A fox encounters the radiant light

http://www.usccb.org/bible/readings/012520.cfm
Actas 22:3-16
Mark 16:15-18

Chilled air rolled over the Palestinian landscape moving the thickening fog that hung in the brush, until clouds hid everything from sight, including the few trees. Not many noises can pierce thick low hung clouds trapped in the bushy hillsides. Fear floated in the atmosphere. Fear made no noise, except for the resulting and bewildering pounding of its inhabitant’s heartbeat.

The cold breeze increased, dragging the now traveling fog through the branches, and quieted things more. The blurry air dulled even the sound of the brown fox’s steady breath.

Foggy white air mantled both ground and growth. Hazed brightness felt worse than darkness. At least the dark star-bright blindness still allowed the tiniest of footstep sounds, the necessary announcements of both prey and predator. The dark sneakiness from daylight’s worry delivered the fox’s hunting advantage. Fear left the fox at night, replaced with artful cunning. He hid in the day and skulked in the night.

Fog lit by a far away morning sun offered no noises or flickers of fur or feet. It only concealed them. The fox couldn’t smell or see in any direction. The deadly muttering of fear, more common to his daytime demeanor, overtook over his nighttime strength in cunning. Hunting had not been successful.

He’d been up all night. Two nights in a row, and now a third wasted day of treacherous worry was about to begin. Weary and starved, his waiting patience had reached its limit. He could wander no more, and so he had to lie down where he stood. To rest, even as the dangerous day of light would begin.

Familiarity, he noticed, as he felt the spot where he lay; but it was not good news. His paws touched an orderly patch of earth. He had stopped at the edge of a human path and had left the secure environs of bushland hills. Packed and flattened rocks, filled with sand and spent salt, marked where humans traveled. The cold breeze lifted the fog inches off of the earth. He sniffed, worried, rightly that he’d landed exhausted where he should not be. Alarmed, but still, the fox could see the feet of people, appearing as the fog rose. Their movements were no longer silent, no longer muffled in the thickness of wet air. People were everywhere along the path, bustling with foreign sounds. He froze, still, melting into the dried grass at the edge of the path, spent from wandering, unable to sprint or even scoot away, frightened that he’d be discovered.

A whirl of wind and light came from the sky and erased the fog. The fox now saw everyone there. In horror, they stopped walking. He gripped the stones beneath his paws, pushing his head into them. Incredibly, they didn’t stop for him. They stared at an oncoming spear of brightness, above everyone. Not just the sunlight appeared. A missile of the glowing sun in the midst of them all dropped from the sky. The light landed just in front of him. Still, no one saw the fox. A dozen or more people practically surrounded him. They stood at the edges of the path, to his right and left. The fox held back the oncoming shiver of fear which would give him away, just as he had been taught, but no bush hid him.

Amazing. Not one had spied him. The harsh light turned all their heads away from him and into the sky. Just as he thought now he could scoot away, a man fell right in front of him. A hand splayed inches from the fox, shocking the animal from moving. The fox stopped blinking, squinting to hide any eyeball reflections that he was there. The man then partially lifted himself into a sitting position with that one hand behind him, just in front of fox, who remained camouflaged in the grays of the stone path and its mottled edge of dirt and dried grass. The man, and everyone else, continued to stare into the sky.

The voice of fear inside his head harshly warned the fox to scamper away, but he could not move. Any motion might reveal his presence.

In the man’s fall, a bag had fallen from his shoulder. It splashed open just to the left of his hand. Water flowed out, running smoothly over the rocks and directly to the snout of the fox. The fox smelled goat, the skin of the bag. Uncontrollable in a weakened state, the fox drank, slowly moving his tongue over the cool fluid. The water tasted pure, with just a hint of oil from the goatskin. While the light from above held everyone’s attention, the much-needed moisture revived him. The water was fortunate, surprising, and welcome even while he was frightened beyond measure.

Then a pouch made from fir flipped open. It had also fallen with the man, attached at his hip. From it rolled a train of dried grapes and berries, also aimed directly toward the snout of the fox. He dared not run now. Seldom had berries in the wild ever had time to dry. Birds and insects and small animals ate everything that lay on the ground or clung to a branch. The rare chance to taste the compact flavor of a dried berry returned from his memories. He heartily chewed on them. The water still flowed, carrying more berries to his tongue. The flavors dizzied him.

Another smell. Beneath the wafts of human odors and animal skin, he traced the aroma from the fir bag. Fox fir. Immediately the fox was transported back in time to his mother’s body, his snout pushed under her fir when as a pup he ate. He fed on her, as he fed from this fox’s fir now. Lost in his dreamy memory he saw that his tongue now reached and licked the salty fingers of the man. Shocked that the man did not move, the fox looked up and saw the man staring through the fingers of his other hand, attempting to shade the light coming from the sky. It had brightened even more. Nothing could distract him or the others around him.

Ready now to run, nourished, surprisingly calmed by the distraction of the people who stared into the sky, the fox yet again was held fast. This time by a voice. His ears turned into the sound, and he knew that voice. All went quiet as the voice spoke. No humans moved. So also, the fox did not move.

The fallen man then spoke. The familiar voice came again from the light. Yes, the fox was sure. The voice from the light matched that of the man whom the fox followed in the desert for all those weeks. That wandering man would whistle and speak to him in soothing calls. He would leave him morsels to eat, and pour out puddles of water for the fox to drink. The odd-acting fellow sang and spoke to the sky, but never seemed to eat. Then he met up with another man, and the fox ran away. That other man smelled and sounded of fear, dread, and terror.

The water, the berries, the smell of fox fir, and the light’s voice overwhelmed the fox. That voice reminded him of the safety of his mother, cuddling him, cooing into his ear, blowing into his eyes. Wrapped up in her he would suck on her body, along with his brother and sister. He had not felt that comfort since he was a pup -- that shared hugging and rolling around in the grass with his siblings. He remembered his father’s eyes watching him, too, nudging him to move along, licking at his head. Security, safety, being held into each other, attentive eyes, nurturing his every need.

The voice from the sky was full of that long-gone warmth and caress and care. The fox pondered all that was taking place on the edge of this human path where he ate and drank, and against all logic, felt safe. Since leaving his young world, he lived only with the voices of fear and cunning. Fear in the light, hiding from sight. Cunning in the night, hunting and stalking for food.

Now, calmed by the light, amidst the worst of his enemies, he heard soft sounds and watched humans in awe.

The fox sat up, just as the man stood, helped by others. The fox turned away and walked into the brush without a holler or ruckus from anyone about his presence. Foxes don’t know about magic, or love, or divine revelation. This experience, however, brought him as close as a fox could ever be to all of them.

The voice of comfort stayed with him, present still with each pad of his paws on the grass and dust and gravel as he wandered back into the wild. The chilled wind flew by again at a rise on a hill not far from the human path. The voice of fear came with it. The fox lowered his head, below the height of the bush, naturally hiding again.

And yet, he’d heard the other voice. Enough to trust it more. He hoped it would come back. He sucked on the berry flavors still fresh in his teeth. He would never be the same again. Fear and cunning would return, but the comfort of his mother, the joy of his brother and sister, and the order and care of his father would lie beneath everything from now on. He now knew that other voice. The voice of the kind man, who spoke in the radiant light.