My name is Bartimaeus. A long time ago, when I was a child, I was able to see. I remember a beautiful world bursting with colour. I remember clear skies and a bright sun. I remember dark skies that were filled with thousands of twinkling stars. I remember a huge striped rainbow that appeared in the sky, just like magic and stretched right across my city. I remember tiny flowers, the same colour as the sun that grew in cracks in the pavement. I remember my mother’s laughing face, her eyes filled with love, as she played with me. I remember being ill, being in bed for a long, long time. I remember hearing hushed, worried voices. I remember hearing my mother cry. I remember slowly getting better and regaining my strength. But something terrible had happened; my eyesight was gone. I remember that for a long time after that my mother never laughed.

I now lived in a different world. It was a world of sounds, noises and voices, a world of many textures and sensations, a world of scents and smells, a world of tastes and flavours, a world without colour, a world without light. My new world lacked all of the beauty that I had once been able to see. But it lacked something even more important; freedom. I could no longer walk where I pleased; I needed someone to guide me. And as for running … well, that was out of the question.

But I have heard people say that when someone loses one of their senses, they are given another gift instead. For some it is the ability to sing or to dance. For others it is to be a good judge of character or a good organizer. For some it is the gift of storytelling. For me, my gift was my imagination and boy did I use it! In the evening I would replay in my mind all of the sounds, smells and textures that had made up for me the events of the day. In my mind’s eye I would paint onto these scenes colours and characters of my own, based on my earliest memories. So, while I lived my daily life in darkness, I would escape in the evenings and in my dreams into the multi-coloured world of my imagination. I felt blessed.

Money was desperately short in our house and yet I was unable to work. Did I mention that you don’t need to be able to see to be able to feel hunger? I had to beg. Every day one of our neighbours would take me by the arm and lead me down to the city gates. There I would settle down by the roadside so that I could beg from travellers as they passed by. I would call out to them and raise my hands up as I begged them for money. My arms used to get sore with tiredness. Many wealthy people walked straight past and ignored me, the fragrance of their perfume hanging on the breeze when they had gone. Some people treated me like something they would scrape off the bottom of their sandal and kicked me out of their way. Sometimes children made fun of me, flicking stones at me and laughing because I couldn’t see the culprits. But I liked the farmers. They were more sympathetic and many evenings they gave me bruised or damaged produce they had been unable to sell. When evening fell, my neighbour would return and guide me back to my home.

Travellers entering the city had many tales to tell; I would listen to them as they passed. Recently many of them were talking about this man called Jesus of Nazareth. And what tales they had to tell! Jesus was a preacher who spoke about the love of God. He said that the poor would own the kingdom of Heaven! Imagine! Imagine a beggar like me having a place in the kingdom of Heaven! Travellers said that Jesus was an ordinary man. He was a carpenter by trade and he spent a lot of his time with fishermen. He understood ordinary people. He mixed with the rejects of society. He spent time with tax collectors and prostitutes and wasn’t interested in trying to impress the authorities. In fact Jesus had got into trouble with the Jewish leaders. And Jesus didn’t just talk, he healed people, people like me! I heard stories about lepers being cleansed, lame people being able to walk and dying people being healed. Someone even said that he had given a blind man back his sight! Imagine!

In the evenings, as I thought back over the events of the day, I found myself thinking about Jesus and wondering about the man. I imagined what he would look like, what he would sound like. I imagined the excitement that would be in the air when he was speaking. I thought about him laying his hands on people and healing them. I wondered if there was any chance of Jesus coming to my city, Jericho. If he came, would I be able to persuade my neighbour to take me to hear him? If Jesus came, would he heal people here in Jericho? Would he heal me? Then I scolded myself, telling myself to stop getting my hopes up. I would try to think about other things instead. But thoughts of Jesus kept coming into my head and my heart would start to race with excitement. Somehow, with Jesus, all things seemed possible!

Then one day Jesus came to Jericho! I was sitting by the city gate as usual and the air was buzzing with excitement. Jesus had arrived earlier that day and was spending the day in the city. Travellers leaving the city for Jerusalem brought tales of people being healed. I had no way of getting to the city centre by myself; my neighbour would not return until evening. So I waited and waited. As I waited, I wondered whether Jesus might pass by. This was the gate travellers used to go to Jerusalem. If Jesus was going to Jerusalem, he would come this way. I sat in my usual spot and waited. I begged as usual, but I wasn’t really interested. I was waiting for Jesus.

Late in the afternoon the atmosphere became charged with excitement. Jesus was on this road, the road out of Jericho. He was coming this way! I was beside myself with excitement. I pressed myself flat against the wall and listened. I heard people saying, “He’s coming, he’s coming!” and I felt people start to move away from me to where Jesus must be. Then I heard people shouting, “There he is!” I couldn’t believe that Jesus was so coming so close to me after all this time! I started shouting out as loud as I could, “Jesus, Son of David, have pity on me!” I called again, and again, and again. This was my chance and I wasn’t going to let it pass me by! “Jesus, Son of David, have pity on me!”, I shouted. People pushed me and kicked me, telling me to keep quiet. I think I was an embarrassment to them. I didn’t care! “Jesus, Son of David, have pity of me!” I stretched up my head and moved it from side to side, trying to judge from the noise where Jesus was. I cupped my hands to my mouth and roared again as loud as I could.

A murmur went through the crowd, “the blind man … he wants to speak to the blind man!” Someone shouted to me, “Hi, blind man, he wants to speak to you!” I couldn’t believe my luck! I leapt to my feet, throwing my cloak down on the ground in my haste. I was able unable to see anything but I rushed forward nonetheless. Strangers’ hands guided me to through the throngs of people and I found myself standing in an empty space. Someone held my arm, walked me slowly forward and then halted. I heard a gentle voice say, “What do you want me to do for you?” I couldn’t believe that this was really happening; it was like one of my daydreams! This must be Jesus, speaking to me! “Master, let me see again,” I gasped. “Your faith has saved you,” Jesus replied. As I stood there, an image began to appear, blurred at first but becoming clear. Standing there before me was a man. He was smiling at me and in his eyes I saw the same look that I had seen in my mother’s eyes as she had played with me as a child. I was overjoyed. As Jesus turned to continue on his journey I ran after him, bursting with excitement, telling anyone who would listen that I could see!

Meeting Jesus is something that I never tire talking about. Sometimes I get the impression that people are jealous of my encounter with Jesus. And do you know what? I don’t blame them! Meeting Jesus is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.

(c) Claire Murray