My Friend Simcha

 

From her vantage point the mountains below spread out forever. She had inherited this place of peace from an ancient scribe, Simcha the Jew, who painted and taught and read and wrote. He was a foreigner here, like her, though he had lived 

in this simple wooden house his entire life. 

"Why do they call you 'the Jew'?" She'd asked him once.

He was surprised, "They don't call me that. I call myself that. I say it all the time."

"Why?" She wondered.

He replied, "So they will know."

It was like Simcha to say something and leave it at that. He wanted to be known, understood, heard, but it was like he spoke another language. Some people hide their faith and others their background. They'll see us, you know, if we speak up. 

Simcha knew they see us anyway. Better to be bold. 

He was no ordinary man. Simcha knew God. He knew Jesus the Messiah. That made him a stranger to his own people, and stranger still to those who do not know God and reject the Son. He was alone on that mountain, or so he thought, until she came and asked him a million questions. You are just as strange as me, he thought, but never said aloud, because he did not want her to know. 

And so she stood staring at the open sky, in the frame of the wooden door, high on a mountain, thinking of all she'd learned from Simcha the Jew. It was a lot.

Forgiveness. How had she learned that? 

As far as she could tell Simcha never held a grudge. Maybe that's how.

Refuse offense. You could not offend Simcha. 

He lived in peace because he chose to, not because the world is perfect.

He forgave and he blessed those the Almighty put within his reach, continually, each day, all the time, and when the sun relaxed into a peaceful sleep so did Simcha. 

She was afraid of the whole world. "It's horrible," she said. He disagreed. 

"Don't be afraid of them," he said. 

"All of these problems are really one problem and they have one answer: Jesus."

It was like Simcha to say something and leave it at that. 

Sometimes people misunderstood him and sometimes they did not. 

She understood him and stood at the doorway looking out for someone to bless.

Simcha and Me

 

We sat by the lake and looked at the sky. As we looked a fly went by.

"Hey, that's weird," I said.

"What," asked Simcha.

"It's a story from my childhood."

"I remember," he said, then shook his head and added, "Not really."

"There's a fly. It zooms past in a panic. It's being chased by a frog."

"The frog wants to eat the fly. This is a simple story," he nodded.

"Not really. The frog is running from a cat, who is running from a dog."

"So no one is chasing the fly?"

"No one."

Simcha laughed like he was remembering something horrible.

"It's like that in life," he said.

"There's a war in my world," I told him. 

"I know."

"I like the bad guy."

"Why?"

"He doesn't seem so bad, but my friend can hear explosions from her window. How can that not be bad?"

Simcha took a deep breath.

"I can tell you something about that," he said. "In all my years I've never seen a necessary war or a person who did not need redemption, and I am older than this lake and you and everything chasing that fly. Everyone likes their own bad guy."

"Why?"

"We're like that fly. We each have our own perspective." He paused and asked like he knew the answer, "How does the story end?"

"It was all a mistake. There was a lamb with its hoof stuck in a metal bucket. The noise scared a man who ran, which scared a fox, who scared a cow, who scared a pig, who scared the dog. They were each running away from something and scaring the animal in front of them."

"It's like that in life," he said like he was remembering something horrible.

We sat by the lake and looked at the sky.

Simcha and the Mist

Simcha lived near the mountain people but kept a kind distance. He watched them with a smile in his heart and serene love. They worked well together, eager to stay out of the world below and concentrate on life above, in the mountains and hills. He loved being there, to feel the protective covering of the mist surrounding them in the heights. He was of the lowlands originally, the only one willing to climb above and live among the settled clouds and mysterious hill dwellers.

The people of the lowlands feared those above. All manner of conjuring and magic lived in the hills, as the myths went. From one generation to the next the stories were told. The people who lived among the mist of the mountains were to be avoided. They had a mysterious power among them, able to turn people to stone and bring forth wild animals to devour their foes. They would snatch you away, in a second, if you went too far up the mountain, too many  steps to the east, or if you thought about them with any great contemplation. 

