The Last Recalcitrant Jew

Sometimes when I read the stories in the Bible
I find myself wondering about the implications.
If the Israelites had to wander
Until all the previous generation died off,
Does that mean at year 39 of 40
There was one recalcitrant Jew left
Who'd wander by his own decades-old footprints
While he felt the weight
Of the glaring hatred of an entire nation?

What was it like for the last Philistine
Who just heard about David circumcising
One hundred and ninety nine of his friends?
Did Lot ever go back and see the pillar of salt
That used to be his wife?
Did it still look like her, or was it just salt?

I stop and think about how long a week really is--
Thomas spent a week wondering if Jesus hated him
And that's why he missed the risen Lord.
Job's friends spent a week in silence sitting by his side
Waiting for him to be ready to pour out his anguish.
Noah spent weeks on end, a week at a time,
In a smelly ark watching for a single dove on the horizon.

It wouldn't have taken long for the disciples to know
They'd given out more than five loaves and two fish.
Naaman probably felt like an idiot
After his sixth bare-assed dip in the Jordan.
That's where I find myself now: mid-miracle.
Nothing extraordinary has happened yet
Even with extraordinary promises.
So I sit. I wait.
I spot my footprints from my last fruitless loop
Through a circular wilderness.

"Hope that is seen is no hope at all.
Who hopes for what they already have?"

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