The Little White Coat

by Donna Poole

Eli tugged on the old one’s hand. “Listen, Bubbe! Do you hear all the shouting? Can we go see what is happening?”

“I will never finish at the market at this rate,” the old one grumbled. But his grandmother’s eyes looked as curious as Eli’s did. “I wonder what the commotion is. Pontius Pilate has already arrived in Jerusalem with his army of soldiers showing his strength lest we revolt during Passover.”

The old one pushed her tongue into her cheek as a sign of contempt and spat on the dirt, then looked fearfully around hoping none of the Roman governor’s men had seen her.

Eli was not afraid. “I wish we would revolt!” he shouted as only a seven-year-old can, stomping his foot. “This is God’s land and should be ruled by God’s people, the Jews, not by the Romans. I hate the Romans!”

“Hush, child! Do you learn that Zealot talk at synagogue school? I will forbid you to go if I hear any more!”

The old one cuffed his ears before he could get his hands up to protect them. She was furious because she was afraid for him, he knew. But hadn’t the holy Scriptures promised a Messiah, someone who would free them from foreign oppression? He wished he were big enough. He would fight those Romans!

The noise of the crowd was getting louder.

“Please, Bubbe, can we go see?” he begged.

“We will go. But do not get that coat dirty.”

With her rough hand she smoothed the white coat she had made for the boy. She expressed her love with blows, not hugs, but she’d burned candles many nights spinning wool for the coat for this boy she loved more than life itself.

Soon the two found themselves in a huge crowd that moved them forward. It stopped occasionally as people cut branches from the palm trees. They waved the branches in the air and shouted, “Hosanna! Save us now! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, the king of Israel!”

Eli caught his breath. “Bubbe! Do you hear? It is the Messiah, come to set us free! Now those Roman scoundrels will run for the hills! I want to see our king!”

Eli jumped up and down, trying to see over the heads of the adults packed in around him. The old one is tall. What is she seeing?

“He is no king,” his grandmother scoffed. “He is riding on a donkey’s colt and has not even one weapon.”

“Then it surely is him, Bubbe!  We learned in school the prophet Zechariah said our king would come riding on a donkey’s colt!”

The old one frowned at him, still skeptical, but hope lit her eyes. What kind of child was this to remember words from a dry prophet who had lived hundreds of years ago?

Now people were throwing palm branches onto the road to make a carpet for the king to ride on. Some were tossing their coats and cloaks on top of the branches to honor their king, their Messiah.

Just for a brief minute the crowd parted, and the man on the donkey looked deep into Eli’s soul and smiled. For the first time the little boy knew what it was to worship, to have so much joy and wonder spill up out of your heart your hands must give what they have. Quickly he shrugged out of his white coat and darted through the crowd. Just as he was ready to throw it down for this wonderful man, this king, he felt his arm wrenched up behind his back.

“What are you doing, you ungrateful wretch of a boy?” The old one snatched his coat from him and boxed an ear. “You will take the coat I went without sleep to make you and throw it in the dirt for this stranger?”

Tears filled Eli’s eyes as he looked up at the king.

The donkey stopped. The man bent down.

“Eli El-Bethel always remember this. What you would do, if you could do, in the eyes of God you have already done. Your heavenly Father thanks you.”

Then the man looked at the old one. “Martha El-Bethel, God will use this lad in His kingdom. You have loved him well, but fewer ear boxings and more hugs would please the Father.”

The donkey moved on. Stunned, Eli and the old one stared at each other.

“Your name is Martha? I did not know that. How did that man know our names? Is he a king? Do you think he is the Messiah? I am sure he is!”

The old one said nothing. She just stared after the man with a look on her face Levi had never seen before. She raised her hand, and Eli ducked, but she merely stroked his cheek. Then she put an arm around his shoulders, and the two of them walked home in silence. Eli didn’t say anything because he couldn’t erase the face of the man from his vision or stop hearing his words, “What you would do, if you could do, in the eyes of God you have already done. Your heavenly Father thanks you.”

Bubbe did not say a word because she was doing something Eli had never seen her do before. She was crying.

Among the weeds, the torn debris

Of strife, of weeping life;

In hearts struck low

A tiny flower grows.

Its name is Hope.