Simcha tried to tell his friends in the lowlands that these people just wanted to be left alone. They were simple, peaceful souls. There were no supernatural powers, no mysterious goings-on, nothing to fear from up high. But there was no undoing years and years of stories told one to another.

The mist wrapped around Simcha like a warm wool coat. He felt something had called him here, as if his place were no longer with the familiar. He went eagerly, touching the sky with his hope and prevailing against the gravity that would hold him to the low places.

The people of the mist welcomed him warmly as if he were an old friend. His heart was full. His eyes loved the mountains and his soul loved the mist, its people, and the breath of life he felt so close to with them. 

He was a sure man, silent usually, but wise. His voice sang out in his paintings, a whisper with the impact of a scream. He was delighted, often, and most of his time was spent in the sheer bliss of joy. He was a happy man, content and at peace with his surroundings.

But the time came when the lowlands prepared for war. Tired of living in fear, they would join together to banish the people of their nightmares. They would destroy the fortresses of the mountains that hung over their heads. Simcha was warned by his family below who expected him to flee for safety. 

He was devastated. The mist was just a fog and could not really protect these people, he thought. They were simple, quaint villagers with no weapons and little suspicion. They would be no match for their fierce enemies. The stories of old would not come to their aid. They had no powers or secret abilities. Simcha resigned himself to fate, but he would not leave. These people had become his people and he would not run. He would try to save them.

With great urgency Simcha told everyone he could find about the impending danger from below. He implored them to fashion weapons and take up positions. But to no avail. The people of the mist neither feared nor fretted. There was no word for panic in their language and, though they knew what he meant, steadfastly refused to prepare. Instead, each man, woman, and child went about their usual day-to-day routine as if nothing were coming, no monsters in the distance, no great terror, and nothing to fear.

Simcha was consumed, worried for their safety. He began to pray for a way to tell them, in words they would take to heart, that they must do something. But the more he prayed the fewer words he had for them, as if the Almighty were silencing him, snipping away his warning speech one word at a time.

Cooking pots hung above outdoor fires, children played nearby, and the farmers went about plowing and sowing. The sun sat in the sky. The clouds parted slightly then rejoined. And all the while, Simcha raced to and fro, trying to stop the oncoming slaughter. He tried in vain.

The first arrow struck a stone by Simcha’s house. The second, third, and fourth landed in the dirt, imbedded with such strength only the ends were visible. As the first wave of the attack continued, the people of the mist did not seem to notice. They neither looked up from their work, nor turned to the sounds of arrows splitting the air.

Simcha watched them with disbelief, but his spirit watched them with recognition. As the second wave began, the enemy warriors now close enough to see, the mist moved in to surround the people, forming a barrier between the advancing army and the simple inhabitants of the hills. Though transparent and faint, this mist had the effect of a towering wall, an impenetrable blockade. It was immovable, though it was to the naked eye nearly invisible.

Weapons of every kind were fired. Soldiers and brave men, warriors and infantry of all manner struck the mist, climbed it, pushed, leaned, dug under, and attempted to penetrate it. But it remained unmoved. And the people within went about their work in peace, oblivious to the turmoil surrounding them and the terror at every side. Simcha observed, though one could see in clearly, the people of the mist could not see out. 

After many hours, the army, wounded by their efforts against the protective barrier, exhausted and broken, gave up. Some headed back down the mountain. Others slumped where they were and waited for their strength to return. 

It was then that the mist parted and the people within saw the defeated army in their midst. Hapless and helpless, the warriors were depleted and ashamed. They had come to win, certain of their abilities, but were slowed, stopped, and defeated before their adversaries had fired one shot.

The simple townsfolk gathered the food from their cooking pots, the bread of the storehouses, and the bounty of vegetables from the land. They stepped through the now fading mist to feed the hungry men and bandage their careless wounds. 

The soldiers were stunned. But Simcha was not. He watched with great joy in his heart and sudden understanding. It changed him forever.

