Chapter 36 | Roads and Roots
The vineyard prospered. In time, we even acquired neighboring land that had once belonged to Silas.
It passed through other hands before it came to us, and somehow we were given it at a price far less than its value.
The work held then—more than it ever had—and the land answered it.
The vines took to their cuttings, the soil held its strength, and even the storms passed without taking too much with them.
I knew better than to call it luck. We were blessed.
When the jars were sealed and the accounts balanced, I sat at the table with the figures spread before me and felt something unfamiliar remain.
Margin.
I wrapped the coins carefully and sent for Mira.
She came at dusk, her hair pulled loose from the day, her smile tired but warm. We sat beneath the fig tree while Lavi moved along the rows, working in the last of the light.
“I can’t travel the way you do,” I said, pushing the bundle toward her. “And I won’t pretend I’m meant to.”
I believed. I followed. I obeyed where I could. But I stayed where it was safe, comfortable, and known.
Mira did not reach for the coins. She waited.
“But I can feed those who do,” I continued. “I can keep the road from being the end of them. I can help ensure the work doesn’t stall because the needs are too many.”
“The Lord has blessed us beyond measure. And so, we will pass it on.”
Mira’s eyes shone. “You know,” she said softly, “there are women who preach with their voices… and women who preach with their hands.”
I smiled faintly. “Then let this be my sermon.”
She covered my hand with hers. “James knows?”
“He does,” I said. “He said the kingdom needs roots as much as it needs roads.”
Mira laughed, wiping at her eyes. “That sounds like him.”
“He says I could come with him.” I glanced toward the vineyard. “Especially now that Lavi has been taking over more of the oversight here.”
Mira tilted her head slightly.
“And will you?”
I watched Lavi move through the rows, his energy no longer wild, but harnessed to the work before him.
“I don’t need to stand in the streets to be obedient,” I said. “This land is my post.”
Mira nodded. “And a holy one.”
When she left, the vineyard grew still in a new way, recognizing its part of something larger now.
I stood there a long while, hands resting on the rough bark of the fig tree.
Still rooted, still given, still His.
~
In the mornings, before the sun burned off the cool, James would walk the rows with me—sometimes speaking, sometimes not. He noticed what I missed. A vine tied too tight. A branch left too long. He never corrected me the way I expected. He would simply take the twine from my hand and show me.
And the vineyard, it became more than provision. It became passage.
Men came through with faces worn from travel, mouths full of stories. Women stayed longer, helping, resting, leaving stronger than they had arrived. I learned their names. I remembered their needs.
And I prayed over them through each row as I worked.
James and I still argued.
Not as we had before. Not to win.
But because neither of us knew how to be quiet about what mattered. His voice would rise, mine would sharpen, and somewhere in the middle we would both stop—half a breath from saying too much—and remember who stood in front of us.
It never lasted.
Respect held where pride once had.
And more often than not, one of us would laugh first. Love always won.
Sometimes, when the work was done and the house had gone quiet, he would reach for my hand without looking at me, and I would let it stay, relishing it each and every time.
We prayed together. It was one of my favorite things about our marriage, our life together. Most evenings, the table was fuller—Abba with us, and often Baruch as well—but there were nights when it was only the three of us, the day behind us and the quiet settling in.
With the last of the light still catching the table and the bread already broken between us, it was enough—his deep voice, Lavi and I listening close.
“Baruch atah Adonai, Lord our God, King of the Universe,” he said quietly, Lavi echoing the words soundlessly.
Then James continued.
“Thank You for this day—for the work set before us, and for the strength to meet it. Thank You for the harvest You bring from what we are given to tend, and for every good thing that comes from Your hand. Thank You for sending Your Son, that we might see You as You are and learn the way we are to walk. Teach us to obey as He has taught us. Teach us to love as He loves. Keep our hands faithful in what is before us, and make our lives bear fruit that lasts. And wherever You lead us, Lord, give us the courage to follow. Use us, while we are here, for the good of those around us. Keep our hearts turned toward You.”
“Amen,” Lavi and I said together.
“Amen, my loves,” James would always answer.
~
Lavi had grown like a weed over the years. So fast it often seemed I looked at him and he’d grown inches overnight.
The boy who once asked questions without end began to answer them. His hands steadied. His shoulders broadened. More than once, I looked up and saw him standing where James had stood, listening before speaking, looking more man than boy.
James noticed it too.
“He’ll be stronger than both of us,” he said once.
“Let’s hope not,” I answered.
He smiled. “Then wiser.”
We were a stubborn, passionate three. We loved deeply—without reserve. Along with Abba, Baruch, the workers, and those who came and went with the work of the kingdom… we labored, we loved, we followed God. We kept the Law—but not where it stood against love.
The years passed that way.
Slowly, and surely.
And so when James left that last morning, there was no drama.
He lifted a hand at the bend in the path, as he always did.
I stood in the doorway with Lavi beside me.
“Return soon Abba,” Lavi called.
James smiled. “When the Lord allows.”
He looked at me then, “Come with me next time?”
I smiled, already thinking of the work waiting behind me.
“Maybe.”