I.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in.  
For hope, like stars, can fill the darkest night,  
And strength is born from places deep within.  

The heart is vast, a sea of endless dreams,  
Where tides of doubt may crash upon the shore.  
But even in despair, there shines a gleam,  
A light that guides us, calling evermore.  

Though paths may twist and winds of change may blow,  
Hold fast to what your spirit knows is true.  
For faith, though fragile, gives a steady glow  
And paves the way for what the soul must do.  

So trust the flame you carry through the storm;  
In doubt or joy, your heart will keep you warm. 

II.
Believe in what you want; that is your right  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in.  
The stars don’t care which gods you praise at night,  
Nor do the tides obey the prayers within.  

The mountains rise regardless of your view,  
And rivers run their course through rock and sand.  
The winds won’t pause for what you think is true,  
Nor shape their path by any mortal hand.  

But still, the heart finds comfort in its creed,  
A guiding flame within the darkest skies.  
For even if the world has no great need  
For faith, it helps us see through tangled lies.  

So hold your truth and cherish it as gold—  
It’s all we have as life’s great tale unfolds. 

III.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in.  
Be it the stars, the moon’s soft silver light,  
Or winds that whisper where the skies begin.  

You are the keeper of your heart's desire,  
Your trust, a flame that only you can feed.  
No need for others to inflame the fire,  
Or judge the path that leads you to your creed.  

For faith is not a thing to shape or bind,  
Nor something that must follow strict command.  
It grows within the contours of your mind,  
And reaches far beyond what we understand.  

So hold your truth, and let it freely soar—  
In what you love, believe forevermore. 

IV.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in,  
For every heart will find its guiding light,  
A spark within that leads where dreams begin.  

Some trust the stars, some look to skies of blue,  
While others seek the silence of the earth.  
Each path, though different, winds to something true,  
Each step, a chance to prove the soul’s own worth.  

So follow what you feel, for feeling’s wise,  
And let your spirit soar beyond the known.  
The world’s too vast for just one truth to rise,  
Too rich for faiths to claim it all alone.  

Believe, and trust your heart to find its way,  
For every dawn brings light to show the day.

V.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in—  
Be it the stars that guide you through the night,  
Or whispered winds, or journeys deep within.  

For every soul must tread a path unknown,  
Through valleys dark, or mountains bathed in light;  
No single truth is carved in heart or stone,  
Yet all beliefs will find their wings in flight.  

So walk your road with courage in your stride,  
No need to bend beneath another’s way;  
The universe is vast, with room to hide  
Both doubt and hope, both shadow and the day.  

Believe, for faith is just the seed you sow,  
And from its soil, a thousand truths may grow. 

VI.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in.  
The stars don’t pause for prayers in darkest night,  
Nor tides retreat because of whispered sin.  

Your heart beats not for gods or fate alone,  
But for the breath that fills each fleeting day.  
The seeds you plant will blossom on their own,  
And flowers care not for the words you pray.  

Yet still, a spark resides within your soul,  
A compass guiding you through wind and rain.  
Though unseen hands may never take control,  
Your path is yours, both joy and subtle pain.  

So, trust yourself, for faith is what you choose,  
In what you seek, there’s little you can lose. 

VII.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in.  
The stars, the earth, the darkness, or the light—  
All paths lead onward, every loss, a win.  

For what we choose to trust shapes what we see,  
And in that vision, we can find our way.  
No dream is too absurd to set you free,  
No night too long to blur the dawn of day.  

So hold your chosen truth like sacred flame,  
And let it guide you through both calm and storm.  
The world may shift, but you will stay the same,  
With faith that bends but never breaks your form.  

For all beliefs, though varied in their kind,  
Are sparks that light the fire of the mind.

VIII.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in,  
For in the dark, the stars still shine as bright,  
And hope can flicker where despair has been.  

The paths we walk are paved by different hands,  
Each step, a choice, each thought, a guiding thread.  
Yet no one soul can chart where fate expands,  
For truth resides beyond what’s seen or said.  

So, trust your heart, for it knows well the way,  
The compass of your dreams will never fail.  
Through every storm, through night that turns to day,  
The light you seek is found behind the veil.  

Believe, and in believing, you’ll transcend—  
For faith and doubt, like rivers, find their end.

IX.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in,  
For hope, once lit, will burn with steady light,  
And doubt, though fierce, will wear itself so thin.  