Simcha and the Angel

My feet touched ground high in the Rif Mountains. My body is made entirely of gold and quiet landings are impossible. I met the ground with a thunderous shake, jolting the calmness and shocking the earth. For a moment everything stopped, as if pausing to sense my presence. It is difficult for me to sneak up on anyone. Though few see spiritual beings, most are innately aware of us. 

I stood near the top of a steep hill, overlooking a tiny village with white walls and brilliant azure doors. The entire town seemed painted with ice cream. I loved this part of the world and took a few moments to rest and take it all in. Leaning against an old, abandoned house of worship, I inhaled life and simplicity. From this tiny town in the mountains many prayers arose. They clamored at the gates of heaven, affecting the heart of God. 

He sent me here to Simcha the Jew, a man of much prayer and little patience. He was an artist and I loved his work. If he made even the slightest flaw in a stroke or pinprick of color Simcha would tear it down from his easel and throw it into the fire. Each of those paintings came to me. I displayed them all over Heaven and Simcha the Jew was admired there. He did two things. He painted and he prayed. He no longer went to see friends. He no longer wrote, read, or taught as he’d done for many years. He was focused on the task at hand.

I folded my wings into the specially made flaps on my jacket. I would never get used to wearing human clothes. They were stifling and ridiculous, like a costume. My hands hid in gloves, but my face shone, gleaming like yellow fire. The Lord told me to ignore it. The sons of man would pay no attention to true gold; it was fools’ gold they loved. I believed Him, of course, but I could see the light of my features so sharply against the darkness of the earth. I felt conspicuous and awkward. Maybe Simcha would paint me a human face to complete the disguise.

I arrived at his doorstep, a towering nine foot giant with a hunched back of folded wings and a face like a bonfire. I thought my appearance would frighten him. But he seemed to be expecting an odd looking stranger and even invited me in with a smile.

He was full of questions, but never asked who I was or why I was there. He already seemed to know. We sat and had hot apple tea in tiny glass cups. I asked him if he had any questions about Heaven. 

The wise man thought for a moment and asked, “Do people have hair and fingernails in Heaven?”

He explained, “They are made of dead cells and there is no death there.”

I smiled. What a question! I told him the answer, of course, but he didn’t believe me.

I had questions for Simcha too. Why did he paint the subjects he chose? How did he select the colors? Why did he paint in the first place? What made him choose this art over all of the others? His answer was simple. He said he didn’t know; he just did it. We were fast friends, this man and I, like we’d known each other through many trials. 

At last, what I hoped for happened. Simcha offered to paint me. He’d never before seen an angel with his eyes, though many of us had visited him in secret over the years. But Simcha could not paint what he felt, only what he saw. Now he could finally paint me.

He said it would be his first, and only, perfect work. But I wanted flaws, sharp edges, and imperfection! I think this is something wondrous about mankind. I am deeply moved by you, how in all of your imperfection you can accomplish divine work. That is not possible with perfect beings, only with man. I love that you desire yourselves to be moved and transformed by God. 

I begged Simcha to cover my golden face. 

“Make me brown,” I pleaded, “The color of the earth and coffee and cocoa.”

He refused, saying gold was a better color and, “Why would you want to be the color of ordinary things?”

I felt like I was slamming my head against a rock. Didn’t he know how beautiful those things were to me?

Simcha’s heart sought only the perfect and pristine. But he was a kind soul, so he agreed to paint me as I wished. He said he would cover my face, but in return I would have to paint him. He smiled and I could not refuse, so eager was his grin and so innocent his request. 

My gleaming face was soon covered, dark and beautiful, the color of rich cake. I caught my reflection in Simcha’s tea and could not stop myself from dancing and twirling around the room. My artist was unimpressed with his work, but quite happily watching me. 

When I settled down a bit Simcha handed me the brush. He led me to the canvas, his eyes full of anticipation for at last- at last- he would see a perfect painting! He was so certain of my abilities, because I was angelic and golden. I hated to disappoint him, but I knew what was going to happen. 

