A Light Across Silken Sands: Saul's Journey to Damascus

by Jonareth Elvindale

The caravan road stretched before Saul of Tarsus like a ribbon of molten glass under the noonday sun. He tightened his grip on the reins, determined to reach Damascus by dusk. His camel, Barak, plodded patiently, its soft footfalls parting powdered gold from the path. Every breath Saul drew felt charged with purpose; he was on a mission sanctioned by the high priests to quell the whispers of “the Way,” the new faith that threatened the hard-won order of his world.

Green Country Magazine and Literary Journal Paperback – April 18, 2025

This issue of the Journal includes many new stories of faith and inspirational testimonies.

Yet as the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting slender shadows across the dunes, a restlessness stirred within Saul. He dismounted beside an oasis, where lanternlight danced on still water and palm trees bowed in gentle greeting. One by one, the stars began to prick the dark evening sky like millions of tiny needles, and in that delicate hush, he heard soft laughter.

“Saul,” a familiar voice called. He froze, heart thundering. There, gathered by the firelight, was Lydia—the merchant’s daughter whose bright curiosity had once drawn him from dusty scrolls to honest conversation beneath the olive trees of Tarsus. Her dark curls shimmered like ink against the embers, and her eyes held a question he could almost taste.

“You always travel with certainty,” she said, handing him a sweet date from her pouch. “But tell me—what if the brightest flame is not the one that burns down every ember but the one that sets new hearts alight?”

Saul opened his mouth to reply, but the wind caught his words and carried them away. In that moment, Barak brayed in surprise, and the world exploded into a radiant light. It was neither sunrise nor sunset but something altogether divine—a brilliance that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

“Saul, why do you persecute me?” a voice thundered, resonant in bone and spirit.

He fell to his knees, the sands of the desert cool beneath his trembling hands. His ears rang, his vision spun, and then, as swiftly as it had come, the light dimmed. Saul lay shaken and alone. The oasis was gone, the fireflies and laughter vanished, and the desert reclaimed its silence. Other travelers who happen to be in the proximity of Saul on the Caravan Road stood by speechless, for they heard the sound but did not see anyone.

Physically blinded and spiritually bruised, he rose. His heart pounded not with zeal for judgment but with an unnamable longing. What had he been pursuing? The condemnation of others—or the salvation of his own soul? The date Lydia had offered lay on the ground, its sweetness lingering as a question he dared not yet answer.

Disoriented and blind, Saul stumbled towards his camel and weakly climbed onto Barak’s back without a word and urged the camel onward. Each step felt ordained by grace; each breath tasted of mercy. When Damascus walls rose on the dusty horizon, Barak stopped and Saul dismounted before the house of Judas on Straight Street, trembling like a leaf in a summer breeze.

Inside, a man named Ananias awaited him, though the newcomer’s reputation had preceded him like a black cloud. Ananias studied Saul’s blind eyes and bruised spirit without a hint of fear. Gently he laid hands upon Saul, whispering prayers older than the stones beneath their feet. Warmth coursed through Saul’s temples, and when he blinked against the candlelight, the world flooded in color richer than any scroll’s description.

“Brother Saul,” Ananias said, his voice full of compassion. “Rise, for you have seen the Light.”

Saul staggered to his feet, the echo of that desert question still ringing in his soul. He reached for Ananias’s hand. “I once thought I knew the way,” he whispered, “but now I understand that a single moment of truth can turn the whole world inside out.”

In the days that followed, Saul—now Paul—walked the streets of Damascus not as persecutor but as pilgrim. He shared bread with strangers, healed the sick in the Temple courts, and spoke to scholars of faith and love with a fervor born of new sight. Wherever he went, the memory of that silken desert and the voice that called him out of darkness guided his steps.

And sometimes, when wind stirred the tents of the city or the moonlight painted the stones silver, he thought he heard Lydia’s laughter again—a gentle reminder that the greatest brightness blooms not in the fury of condemnation, but in the warmth of understanding and the courage to let one’s heart be changed.