I am now an old man. I have lived a good life. It has been a life of hardships and challenges, true enough, but a good life nonetheless. I have no regrets. I have recently seen my dearest friend, Philip, martyred to the cause. While I live, I will speak the truth.

Let me tell you a story. My fellow apostles, even in a kind spirit, kidded me. They called me Bartholomew, saying, here comes the farmer's son. They often checked my hands to see if there was dirt beneath my fingernails. My bond of friendship with Philip was more earnest, like the bond between brothers. When Messiah set us to go ahead of him, he paired me with Philip. I was glad to go with my friend. He had helped me to understand some of Messiah's harder sayings. So, I walked happily by my friend's side on the way south to Jerusalem.

“Faith is the matter,” said Philip. “You have to believe. They have to believe. Without faith, you have nothing to work with.”

“I understand that,” I argued. “But let us say that you believe. Let us say that the afflicted believes. You pray and nothing happens. What then? Is our belief then unbelief?”

Philip stopped in the road; he pulled me around by my elbow, then, he punched me in the chest.

“Ow!” I complained.

He looked in my eyes, his countenance unwavering. “Faith without passion will always fail. If you only believe in your head, you will never heal the sick. Look,” he said. Taking my arm, Philip pulled me to the side of the road where we sat on a rock in the shade of a small tree. “Do you remember the leper in Sebaste? Do you remember the desperation in his voice, how he pleaded earnestly?”

“Yes,” I said. I well remembered the man in rags. I remembered how he called to us the warning, 'Leper! Leper!' It worried me to actually see one so sick and disfigured. I looked Philip in the eye and nodded. “I remember.”

Philip said, “That man had faith.”

My friend spoke with great feeling, but his words shamed me. It was as if my friend had accused me of being unfaithful. I was discomfited, and I immediately countered. “I, too, have faith, but my prayer went unheard.”

An elder walked by us, his staff in hand, his head clothed against the sun. We stopped and looked up. Philip called happily, “Peace be with you.”

I called also, “Peace to you, elder.”

The old man coughed and bowed his head in passing. A young man and a young woman, running, caught up to him and immediately drew him into conversation. I waved but they did not see me. Philip pulled me back to him, his face still earnest, his eyes still burning.

“See yourself as a man without bread,” he continued. “You are hungry. What do you do? You put out your hand, take bread, and feed yourself. But consider, my friend, what if you are hungry and there is no bread?”

I shrugged and stood. I began to walk down the road, Philip close beside me. “I suppose,” said I to my friend, “that I should hire myself out, earn wages, and buy bread.”

“Nathanael,” said my friend. “You understand but you do not apply yourself. If the bread does not come to you easily, you must work the harder for it. Your passion was no match for the desperation of the leper. You did not work for it.”

My friend spoke true. It was Philip who cured the leper. Our Lord would be pleased, I was sure, but for me, there would be more instructions. I confess, there were times my head spun out of control, and my eyes could not focus. More words did not always clear my path before me. Many times they were the very thing that made me stumble. We continued our journey to Sychar, Philip explaining, me nodding agreement. I both understood and did not.

In the evening, a kind man took us home to his family. He had heard of Messiah and believed. He was quite happy to introduce the apostles of Jesus to his family. I was weary from the trip but I kept a smile on my face. Joseph introduced us to his wife, Miriam, who was pulling cucumbers from the vine in a pleasant garden beside his house.

“Miriam,” Joseph called happily. “I brought guests. Apostles of Jesus.”

“Oh my! Oh my!” said Miriam. She seemed beside herself with joy. With cucumbers in her apron, Miriam ran to the door as she straightened the veil on her head. “Come in.”

Joseph took our arms and pulled us to the door as Miriam shooed curious children. Joseph called after Miriam, “Bring bread. Bring meat.” He laughed joyfully as he pulled us close. “Bring everything.”

Without my knowing, Joseph's oldest son ran to neighbors with the news that disciples of Jesus ate at Joseph's. We sat below the small Sycamore tree near Joseph's garden, and I confess, my hunger was sated; I felt at ease. We saw at that time neighbors bearing the limp body of a young boy. The body was laid out on a mat and the neighbors knelt and bowed. Joseph stood, I followed him to my feet, but Philip remained seated.

Joseph attempted to pull the man nearest him to his feet and failed. He said to the man, “Isaac, these are my guests for the night. Please.”