Thirty thousand strokes and eleven colors later, my work was complete. I had created a scene of a simple house high in the Rif Mountains, surrounded by colors rarely seen by human eyes, made up of hues they knew well and a little bit of Heaven itself. It should have been charming and serene. It should have been a spectacle of awe. But it was abysmal, the ugliest work of art ever.

Simcha stepped back to get a better view. He shouldn’t have. It was even worse from a distance. He chuckled a bit. 

“Well,” he said. “That is quite awful.”

I laughed deeply, uproariously, and Simcha reluctantly joined me.

“You see,” I explained. “I am not a creator. I admire.”

Simcha understood, more than I thought he would. His grin remained, ear to ear as if he’d seen something most intriguing. He nodded knowingly as I tore my work down from the easel, balling it up and throwing it into the fire. But to our shared surprise, the flames did not destroy the imperfect work. They seemed to embrace it and devour it, though it was only changed, not burned. It seemed to rise from the ashes, transformed by the fire into a breathtaking and brilliant work of perfection. It glowed with my golden ferocity and Simcha’s passion. 

The fire had changed it not to ashes, but to a wrenching scene of two figures on a mountain. One was tall and knowing; the other wise and small and through it all the startling intensity of true gold.

I have to say, it was beautiful even though it was perfect.

Simcha and the Seed

 

Simcha tended his garden with great care, gingerly cultivating the important things: forgiveness, joy, the kind of grace that leans in and speaks directly to the heart. Rescue grew on a tree by the river, with branches that swept shade over the delicate plants blooming nearby. Simcha watered and pruned all things green and pulled out life-stealing weeds. He sang as he worked because a cheerful heart brings life. He succeeded in his effort and with his garden Simcha fed many souls.

In the evenings the elderly man would kneel in the dirt and bring in the harvest, making heaping mountains of redemption with the fruit of the land. And he'd drag it, carry it, and convince it to follow him to the open markets of his village. From there it would make its way to the backs of pack animals, the bottoms of carriages, and into the holds of great ships about to go out to sea. In this way Simcha's garden was carried to the whole world.

When he traveled to new places he was amazed to see some of his offerings had been transplanted into gardens of their own. Great sweeping vines and graceful trees lined deserts, reaching in to transform the barren landscapes into lush vineyards. He was joyful, exceeding so, at the sight.

"All this," he said, awe-struck, "from just one seed planted in rough dirt under a glaring sun."

It had been a withered, undignified seed. Simcha could not have imagined how it would sprout and bloom, never mind grow into so many varieties. It had only come from his heart. He'd pulled it out himself, with more strength than he knew he had. What he thought was the decaying remnant of pride, maybe selfishness or some other destructive attribute, turned out to be something else entirely. In its atrophied state and buried deeply in good, healthy soil, it became life. Life took root and became blooms of every kind everywhere the light shone and some places it didn't. His effort had been worth it.

That throwaway seed had turned out to be vital. But it wasn't easy to remove. He felt like he'd climbed a mountain to get to the point where he could pull it out. His days were spent reaching and grasping, squinting for a view of the top, hanging there just long enough to realize he needed help. If he needed help, was he really in the right place? But each time help came, with a breeze or a glimpse of hope to lift him up. Each time he encountered resistance Simcha learned to persevere. After a while, it didn't take as long to recover his strength, not nearly as long as it had before. His arms and legs became strong. He had the ability to climb.

And just when he thought he needed to rely on that ability and newly acquired strength, a gust of air, a breath, lifted Simcha from his effort and carried him higher and higher. In a flash, the desperate climber was at the top of the mountain. He'd been lifted. Not by his own hand, but by something he couldn't see, something that was not dependent on Simcha himself.

In his hand was the seed. His pride, withered and defeated. It seemed he should bury it as deeply as he could, somewhere with the unflinching and direct desert sunlight. Someplace that would kill it, so he would never have to deal with it again. He had no idea what would happen once he buried it. After that, he began to look at withered things with a little more expectation.
 

 

Simcha is part of a series published online.