple in that band that had followed Jesus? The goodness, the bravery, the uprightness, the gentleness, the wit which made up Jesus personality all seemed nearly impossible to convey in their fullness.

 

            God is love.

            That was the only accurate and complete description that came to Johns mind.

 

            It was late and the chill had settled into the hills, but John would stay a while more before turning in. The lights below dimmed as those in the heavens shone the brighter.

God, you are love for me; you have always been love for me, since the beginning.

 

            Since the beginning... It was that first moment John was thinking about now. It was that first moment he had been writing about before he came outside.

He remembered Andrew, his friend, and James his brother; they had long since gone to rest with God. It was with Andrew that he had met the Christ for the first time, that day they were with John the Baptist at the river. Behold the Lamb of God, John had said, as a man passed by.  The Lamb of God? The Promised One of Israel? They had both looked at each other, and without really knowing why, rose up and began to follow the figure to whom the Baptist pointed.

 

            The elderly John chuckled. Oh, and he and Andrew had tried to be discreet as they argued in whispers about who would speak first to him. Yet if he didnt ask quickly, the Christ would be lost in the crowd. John broke stride with Andrew and walked swiftly to catch up to Jesus, trying to think of something to say. It was the Lamb himself who turned around and addressed his young pursuer:

What do you seek?

            The eyes that met Johns carried the universe, the voice echoed experience and wisdom, and the question caught John completely off guard. Fumbling for an answer, he replied not fully aware of the words that came out:

Sir - where do you live?

John felt like striking himself on the forehead. Idiot!  hed scolded himself. What kind of a stupid question is that? He was about to open his mouth again, when he saw the face of the Christ. Jesus smiled at John and then at Andrew, now beside him. He smiled at them both, and the smile was love.

 

Come and see.

They followed him. They spent the whole day with him; they spent their whole lives with him; they would spend eternity with him.

 

It was late. The old man grasped the door post to pull himself up. Come morning he would regret having stayed out for so long in the night air. Inside, dinner awaited him on the table. Miriam had come in and left it without him noticing. It would wait for tomorrow. The letters? They would wait for tomorrow as well. But one thing couldnt be left for tomorrow.

 

He walked over to his desk and pulled out his scroll. There was a detail missing. Some would think it insignificant, but to him it had value beyond compare. Holding the paper up to the oil lamps fine flame, he found the place he was looking for. John uncapped the inkwell, took up the stylus in his stiff hands and added this brief note to his text:

 

they came and saw where he was staying;

 and they stayed with him that day;

it was about four in the afternoon.

(John 1:35-40)