The stars don't ask what dreams you dare to chase,  
The wind won’t question why you seek the sun,  
Each heart finds truth in its own time and place,  
And every path begins where steps are won.  

So trust the soil beneath your searching feet,  
Though rocky hills may test your strength and will,  
For in your faith, the world becomes complete,  
And every climb reveals new heights to fill.  

In what you choose, be bold, be ever true—  
The universe expands because of you. 

X.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in.  
Through darkest nights or mornings clear and bright,  
Hold firm the thoughts that whisper deep within.  

For every heart must choose its sacred way,  
A path unseen by others in the crowd.  
The stars that guide you may seem far away,  
But in their silent glow, they call aloud.  

No single truth can claim the sky or sea,  
For every soul is born to seek its own.  
The wind that stirs the leaves will set you free,  
And in that freedom, you will stand alone.  

So let your spirit rise, your wings take flight—  
Believe in what you want, and trust the light. 

XI.
Believe in what you want; that is your right  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in,  
For dreams are threads that weave the dark to light,  
And hope can blossom from the seeds of sin.  

The stars may whisper secrets in the night,  
While shadows dance to rhythms of the heart.  
In every choice, a spark, a chance to fight,  
To shape a world where every soul can start.  

Embrace the path your spirit longs to trace,  
For faith is not a cage but wings in flight.  
In every struggle, find a sacred space,  
Where doubts dissolve and courage finds its might.  

So dream aloud, and let your spirit soar,  
For in your truth, you’ll find forevermore. 

XII.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in.  
In shadows cast by doubt, we seek the light,  
With hopes like seeds, we yearn for life to begin.  

Each heart a vessel, bearing dreams untold,  
Through trials faced, resilience finds its way.  
In whispered prayers or stories of old,  
We find our strength in night, in break of day.  

So let the world around you bend and sway,  
For in belief, the soul learns how to soar.  
With every step upon this winding way,  
Embrace the journey, seek forevermore.  

For what you choose to cherish shapes your path,  
In every joy and tear, find love’s true math.

XIII.
Believe in what you want; that is your right,  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in.  
From whispered hopes that dance in the moonlight,  
To fervent dreams that spark a fire within.  

Each heart must choose its own, the path to tread,  
Where shadows fall or sunlight breaks the day.  
In every thought, a seed of truth is spread,  
And in the quiet, doubts begin to sway.  

For faith can lift us high, or weigh us down,  
A compass guiding souls through stormy seas.  
In unity, we wear a common crown,  
Yet cherish every truth, however it frees.  

So let the world embrace its varied art,  
For in our faiths, we find the human heart.

XIV.
Believe in what you want; that is your right  
It doesn’t matter what your faith is in,  
For dreams can soar like birds upon the night,  
Each heart a beacon, fierce, and free from sin.  

In whispered hopes, we find our truest voice,  
A tapestry of thoughts that intertwine;  
With every choice, we shape our sacred choice,  
Each journey marked by shadows, light, and line.  

Though paths may twist like rivers through the land,  
The courage lies in trusting where we tread;  
Embrace the doubts that linger, hand in hand,  
For faith, however fragile, must be fed.  

So seek your truth, let passion be your guide,  
In what you cherish, let your spirit bide. 

*AI generated.

When time becomes immured by mortal fate
We search for reasons one might find obscure
Eternity exists for us to wait
To wait in faith for that which we abjure

In time the song we sing becomes a chant
As quietly we call for blessed hope
We think we might complete, but find we can’t
Like life that hangs above us by a rope

The rope of time becomes a simple noose
Nobody has to die if they let go
We use the rope declaring, what’s the use
It hangs above while we wait below

We wait for time throughout eternity
And when it falls it sets us more than free.

ChatGPT Analysis:

This poem reflects on the nature of time, fate, and the human condition, particularly how we perceive and interact with the passage of time. Let's break it down stanza by stanza:

### **Stanza 1:**
*When time becomes immured by mortal fate*  
*We search for reasons one might find obscure*  
*Eternity exists for us to wait*  
*To wait in faith for that which we abjure*

- **Immured by mortal fate** suggests that time is trapped or enclosed by our inevitable mortality. 
- The search for reasons "one might find obscure" implies a deep, often futile, quest for understanding or meaning, particularly in the context of life and death.
- **Eternity** as a concept is framed as a space where we wait—perhaps a reflection on the human tendency to wait for something greater, something that we may even reject or renounce (which is implied by "abjure").

