Chapter 42 | Kingdom Work
Mira’s courtyard was already at work when I arrived.
Baskets lined the walls—grain, dried fish, folded cloth, and small jars of oil sealed tight. Eliana was securing one with practiced hands while speaking over her shoulder to Ruth.
“Not that one,” she said. “That’s for the north road—it needs to be lighter.”
“It is lighter,” Ruth replied, lifting it slightly.
Eliana didn’t look up. “Then you carry it and tell me that again at the halfway mark.”
A few of the women smiled.
I nodded as I stepped inside—to them, and to the others gathered there. Many of our sisters. Not by blood, but drawn together over time—first by the men we loved, and then by Him. What had begun there had grown into something more. A sisterhood. A work of its own.
Avigail passed me with a bundle of cloth tucked under her arm. “We’ve had three come through already this morning,” she said. “Two staying the night, one heading south.”
“Did he eat?” Eliana asked.
“Like he hadn’t eaten in days,” Avigail said, with a small shake of her head.
Eliana nodded. “Travel does that.”
Near the table, Salome and Joanna worked through small stacks of coins.
“Break it again,” Joanna said. “If it’s taken, we lose too much at once.”
Salome slid a few aside. “This portion goes with Peter and Thaddaeus.”
“And the rest?”
“We wait,” Joanna said. “Until we know where it’s needed.”
Mira turned then and saw me.
“Talia,” she said, something like relief softening her voice. “You’re here.”
“Barely” I said, forcing a smile.
She smiled faintly, then glanced back toward the baskets. “There’s more movement than before,” she said. “More people coming through. From Judea… and farther.”
“Farther?” I asked.
“From the north,” Mira said. “From Antioch. Paul has been teaching there—sending others out as well.”
Eliana tied off another bundle. “We’ve had two pass through already who learned from him.”
Joanna glanced up from the table. “And more will come.”
“The Lord is stirring something,” Salome said quietly.
Joanna nodded. “Even with everything that’s happened.”
A small pause.
“Eliana heard news from Caesarea,” Mira added. “Herod is dead.”
That drew a few looks.
“So soon?” Avigail asked.
“So they say,” Joanna replied. “Struck down in the middle of his own glory.”
She stopped for a breath.
“James would have—”
The words faltered.
The courtyard quieted.
Mira lowered her gaze. “He would have had something to say about it.”
A breath slipped out of me, something lighter than I expected.
“He would have said that’s what happens when you cross a Son of Thunder!”
A few of the women smiled—small, knowing.
Mira looked up at me, something softening in her expression. “Yes,” she said. “He would have.”
I glanced around the courtyard—the work already in motion, the women moving without waiting to be told what came next. Baskets being filled. Coins divided. Food prepared for people we might never meet.
“But not all of us were meant to go first.”
Eliana nodded once. “Some of us see there’s somewhere to come back to.”
“And something waiting when they do,” Joanna added.
I let out a slow breath, my gaze settling on the baskets stacked along the wall.
“This is why we keep going,” I said. “Not only because we must… but because he did.”
The words steadied as they left me.
“He gave everything for this—for Him. For what’s being built here.” I motioned faintly around us.
My fingers brushed the edge of one of the baskets, feeling the rough weave beneath them.
“We carry it,” I said. “We take what was placed in his hands… and we pass it on.”
A quiet settled over the courtyard.
Salome’s voice came then, soft but certain. “He would not have wanted it to end with him.”
I looked at her. “No,” I said. “He would not have.”
I tightened my grip on the basket and held it out slightly between us. “To keeping it going,” I said, softer now. “To being the rain.”
No one answered right away.
But I saw it—in the way Eliana straightened, in the way Ruth’s hand rested more firmly on the woman beside her, in the way Joanna resumed dividing the coins without hesitation.
They were already doing it.
“Good,” Malka’s voice cut in from the doorway. “Because standing around talking about it won’t fill a single stomach. And all this kingdom work can make you hungry.”
A few of the women laughed.
“There’s more grain coming by nightfall,” she added, stepping in with a small sack slung over her shoulder. “If your messengers don’t eat it first.”
“They won’t,” Mira said.
“They will,” Malka replied. “But we’ll plan for that.”
She dropped the sack with a dull thud and looked straight at me.
“See?” she said. “Alive enough to be useful.”
