He gripped the sleeve of the man beside him and tugged hard. They were walking too fast. The others couldn’t hear him protest, of course—and he couldn’t say anything, anyway—but his legs ached and his breath caught.
One of them glanced back with a frown but kept walking, urging the rest forward.
They were taking him to the miracle worker.
He wished they wouldn’t.
Dust clung to his beard. Their town was miles behind, and now the sea wind carried a sharpness that stung his cheeks. He didn’t understand why they kept hoping. People had prayed over him before. Anointed his ears. Laid palms on his chest. Once, when he was a boy, someone whispered, “If he just believed more…”
He had believed. As much as he could. Still, silence.
And now this.
Why pour more longing into a vessel if it only cracked open again?
They crested a hill and stopped. Below, a crowd swelled like the tide around a single man. People called his name, and he looked up—not overwhelmed, but present, like a tree unmoved in a storm.
Jesus.
The name soaked through him like warm rain. He didn’t know why.
The crowd parted slowly. His friends gestured, calling out requests, pointing at him.
He didn’t want to go.
But Jesus had already seen him.
And smiled.
They left the crowd behind, walking into the hush of a grove. Jesus signaled for the others to stay. Only the two of them continued.
The man’s heart beat hard. What was he supposed to do? Nod? Kneel? Did this man expect him to speak?
Jesus stopped. His eyes searched the man’s face—kind but not soft. There was gravity there, something fierce and steady.
Rough fingers touched his ears. He flinched.
Then Jesus spat, rubbed his own fingers, and touched the man’s tongue. It was strange, almost rude. He looked away, embarrassed.
Jesus lifted his face gently. Looked up toward heaven. And groaned.
The sound startled him. Not words. Not command. Just… a groan. Deep and aching, like someone lifting a weight beyond them.
Then: “Ephphatha.”
He didn’t know the word.
But everything moved.
Something inside snapped open—not in pain, but like a window finally forcing through its swollen frame. The world rushed in.
Wind in the leaves.
Birdcall nearby.
His own breath.
And in his mouth, a looseness he hadn’t expected—like chains falling away. He wheeled backward, eyes burning, throat trembling.
Sound.
He touched his ears, then his lips. Looked at Jesus.
Jesus only nodded.
The man gasped, a jagged, laughing sob. The noise of it startled them both.
“I—” His voice caught. Rough, unused.
Jesus pressed a finger to His lips. “Don’t tell anyone,” He said, gently.
He blinked. Tears welled. The heavens had cracked open—and this man asked for silence?
But he nodded.
Yes. He wouldn’t force the moment. Wouldn’t rush it with noise.
They walked back down the hill, the breeze stirring his hair. Jesus reached for his shoulder as they neared the crowd, but the man hesitated.
He turned toward Him and whispered—clear now, with weight: “Thank you.”
Jesus smiled.
And said nothing.
He gripped the sleeve of the man beside him and tugged hard. They were walking too fast. The others couldn’t hear him protest, of course—and he couldn’t say anything, anyway—but his legs ached and his breath caught.
One of them glanced back with a frown but kept walking, urging the rest forward.
They were taking him to the miracle worker.
He wished they wouldn’t.
Dust clung to his beard. Their town was miles behind, and now the sea wind carried a sharpness that stung his cheeks. He didn’t understand why they kept hoping. People had prayed over him before. Anointed his ears. Laid palms on his chest. Once, when he was a boy, someone whispered, “If he just believed more…”
He had believed. As much as he could. Still, silence.
And now this.
Why pour more longing into a vessel if it only cracked open again?
They crested a hill and stopped. Below, a crowd swelled like the tide around a single man. People called his name, and he looked up—not overwhelmed, but present, like a tree unmoved in a storm.
Jesus.
The name soaked through him like warm rain. He didn’t know why.
The crowd parted slowly. His friends gestured, calling out requests, pointing at him.
He didn’t want to go.
But Jesus had already seen him.
And smiled.
They left the crowd behind, walking into the hush of a grove. Jesus signaled for the others to stay. Only the two of them continued.
The man’s heart beat hard. What was he supposed to do? Nod? Kneel? Did this man expect him to speak?
Jesus stopped. His eyes searched the man’s face—kind but not soft. There was gravity there, something fierce and steady.
Rough fingers touched his ears. He flinched.
Then Jesus spat, rubbed his own fingers, and touched the man’s tongue. It was strange, almost rude. He looked away, embarrassed.
Jesus lifted his face gently. Looked up toward heaven. And groaned.
The sound startled him. Not words. Not command. Just… a groan. Deep and aching, like someone lifting a weight beyond them.
Then: “Ephphatha.”
He didn’t know the word.
But everything moved.
Something inside snapped open—not in pain, but like a window finally forcing through its swollen frame. The world rushed in.
Wind in the leaves.
Birdcall nearby.
His own breath.
And in his mouth, a looseness he hadn’t expected—like chains falling away. He wheeled backward, eyes burning, throat trembling.
Sound.
He touched his ears, then his lips. Looked at Jesus.
Jesus only nodded.
The man gasped, a jagged, laughing sob. The noise of it startled them both.
“I—” His voice caught. Rough, unused.
Jesus pressed a finger to His lips. “Don’t tell anyone,” He said, gently.
He blinked. Tears welled. The heavens had cracked open—and this man asked for silence?
But he nodded.
Yes. He wouldn’t force the moment. Wouldn’t rush it with noise.
They walked back down the hill, the breeze stirring his hair. Jesus reached for his shoulder as they neared the crowd, but the man hesitated.
He turned toward Him and whispered—clear now, with weight: “Thank you.”
Jesus smiled.
And said nothing.