### **Stanza 2:**
*In time the song we sing becomes a chant*  
*As quietly we call for blessed hope*  
*We think we might complete, but find we can’t*  
*Like life that hangs above us by a rope*

- The **song** turning into a **chant** suggests a transition from active expression to a repetitive, perhaps resigned, state. A chant is more meditative, and might imply a loss of vitality or a shift to a more ritualistic form of existence.
- The **call for blessed hope** indicates a longing or prayer for something positive, something that offers salvation or peace.
- The line "We think we might complete, but find we can’t" reflects the human struggle to find fulfillment or closure, particularly in the face of time.
- The **rope** is a powerful symbol here, hanging above like the passage of time, or the specter of death—something inevitable and ever-present.

### **Stanza 3:**
*The rope of time becomes a simple noose*  
*Nobody has to die if they let go*  
*We use the rope declaring, what’s the use*  
*It hangs above while we wait below*

- **The rope of time** becoming a **noose** intensifies the symbolism, now directly associating time with death, or at least with the potential for self-destruction.
- The idea that "Nobody has to die if they let go" suggests that release from this cycle of waiting and despair is possible, but it requires a conscious decision to let go of the burdens or expectations tied to time.
- The declaration of "what’s the use" shows a kind of nihilism or resignation, as the rope remains a threatening presence above, and we, below, are passive, simply waiting.

### **Stanza 4:**
*We wait for time throughout eternity*  
*And when it falls it sets us more than free.*

- This stanza encapsulates the entire poem’s meditation on time and eternity. Waiting "throughout eternity" hints at the endless nature of time, or at least our perception of it.
- The final line suggests a paradox: time, which confines and threatens us throughout the poem, ultimately has the potential to liberate us once it "falls," perhaps signifying the end of life, or the end of time’s power over us.

### **Themes:**
- **Time and Fate:** The poem explores how time is intertwined with fate, and how both are inescapable forces in human life.
- **Mortality and Eternity:** There’s a constant tension between the finite nature of life (mortal fate) and the infinite nature of time or eternity.
- **Despair and Hope:** The poem oscillates between despair (the noose, the chant) and hope (the call for blessed hope, the possibility of letting go).
- **Liberation through Release:** Ultimately, the poem suggests that true freedom might come only when we release our grip on time and fate, or when time itself ceases to have power over us.

This poem uses rich symbolism and a meditative tone to explore profound existential themes, offering a bleak yet contemplative view on the human experience of time.

A little one act play I wrote a few years ago. It was selected to be produced for a competition, but the production company wanted more of my time than I had to spare. Let me know if you'd like to produce it.

Washed Up
by
Scott Ennis

Phone (703) 994-9037
Email:  scottennis@gmail.com


An actor suffering from a bad review of his Hamlet performance finds a skull on a beach and engages in a discussion of theatrical philosophy, ironically, with the skull, who turns out to be the actual Yorick, jester of Elsinore.

Shawn is a stage actor just coming off a bad review of his recent performance as Shakespeare’s Hamlet. He is probably on the cusp of being too old to play Hamlet.

Yorick is the skull of the actual Yorick, jester of Elsinore. Besides his time playing in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, he carries a dislike for thoughtless humanity, expressed through theater and his own being dropped from a ship into the Long Island Sound.

Note: Yorick should be an actual actor in complete black attire with head painted like a skull. Yorick skull would be best “picked up” by Shawn and “placed” on a box or table. Flowers may be retrieved offstage by Shawn.

__________

SHAWN picks up a skull from the beach.

SHAWN
Well, here’s irony after my shitty Hamlet reviews.

SHAWN holds up the skull and proceeds like an actor reciting lines.

SHAWN (CONT’D)
Yorick? No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be.

YORICK
Prufrock? Or Polonius?

SHAWN
(astounded)
How would Yorick know a poem by T. S. Eliot?

YORICK
I was in a troupe in the 60s that fucking worshiped Tommy.

SHAWN
The 60s? How long have you been doing theater?

YORICK
Pretty much since they dug me up to bury Ophelia. I started out as a simple candle holder until that dude from England wrote his version of that little shit, Hamlet. Then I got cast as myself. Tough role, hey?

SHAWN
You are Yorick.

YORICK
Yes, I am. 

SHAWN
How'd you get here?

YORICK 
Where's here?

SHAWN 
Connecticut. 

