The Scribe by Francine Rivers Page A

I remained, my enemies would kill me again .”
    I didn’t think it amusing. But I was curious. How many men have died and lived again to tell of it? I asked him what he remembered, if anything.
    “I can’t say what I saw. Whether my soul left my body or was still in my body, I don’t know. Only God knows what really happened, but I was caught up somehow to the third heaven.”
    “Did you see Jesus?”
    “I saw the heavenly realm and earth and all beneath it.”
    In awe, I pressed. “Did the Lord speak to you?”
    “He said what He said to me before. I cannot describe what I saw, Silas, but I was in a state of misery when I came back. That I remember quite well.” He smiled wistfully. “The only one who could understand what I felt is Lazarus.” He put his hand on my arm, his expression intense. “It is better that we don’t speak of the experience, Silas. Those in Lystra know something of it, but I dare not add more.”
    “Why not?” It seemed to me his experience confirmed our lives continued after our bodies rested.
    “People are likely to become more interested in heavenly realms and angels than in making a decision about where they stand with Jesus Christ in this life .”
    As I have said, Paul had more wisdom than I.
    I wanted to ask more, to press him for everything he remembered, but I respected his decision. And I did not want to make assumptions about his course of action regarding Lystra. “Those who sought your death would be confounded if they were to face you now.” Whether we passed through Lystra or remained to preach was for him to decide. I knew God would make His will known to Paul. The man never ceased to pray for His guidance.
    “They will be confounded. Whether they listen and believe this time remains to be seen.”
    Lystra is a Latin-speaking Roman colony in the consolidated province of Galatia. Remote and filled with superstition, it proved hard ground for the seed we bore. But our time there yielded a few tender shoots. And we met one who was to grow tall and strong in faith; a young man named Timothy. His mother, Eunice, and grandmother, Lois, believed in God. His father, however, was a Greek pagan who remained devoted to idol worship.
    Eunice came to me and asked to speak with me alone. “I’m afraid to speak to Paul,” she confessed. “He is so fierce.”
    “What troubles you?”
    “My son is loved by many, Silas, but as you have probably guessed, he is not a true Jew.” She lowered her eyes. “I took him to the rabbi when he was eight days old, but he would not circumcise him because of his mixed blood. And he’s never been allowed to enter the synagogue.” She worried her shawl. “I was young and headstrong. I married Julius against my father’s wishes. I have many regrets, Silas.” She lifted her head, eyes moist. “But having Timothy is not one of them. He has been the greatest blessing of my life and my mother’s.”
    “He is a fine boy.”
    “We saw Paul when he came before. When he was stoned . . .” She clasped her hands tensely. “My son could talk of nothing else after Paul left. He said if Paul ever came back he would follow him anywhere. And now Paul is here again, and Timothy has such hope.” Her eyes welled. “Paul is a Pharisee, a student of the great Gamaliel. What will he say when Timothy approaches him? I cannot bear to see my boy crushed again, Silas. I cannot.”
    I put my hand on her shoulder. “He won’t be.”
    Paul, who had no wife or children of his own, loved this young man like a son. “His mother and grandmother have taught him well. He has a quick mind and an open heart to the Lord. See how he drinks in the Word of God, Silas. He will be of great use to God.”
    I agreed, but was concerned. “In time, Paul, but he’s only thirteen and reserved by nature.” I feared that Timothy might prove to be like John Mark, too young to be taken from his family.
    “He thinks before he speaks.”
    “He’s somewhat timid in a