The sun beat down with relentless harshness.
Jonah stood outside the city, silent, gazing at the walls of Nineveh as if they were a constant
provocation. He had chosen to remain there, not out of obedience, but out of anticipation.
Part of him still hoped something would happen. A sudden turn of events. A belated
judgment. A sign that would confirm his anger was justified.
He built a makeshift shelter from dry branches and old rags he had carried from the
road. It was little more than a meager shade, insufficient to protect him from the
sweltering midday heat. The sun burned his skin, and the air seemed still, heavy, as if
the whole world had stopped to watch him.
Jonah sat on the ground, his back hunched, his thoughts racing.
"Forty days..." he murmured. "You said forty days."He mentally counted the time. Every sunrise without destruction was a silent
affront. Every sunset was confirmation that God was doing exactly what Jonah
had feared… and hated.
The city, in the distance, was slowly beginning to regain its rhythm. Not
completely, not like before, but enough to show that life went on. Seeing that
irritated him even more.
"They'll get used to it," he thought. "They'll forget their regret. They'll go back to the same old thing."
That thought offered him a bitter consolation: the idea that mercy was temporary,
that the change wouldn't last. That in the end, he would be right.
The heat intensified. Jonah shifted restlessly, trying to find a more comfortable
position, but there was no relief. Sweat trickled down his neck, his eyes burned, and
his head throbbed.
"Is this also part of the lesson?" he asked sarcastically. "Leaving me here until I
break?"
There was no response.
The afternoon dragged on. Jonah, exhausted, finally lay down on the hot ground,
covering his face with his cloak. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to escape the
light for a moment.
And then, without him noticing, something began to happen.
During the night, while Jonah slept fitfully, the earth stirred with an unseen
purpose. A seed, forgotten or carried by the wind, began to sprout with impossible
speed. Its roots spread deep and firm. Its stem broke through the surface of the
soil and grew, leaf after leaf, with supernatural urgency.
At dawn, Jonah woke up.
The first thing she felt was coolness.
He blinked, confused. The air above his face no longer burned. A wide,
generous shadow covered him completely. He sat up slowly and looked up.
Above him, a leafy plant spread out with large, vibrant green leaves. Its branches
arched out, forming a natural roof that protected him from the sun.
Jonah was speechless.— What…? —she whispered.
He jumped up and touched the tree trunk. It was real. Strong. Alive. It hadn't been there
the day before. There was nothing like it for miles around.
For the first time in days, Jonah smiled.
It wasn't a big, wide smile, but it was genuine. She felt relief. Rest.
Gratitude.
"Thank you," she said softly, without thinking too much about who she was speaking to. "Thank you for
this."
He sat down in the shade with a deep sigh. The contrast was so stark that it almost hurt to
remember the heat of the previous day. The plant not only protected him physically; it
also gave him a strange feeling of care, of personal attention.
— Maybe… —he thought— maybe not all is lost.
For a few hours, Jonah allowed himself to be alright. He ate some of what was left of his food,
drank water, and observed the city from a distance without the same tension. The shadow
isolated him from the world, and he found that isolation pleasant.
—This is mercy—he said to himself. This makes sense.
The morning wore on. The sun rose higher, but it didn't affect him. Jonah closed his eyes, resting
his head against the trunk of the tree, and let the accumulated weariness overcome him.
He didn't see the worm.
Small. Silent. Almost insignificant.
During the following early morning, the worm began its work. It gnawed at the stem, slowly
but steadily, weakening the plant from within. It didn't tear off the leaves. It made no noise. It
only did what was necessary to break its life force.
When Jonah woke up, something felt different.
The air was hot again.
He opened his eyes and looked up.
The plant was withered.
The leaves hung dry and brittle. The trunk had lost its firmness. The shade was
gone. The sun beat down directly on its head, stronger than before.Jonah sat up abruptly.
"No!" he exclaimed. "It can't be!"
He touched the trunk. It crumbled beneath his fingers. The plant, which had grown
overnight, had died just as quickly.
Fury struck him violently.
"This is unfair!" he shouted. "I did nothing to deserve this!"
The wind began to blow from the desert, hot and dry, striking his face like a
punishment. The sun burned mercilessly. Jonah felt his head spinning.
"I'd rather die!" he shouted. "Dying is better than living like this!"
The physical pain mingled with the emotional, amplifying everything. The loss of
the plant hurt him more than he was willing to admit. He hadn't just lost shade;
he had lost comfort.
And then, the question came back.
The same voice.
The same calm.
— Do you think it's okay to be angry about the plant?
Jonah was breathing heavily. Anger, exhaustion, and heat swirled inside him
like a storm.
"Of course!" he replied. "Until death!"
The silence stretched out for another moment.
Then the answer came. Not as a reproach, but as a revelation.
— You took pity on the plant, for which you neither worked nor made to grow. It was born in
one night, and it died in one night.
And should I not pity Nineveh, that great city, where there are thousands of people who
cannot distinguish between their right and their left… and many animals?
The words fell slowly, one after another, like drops that pierce the rock.
Jonah remained motionless.
The comparison was devastating.She had mourned the loss of a plant that gave her shade for a day,
but she desired the destruction of an entire city full of life.
She felt ashamed.
And something even deeper: exposure.
God wasn't minimizing their pain.
He was revealing it.
—It hurt you to lose what made you feel good—the silence continued—. Why does it bother
you that others are granted life?
Jonah did not answer.
I couldn't.
Because she finally understood that her anger wasn't about justice, but about attachment. She
had clung more to her comfort, to her idea of balance, than to the value of life itself.
He dropped to his knees in the dust.
The wind kept blowing. The sun kept blazing. But something inside him was
beginning to break, not violently, but clearly.
The plant had been a living lesson.
The shadow, a gift. The
worm, a revelation.
And Nineveh… the mirror that showed what still needed to change in her heart.
Jonah looked up at the city once more.
No longer with hatred.
Not with a desire for destruction.
But with a new silence, uncomfortable, but honest.
God had not finished teaching him.
But for the first time, Jonah stopped resisting