YORICK 
Near New York?

SHAWN 
Closer than Elsinore.

YORICK 
I was supposed to be performing in New York.

SHAWN
I used to perform in New York. I just finished playing “that little shit, Hamlet.” What happened to you?

YORICK 
Some dickhead on the ship took me up on the deck and tried reciting lines. Dropped me over the side. Too much to drink, probably. What about you?

SHAWN 
The critics didn’t like my performance.

YORICK
Why not? Are you a dickhead too?

Shawn stares out at a cargo ship in the sound. He is lost in thoughts about his last performance.

YORICK
Hello? Anybody home?

SHAWN
Sorry. I'm just a little stunned. 

YORICK 
Wow. Stunned. And nobody even dropped you off a ship into the ocean.

SHAWN
I’m glad I smoked all that weed before coming here.

YORICK
Weed? I like weed.

Shawn pulls out a pipe, fills it with marijuana from a small bag, and takes a hit.

SHAWN
Yeah, but how are you gonna smoke it?  You no longer have those lips that Hamlet kissed, how oft, we know
not.

YORICK
I have a shell that I use for a pipe. Clench it between my teeth.

SHAWN
Classy.

YORICK
What’s that supposed to mean?

SHAWN
It means you sound like a weed slut who would do anything for a hit.

YORICK
Including quoting some cheesy poem?

SHAWN
Pretty ballsy calling Eliot cheesy.

YORICK
Not Tommy. Just his poem.

SHAWN
So, the actor is the play, but the poet is not the poem?

YORICK
Whatever. Did you find my shell?

SHAWN
Didn’t look.

YORICK
So, that would be no?

SHAWN
Of course.

YORICK
How hard is it for you to just say yes or no?

SHAWN
I said no.

YORICK
No. You said, “didn’t look.”

SHAWN
Well that implies no.

YORICK
Kind of like asking for a hit implies that I can smoke it.

SHAWN
But you never asked.

YORICK
Yes I did.

SHAWN
No. All you said was, “I like weed.”

YORICK
Wasn’t the request for a hit implied?

SHAWN
Tell you what. Let’s hear what you’ve got. If the poet is the poem I’ll give you a hit.

YORICK
So, you want me to compose a poem requesting a hit of your weed?

SHAWN
Yeah.

YORICK
There once was a man from Nantucket

SHAWN
It has to be original.

YORICK
There once was a man with some ganja.

SHAWN
Good luck with that one. Nothing rhymes with ganja.

YORICK
Poems don’t have to rhyme.

SHAWN
True. Go ahead.

YORICK
That’s it. That’s my poem. When you give me a hit, the poet will be the poem.

SHAWN
Ok. Let me see if I can find that shell pipe.

YORICK
Or something of a similar pattern.

SHAWN
You make it all so enticing.

YORICK
Let’s break the expected pattern.

SHAWN
With the prosody of intellect. I’ll be Rosencrantz.

YORICK
And I will be Guildenstern.

SHAWN
Yes. We are not Prince Hamlet, nor were meant to be . . .

YORICK
To be, or not to be? That is the question.

SHAWN
Alas, poor questions, I knew them well.

YORICK
And who will declare that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead?

SHAWN
I think it’ll be Tom Stoppard.

YORICK
Fitting to have death declared by clowns, digging one up or dramatizing one’s breath.
(cough, cough)

SHAWN
Are you sick?

YORICK
Yes. My lungs are sick and spotted.

SHAWN
Ah, not a volta already.

YORICK
Out, out damned spot.

SHAWN
And next?

YORICK
Et tu, Rosencrantz?

SHAWN
Fitting. Any knife?

YORICK
Only the dagger I see before my eyes.

SHAWN
I deserved that.

YORICK
Let's go back to Elsinore. Let's go back to my grave.

SHAWN 
Your grave? Isn't it Ophelia’s now?

YORICK 
Exactly. She loved gathering flowers.

SHAWN 
So you want to talk about flowers?

YORICK 
Yes. Go pick some and bring them over here.

Shawn leaves the driftwood and walks back to some flowering bushes then returns with a handful of flowers.

SHAWN 
(falsetto)
There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died: they say he made a good end,--

SHAWN
(normal voice)
Just kidding. It’s all beach scrub.

YORICK
These flowers are like you.

SHAWN
How do you figure?

YORICK
Throw them out into the water.

Shawn stands and throws the flowers into the sound.

