The rocks cut at Yehiel’s feet as he knelt in the dirt, face to the earth. His bandaged hands trembled. Beside him, nine other men echoed the same desperate cry: "Master, have mercy on us!"
From where he lay, Yehiel could only see the hem of the traveler’s cloak—dust-worn, simple. The wind caught it for a moment, revealing the man’s sandals and a blur of movement—he was stepping closer.
“Go,” came the voice, calm and solid, “show yourselves to the priests.”
No touch. No long prayer. Just that. Yehiel lifted his head, startled, and looked at the others. None of them moved.
Then one man—Asher, the young Judean—stood without a word and started limping down the path toward the city. Another followed. Then another. Yehiel rose slowly, pushing off the ground with his forearms, dread and hope clawing for space in his gut.
He walked. Ten broken men, stumbling toward a temple that had exiled them. Each step a dare against death.
By the time they reached the outer road, Yehiel felt something shift. The ache in his knees—gone. The tightness across his chest, the raw sores on his neck—gone. He spun in place, stunned, hands flying to his face.
Whole.
Flesh like a child’s. Pink and smooth.
He should have run. Laughed. Shouted. But Yehiel stood frozen.
The others did not. They surged forward, exclaiming, pointing, breaking into a run. Their joy pressed forward like a tide. Toward Jerusalem. Toward home.
Yehiel turned the other direction.
Dust clung to his robe as he retraced the path, lone footprints beside the ten they've carved together. The world around him roared with silence.
The man was just cresting the hill—walking slowly now, almost out of sight.
Yehiel broke into a sprint.
“Rabbi!” he called.
Jesus turned.
Yehiel fell at his feet, forehead pressing the earth. “I was unclean,” he choked out. “I was lost. You healed me.”
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere far off, a bird fluted from a tree.
Jesus knelt beside him. Yehiel did not dare look up until he felt a hand—warm, strong—rest gently on his shoulder.
“Were not ten cleansed?” Jesus asked, his voice quieter now. “Where are the other nine?”
Yehiel opened his mouth, but no words came.
Jesus tilted his head. “Was no one found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?”
Yehiel blinked. For a moment, he had forgotten. Samaria clung to his name like dust that would not wash off. Even now, healed and whole, it was there.
He raised his eyes to meet Jesus'. There was no scorn in them. Only sorrow. And something deeper.
“Rise,” Jesus said, standing. “Go your way. Your faith has made you well.”
Yehiel rose slowly, knees steady beneath him. The wind shifted the corner of Jesus’ robe again—his face turned toward the trail ahead, already moving.
Yehiel didn’t follow. He stood, watching. His chest heavy—not with grief, but with a quiet weight he could not name.
He turned, this time not toward the priests or the city, but toward the olive grove below the hill. The land stretched out before him—unclaimed. He stepped down into it, his footprints soft in the dust.
The rocks cut at Yehiel’s feet as he knelt in the dirt, face to the earth. His bandaged hands trembled. Beside him, nine other men echoed the same desperate cry: "Master, have mercy on us!"
From where he lay, Yehiel could only see the hem of the traveler’s cloak—dust-worn, simple. The wind caught it for a moment, revealing the man’s sandals and a blur of movement—he was stepping closer.
“Go,” came the voice, calm and solid, “show yourselves to the priests.”
No touch. No long prayer. Just that. Yehiel lifted his head, startled, and looked at the others. None of them moved.
Then one man—Asher, the young Judean—stood without a word and started limping down the path toward the city. Another followed. Then another. Yehiel rose slowly, pushing off the ground with his forearms, dread and hope clawing for space in his gut.
He walked. Ten broken men, stumbling toward a temple that had exiled them. Each step a dare against death.
By the time they reached the outer road, Yehiel felt something shift. The ache in his knees—gone. The tightness across his chest, the raw sores on his neck—gone. He spun in place, stunned, hands flying to his face.
Whole.
Flesh like a child’s. Pink and smooth.
He should have run. Laughed. Shouted. But Yehiel stood frozen.
The others did not. They surged forward, exclaiming, pointing, breaking into a run. Their joy pressed forward like a tide. Toward Jerusalem. Toward home.
Yehiel turned the other direction.
Dust clung to his robe as he retraced the path, lone footprints beside the ten they've carved together. The world around him roared with silence.
The man was just cresting the hill—walking slowly now, almost out of sight.
Yehiel broke into a sprint.
“Rabbi!” he called.
Jesus turned.
Yehiel fell at his feet, forehead pressing the earth. “I was unclean,” he choked out. “I was lost. You healed me.”
Silence stretched between them. Somewhere far off, a bird fluted from a tree.
Jesus knelt beside him. Yehiel did not dare look up until he felt a hand—warm, strong—rest gently on his shoulder.
“Were not ten cleansed?” Jesus asked, his voice quieter now. “Where are the other nine?”
Yehiel opened his mouth, but no words came.
Jesus tilted his head. “Was no one found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?”
Yehiel blinked. For a moment, he had forgotten. Samaria clung to his name like dust that would not wash off. Even now, healed and whole, it was there.
He raised his eyes to meet Jesus'. There was no scorn in them. Only sorrow. And something deeper.
“Rise,” Jesus said, standing. “Go your way. Your faith has made you well.”
Yehiel rose slowly, knees steady beneath him. The wind shifted the corner of Jesus’ robe again—his face turned toward the trail ahead, already moving.
Yehiel didn’t follow. He stood, watching. His chest heavy—not with grief, but with a quiet weight he could not name.
He turned, this time not toward the priests or the city, but toward the olive grove below the hill. The land stretched out before him—unclaimed. He stepped down into it, his footprints soft in the dust.