I lifted a brow. “Careful. I might stay.”
“Easy now,” she said. “Don’t make it sound too inviting.”
~
By the time I left, the sun had climbed high.
The vineyard waited when I returned.
I walked the rows slowly, this time with purpose.
Checking ties.
Adjusting where growth had gone too far.
Breaking off what would choke the vine if left alone.
“You’d say it’s about time,” I muttered.
The wind moved through the leaves, and I could almost hear his laughter in it.
I smiled despite myself.
I moved further down the row, running my fingers along the vine.
“I went to Mira’s,” I said. “They’re still sending food. Money. Helping those traveling.”
I paused.
“More are coming. From different places. They’re speaking your name. Not like before,” I added. “Not only as one of the Twelve.”
My hand rested on one of the posts he had set years ago.
“They remember how you spoke. How you didn’t hold back. How you believed.”
My throat tightened.
“But they’re still going,” I said. “All of them.”
A breath.
“And so am I.”
Silence settled. Not empty—quiet.
“I didn’t think I could do this without you,” I said. “I didn’t think I would want to.”
Both were still true.
“But I’m here.”
I looked out over the rows.
“I don’t understand why you were taken.”
That had not changed.
“And I don’t know that I ever will.”
The wind picked up again.
“But I know this—”
My hand pressed firm against the wood.
“You gave everything for Him.”
A pause.
“And I won’t let that stop with you.”
The words came steadier now.
“I’ll keep going,” I said. “For Him. For what He’s building.”
And quieter: “For you.”
~
The lamps were lit as the last of the light slipped from the sky, their glow soft against the walls. The smell of lentils and fresh bread filled the room, warm and familiar, the kind of meal that asked nothing and gave enough.
I moved between the hearth and the table without thinking, setting out bowls, tearing bread, filling cups. My hands remembered what to do, even when my heart still lagged behind.
Lavi was already seated, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his other hand resting loosely near his bowl. There was a steadiness in him now that hadn’t been there before—something solid, something earned.
His wife moved beside me easily, passing me a cloth, adjusting a bowl before I could reach for it. We worked together without needing to speak.
Abba sat near the wall.
Age had drawn him inward—his shoulders thinner, his movements slower—but his eyes were sharp as ever, following each of us in turn, taking it all in, committing it to memory.
I brought his bowl to him and crouched slightly so he wouldn’t have to reach.
“You should eat while it’s warm,” I said.
He looked at me for a long moment before answering.
“I am,” he said quietly. “I’m just slower than I used to be.”
I smiled faintly. “That makes two of us.”
Baruch’s voice filled the space before the meal had properly begun.
“…and I told him if he wanted that price, he could keep his grain,” he was saying, gesturing with his spoon.
Lavi snorted. “You said that?”
“I did.”
“And then bought it anyway?”
Baruch paused, then gave a small shrug. “Eventually.”
A quiet ripple of laughter moved around the table.
We began to eat, the conversation settling into the easy back-and-forth of ordinary things.
Work in the lower fields.
A cart that needed repairing.
Someone passing through who had traded news for bread.
I watched Lavi for a while after that. At times, I still saw the frightened boy beneath the olive tree, mud-streaked and small—though he stood now a grown man, taller than me.
He worked like a man now and spoke with a steadiness that had replaced his old eagerness. Others listened when he spoke, and he carried responsibility without bending beneath it.
So much like James.
“You’ve done well here,” I said.
He glanced at me, then away again, uncomfortable with the attention.
“We’ve done what needed doing.”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “You have.”
I held his gaze a moment longer.
“Your abba would have been proud of you.”
He stilled.
“He was proud of you,” I said. “He loved you so much.”
Lavi’s eyes dropped.
“I know,” he said, his voice quieter now.
“There’s something we wanted to tell you,” he added after a moment, looking at his wife, then back to me.
I waited.
“We’re going to have a child.”
Abba’s head lifted.
Baruch broke into a grin. “Well,” he said. “About time.”
Lavi huffed a breath, but there was no hiding the change in him now.
For a moment, I just looked at them. Then joy filled me.
“You are going to make me a savta,” I said, the word catching slightly as it left me.
A grandmother.
The thought settled deep, warm and unexpected.
I let out a breath, my eyes lifting without thinking.
“Toda, Adonai,” I whispered. “Thank you, Lord.”