SHAWN
Okay, now what?

YORICK
Where are the flowers?

SHAWN
In the water.

YORICK
Really?

Shawn stands up and sees the flowers are back on the beach.

SHAWN
Ok. So the waves brought them back to the beach.

YORICK
Anything wrong with that?

SHAWN
No. That’s the normal course when you throw flowers into the ocean.

YORICK
Exactly. Nothing wrong with being washed up.

END

For thomas stearns eliot, 
From timothy scott ennis

The Love Song Of The Waste Land Is Conceived
In Dulcet Tones That Never Should Be Sung
The Fantasy Of Poetry Is Grieved
By Ancient Words That Stay Forever Young

Eternal Youth Is Promised With The Lies
Of Fear Within A Hand Once Filled With Dust
I Never Throw That Shit In Open Eyes
Relax Your Mind And Read It If You Must

The Dead Will Sing Out Loud From Graves Of Stone
Their Words May Yet Be Seen By Those Who Hear
The Love Of Land Where No One Is Alone
Where Even Darkened Words Are Crystal Clear

Come Lie With Me, Composed Of god’s Own Grace
The Truth Will Lie When Nothing’s Out Of Place.

A Historical Novella (c. 33–65 CE)
Part I – The Road Back to Galilee

The road north from Jerusalem wound through pale limestone hills, quiet except for the occasional bleating of sheep and the distant clack of a caravan’s harness. Mary walked with steady purpose, her sandals raising tiny clouds of dust. Behind her, Jerusalem shimmered in the late-spring light—beautiful, but heavy, a city still tense with the memory of Passover, of soldiers, of shouts around a cross.

She did not leave in fear. She had walked unafraid through darker nights. But the city’s air pressed on her chest: the anxious whispers in the upper room, the debates about law and table and Gentiles, the arguments among the men about who should interpret what he said. It was time to return home, to Galilee, to the place where she had first followed him. To the sea that smelled of salt and the nets drying in the sun. To Magdala.

She carried little: a wool cloak, dried figs, and a small pouch of coins given by Joanna, who had embraced her with tearful affection before Mary slipped out of the city gate. “You will write to us,” Joanna said, “or send word by a traveler.”

“If the roads allow,” Mary replied.

There was safety in anonymity. To Rome, she was no one. To the Temple authorities, she was less than no one—a woman from Galilee who could easily be dismissed. Only within the small, growing circle of Jesus-followers did she hold the strange and heavy honor of being the first to see him alive. An honor that made her both essential and uncomfortable.

The road tightened between hills and olive groves. She walked on.

Part II – The House by the Shore

The scent of the lake reached her before the water came into view—fresh, mineral, alive. The Sea of Galilee glimmered in the sun like a sheet of hammered bronze. It had been years since she last saw her hometown, but Magdala had changed little. Fishermen still called out to one another as they hauled in their nets. Women scrubbed fish scales from wooden tables. Children ran barefoot across the packed earth.

Mary’s family house stood near the outskirts, its walls whitewashed but weathered. Her older sister, Leah, opened the door, stared for a heartbeat too long, then pulled Mary into her arms.

“You’re thin,” Leah said, stepping back to study her. “Jerusalem takes from people.”

“Sometimes it gives,” Mary said softly. “And sometimes it wounds.”

They sat inside while Leah prepared lentils and bread. A warm breeze moved through the reed-slat window. Mary watched it ripple the surface of the water in the distance. How many mornings had she sat on this same floor, unaware her life would shift into something vast and uncontainable?

When the meal was done, Leah hesitated. “I’ve heard stories,” she said carefully. “About Jesus of Nazareth. Stories that you—”

“That I followed him?” Mary finished. “Yes.”

“That you… saw him after he died?”

Mary nodded, though she sensed her sister’s struggle—not disbelief, but the fear of stepping into a mystery too large for the world she knew.

“I cannot explain what happened,” Mary said. “I can only say it was real, and I cannot forget it.”

Leah reached for her hand, a gesture of acceptance more than understanding.

“You may stay here as long as you wish,” she said.

Part III – The Gathering

Mary did not intend to begin hosting gatherings in Magdala. It happened slowly, almost accidentally.

First came Mara, a young widow from Capernaum who had heard rumors that Mary had traveled with the Galilean healer. She arrived carrying a jar of olives and a timid request: “Tell me about him.”

