MR. BEATITUDE (The Last Chapter)

Mr. Capable pushed through the edge of the crowd. The men and women moved to let him through.

And then he saw him.

He had heard about the King from the man in bandages, from the woman in the valley, from the man on the rock, from the tax collector, from the man with chains on his wrists, from Mrs. Simple, from Mr. Peacemaker, and from the old woman on the narrow road. Every one of them had spoken about him. He had felt him at work in all of it. But he had never seen him.

Now he could.

The King looked at him and smiled. Mr. Capable fell at his feet.

“You made it,” the King said.

“I didn’t know if I would,” Mr. Capable cried.

“I know,” said the King.

“Tell me about the road.”

So Mr. Capable told him. He told him about the man in bandages at the gate, and sitting down in the dust for the first time in his life. He laughed about not minding the dirt on his coat anymore. He told him about the valley and the weeping woman and how he mourned with her in the mud. He told him about the man on the rock who laughed while men argued around him, about the tax collector who had crumbs on his shirt, and even about the man outside the prison who couldn’t see his own chains.

He told him about Mrs. Simple and the trumpets on the mailboxes. He told him about Mr. Peacemaker crossing the street. He told him about the old woman with trembling hands on the narrow road who wasn’t afraid of anything anyone could take from her.

Mr. Capable showed the king the scar on his neck.

“I didn’t even know I had this.”

The King touched his neck. He put his hands on Mr. Capable’s cheeks.

“Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven.”

The king showed him his hands.

“In all these things you are more than a conqueror through him who loved you, Mr. Capable.”

Mr. Capable’s tears wet the king’s hands as he felt the holes in his hands.

“You know what I notice about what you told me?” The king asked.

“What?”

“You sat down in a lot of places.” The King smiled. “You sat in the dust. You sat in the mud. You sat on a rock. The man you were when you left the City of Self-Sufficient didn’t sit down anywhere.”

Mr. Capable thought about this. “No,” he said. “He didn’t.”

The King put his hand on his shoulder. “A bad tree cannot bear good fruit.”

“I have something for you,” the King said.

“You’re no longer Mr. Capable. What did that one man tell you on the path?”

“It doesn’t suit me anymore.”

“Right.” The King laughed.

Mr. Capable stood very still.

“I have a name for you,” the King said. “A better name.”

He paused.

“Your name is Mr. Beatitude.”

The king hugged Mr. Beatitude.

“I called you while you were lying next to your wife. My sheep hear my voice and it was me who willed and worked through you for my good pleasure. No one will snatch you from my hand, Mr. Beatitude. You are poor in spirit and you mourn for your sin, because of me. The hunger you felt was because of me. You are meek, merciful, a peacemaker, persecuted, and pure in heart—“

The King smiled.

“—because of me.”

Mr. Beatitude sobbed. He kissed the King’s feet and worshiped.

He came back to the City of Self-Sufficient on a Saturday, looking nothing like the man who had left on a Tuesday. He was thinner and a lot—muddier. As he walked up to his house, his foot knocked over a jar of clay. He bent down and put it back in place, then there, on the inside, was a golden ring. He picked it up and looked at it.

Mrs. Respectable met him at the door. She took one look at him and said, “Mr. Capable, where have you been?”

She looked at him carefully.

“You’ve changed.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Look.” He pulled out the ring.

“I found it in that jar!”

“It’s beautiful.” She said.

“Who knew we had such a beautiful treasure in this jar of clay.” Mr. Beatitude smiled.

“Are you alright?” Mrs. Respectable asked.

Mr. Beatitude gave her a hug and kissed her on her forehead.

“I’m better than that,”

“I have much to tell you.” He said.

She stepped back and let him in.

His son Comfort ran to him, Security running behind him.

“Daddy! Where were you?” They shouted.

“On a road,” Mr. Beatitude crouched down.

“Where did it go?” Comfort asked.

“I met the King.” he said.

Comfort looked at him. His eyes were wide.

“You met the King?”

Mr. Beatitude picked him up and hugged him.

They sat down at the table and Mr. Beatitude told them all about his trip. He told them what made him leave, about the hunger, and about the people on the road. His wife asked questions and began to weep.

“I want what you have—“

“All you have to do is ask.” Mr. Beatitude held her hands.

When they had finished talking he sat at the table alone. He stared out the window. He could see people who reminded him of Mr. Whitewash. He could see the arguing men from the Field of Rights yelling at each other near the bank. He could see men and women who had no idea they were wearing chains. He could see the hunger in their eyes. And he could see people in the dust. People who were poor in spirit.

“They need to meet the King.” He said.

He picked up his coat, kissed his wife, and walked out the door.

—The End

This is the end of Mr. Beatitude.

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