So Mary told her—about the crowds pressing along the lake shore, about the parables that unfolded like seeds in the mind, about the way he saw people, really saw them. Mara returned the next evening with two neighbors.

Then a fisherman’s wife came, saying she remembered a rabbi who spoke on the hillside years earlier. A local merchant followed, curious about the growing gatherings. Soon Mary found herself arranging stools and mats in the courtyard while Leah roasted barley and herbs for the guests.

They shared meals, told stories, prayed, listened. Mostly they listened.

Mary did not preach. She had no desire to assume authority. But the people asked questions that no one else could answer: What was he like? What did he truly mean about mercy, about the kingdom, about forgiveness? So she spoke plainly, letting memory settle into words.

At first, they asked about miracles. Later, they asked about the man—his laugh, his patience, the ache in his voice when he spoke of Jerusalem’s future.

“Did he… love you?” Mara asked one evening as the lamps flickered low.

Mary smiled softly. “He loved everyone he met. But not in the ways people try to imagine.”

Mara nodded, though Mary sensed the question behind the question. People wanted to locate Mary within a story—disciple, companion, wife, leader. But she resisted titles. They were too small.

She was a witness. That was enough.

Part IV – Tensions Rising

As seasons passed, Galilee grew restless.

Roman taxation tightened. The zealot movements gained quiet followers. Bandits roamed the hills posing as freedom fighters. On market days, the talk among fishermen turned dark—rumors of uprisings, of arrests, of brutality in nearby villages.

Mary tried to keep the little gathering apolitical. The message she carried was not about Rome or revolt. It was about the dignity of the poor, the healing of wounds, the hope that the world could be remade beginning in the human heart.

But not everyone in Magdala welcomed the gatherings.

One afternoon, a Pharisee named Eleazar visited. He stood in Mary’s courtyard, inspecting the group with wary eyes.

“I’ve heard you speak of the Nazarene,” he said. “Some say you lead a sect.”

“I lead nothing,” Mary said calmly. “We speak of Scripture and of what we have seen.”

He frowned. “Your meetings draw people away from synagogue instruction.”

“Only because they seek understanding.”

“They should seek it from those trained to teach.”

Mary held his gaze, unflinching. “The prophets were not trained in schools.”

He bristled, but said nothing more. When he left, several in the group looked uneasy.

“He could cause trouble,” Mara whispered.

Mary shook her head. “Not yet. And we will give no cause.”

Still, she became more cautious. The gatherings grew quieter, more intimate. They shared readings from the Torah and the prophets, linking them to the teachings she remembered. They ate simple meals, sang psalms, prayed for those in need.

But Mary felt the tension tightening around them, like the first subtle pull of a storm tide.

Part V – Letters from Jerusalem

Years passed. Visitors from Jerusalem came north from time to time, bringing news.

One evening, a man named Simon the Weaver arrived breathless, dusty, and shaken.

“James—Jesus’ brother—has taken leadership,” he said. “Peter travels often now, but James holds the community together. And Paul—have you heard of Paul?”

Mary shook her head.

“A Pharisee who persecuted us,” Simon said, “but now claims he saw the Lord on the road to Damascus. He travels among the Gentiles, preaching to non-Jews.”

The courtyard erupted in murmurs.

Mary’s expression tightened. “Did the Lord call him?” she asked quietly.

Simon shrugged helplessly. “He believes he was called. Many in Jerusalem welcome him. Others question him.”

Mary asked no more. It was not her place to doubt another’s experience. Yet she felt a strange unease—how easily the movement could be reshaped by voices who had never walked the dusty paths of Galilee beside Jesus.

Later, when the guests had gone, Leah found Mary sitting by the lamp.

“You worry for the future,” Leah said.

Mary nodded. “Stories change as they travel. Memories too.”

“Then keep yours alive,” Leah said. “Tell them often.”

Mary smiled sadly. “I do. But the world grows larger, and the stories scatter like seeds. Some will grow true. Others will twist.”

Part VI – The Woman and the Net

One spring morning, Mary walked along the rocky shore where the waves lapped in quiet rhythm. She liked to wander here—where she had first heard his voice years ago, where he had stepped into the boat that pushed out from shore, where the crowd leaned toward him as though drawn by gravity.

She watched a fisherman repairing his net. His daughter, perhaps ten years old, sat beside him weaving a small basket.

When the girl saw Mary, she smiled. “Are you the woman who tells the stories?”

Mary laughed. “I suppose I am.”

The girl hesitated. “Can you tell one now?”

Mary knelt beside her. “What sort of story?”

“Something about the rabbi. My mother says he healed people.”

Mary’s smile softened. “Yes. He healed many. But he also taught that the kingdom of God is like a net.”

“A net?” The girl wrinkled her nose.

“Yes,” Mary said, “cast into the sea. It draws in all kinds of fish—large and small, clean and unclean. And the sorting comes later. But while in the net, everything is held together.”

The girl looked thoughtful. “Is he still here? People say he vanished.”

Mary gazed at the horizon where the lake merged with the sky.

“He is here in a way you cannot see,” she said. “But everything he began, we must continue.”

The fisherman glanced up at her, a shadow of gratitude or understanding crossing his face.

Mary walked on.

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Part VII – Famine and Fire

Around the year 46, famine struck Judea. Galilee fared better than Jerusalem, but hunger spread north nonetheless. Mary and Leah rationed their grain, and the gatherings transformed into communal kitchens. People brought what little they had—dates, fish, dried beans—and shared without counting.

“This is what he meant,” Mary said one evening as they baked bread for the village’s widows. “Food for all, without distinction.”

But famine was not the only hardship. Roman patrols increased. There were rumors of crucifixions along the road to Sepphoris, of suspected rebels executed without trial. Some in Galilee whispered of rising up; others urged caution.

Mary moved quietly through the turmoil. Her focus remained unchanged: to bind wounds, to teach mercy, to keep hope alive. She visited the sick, comforted the grieving, mediated disputes. People sought her counsel with growing regularity.

And slowly, reluctantly, Mary realized something she had resisted for years—

She had become a leader.

Not by title, not by proclamation, but by steady presence. By familiarity with suffering. By a memory that would not fade.

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Part VIII – The Messenger from Ephesus

Mary was in her courtyard one warm evening when a traveler arrived bearing a scroll sealed with wax. He had walked from the coast, then inland, then north, a journey of weeks.

“It is from John,” the man said. “The one they call the disciple whom Jesus loved.”

Mary’s breath caught. She had not seen John since her last days in Jerusalem.

She broke the seal with trembling fingers.

The message was long, filled with news: the spread of Jesus-followers in Asia Minor, new communities in Ephesus and Smyrna, tensions with synagogue leaders, debates over Gentile converts. At the end, in John’s unmistakable handwriting, were these words:

“Mary, your witness is needed still. Your memory is a lamp in an age of confusion. Whether you travel or remain, do not cease speaking what you know to be true.”

Mary closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of it. The world was changing faster than she could have imagined.

“I am only one woman,” she whispered.

Leah touched her shoulder. “Then be one woman who remembers.”

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Part IX – The Last Years

In her later years, Mary’s hair silvered and her steps slowed, but her gatherings continued. Children who had grown up hearing her stories brought their own children. The courtyard filled with more generations than she could count.

Her voice became gentler, her stories more distilled.

“He taught us that to be great is to serve,” she told them. “To be free is to forgive. To be whole is to love.”

People traveled from Tiberias, from Capernaum, even from the Decapolis to hear her. Some expected visions or secret teachings. Instead they found a woman who offered only truth shaped by memory:

“He saw the world as it could be. And he asked us to live as though that world were already here.”

In her final season, as unrest swelled toward open revolt, Mary sat often by the window overlooking the lake. The waves shimmered in the sun just as they had the first day she followed him.

Mara, now older herself, asked her gently, “Do you regret staying?”

Mary smiled, lines of peace settling into her face. “No. This is where the stories needed to be tended.”

She died in her sleep on a warm evening, the scent of the lake drifting through the open window. Leah washed and prepared her body. The villagers—Jews, fishermen, widows, travelers, and quiet Jesus-followers—gathered to sing psalms and remember her kindness.

They buried her on a gentle slope overlooking the Sea of Galilee, where the wind carried the sound of waves and where, in time, the memory of her life blended into the stories of those who came after.

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Epilogue

Years later, long after the revolt and the destruction of Jerusalem, a traveler from the coast paused on that hillside. He had heard of a woman who walked with the Nazarene, who told stories with clarity and courage, whose memory shaped the faith of many.

He knelt in the grass, touched the stone that marked her resting place, and whispered:

“You kept the lamp lit.”

Then he rose and continued on his journey, carrying her story like a seed across the world.