Dawn found Jonah awake.
Not because she hadn't slept, but because something inside her no longer rested in the
same way. The night had been peaceful, but her mind remained active, sorting through
memories, words, emotions she had kept separate for years. The journey to Nineveh
hadn't ended when she entered the city, nor even when she understood the lesson of
the plant. It ended now, with the decision to return.
Jonah got up slowly. The city was beginning to stir cautiously, like someone
learning to walk again after a fall. The sounds were soft, respectful. There was no
celebration, but there was a fragile, almost timid hope.
"They don't need me anymore," he thought. "At least, not like before."
He had proclaimed the message. He had witnessed the change. And he himself had been
transformed. To remain any longer would add neither authority nor glory. It would only
prolong a stage that had already served its purpose.
He walked toward the eastern gates, the same ones he had entered through with fear and anger.
Now, every step was different. He was in no hurry, but he was not in doubt either.
During the journey, several people recognized him.— Prophet —a young man said to him—, are you leaving?
Jonah stopped.
—Yes—he replied—. My journey continues.
The young man hesitated for a moment before speaking.
— We won't forget what you said… or how everything changed.
Jonah looked at him intently. He saw neither exaggerated admiration nor spiritual dependence. He saw
responsibility.
"Don't dwell on my words," he said. "Remember what you decided to do with them."
The young man nodded respectfully.
As he left the city, Jonah paused for a moment. He looked at the walls one last time. He
no longer saw them as a threat or a symbol of evil. They were just walls, protecting
lives that now had a chance.
"Live well," he murmured. "That's all that matters."
The journey back was long and silent. The desert stretched before him like an
unavoidable space for reflection. Each step stirred old memories: his initial calling, his
escape, the raging sea, the darkness of the womb, the voice that saved him when he
had nothing left to offer.
—Everything seemed so clear then—he thought. Or so simple.
Before, Jonah believed that obedience meant following orders. Now he understood that
obedience also meant allowing God to challenge his prejudices, his pride, his unhealed
wounds.
The sun moved slowly. Jonah walked without hurrying, letting the rhythm of the desert
set his pace. In the stillness, questions began to surface that he hadn't allowed himself
to ask before.
— What will I say when I return? Will I speak of
Nineveh… or will I speak of myself?
The temptation to present the story as a prophetic victory was there, waiting. But it no
longer held any appeal for him.
— I'm not the hero —he reminded himself—. I never was.He sat down to rest under a rock, taking out the water skin. As he drank, he
remembered the plant that had grown to shade him. He smiled sadly.
— You taught me more with a plant than with a thousand words.
The desert didn't answer, but Jonah no longer waited for external answers. He had
learned to listen to what was happening within.
He continued walking until the sky began to turn reddish. As night fell, he lit a
small campfire. He sat down in front of the fire, watching the flames slowly
consume the wood.
—Judgment is a lot like this —he thought—. Swift. Visible. Definitive. Mercy, on
the other hand, is like a hidden fire… that warms without destroying.
She looked at her hands. They were the same hands that had pointed, accused, fled,
pleaded. Now they seemed lighter, as if they no longer carried the same weight.
—If anyone asks me what I learned—he said to himself—I won't talk about punishments
avoided or cities saved. I'll talk about a God who doesn't resemble my expectations.
At dawn the next day, Jonah felt renewed. Not strong like a warrior, but resolute like
someone who has accepted a profound truth. The journey continued, but it was no
longer a burden.
During his journey, he passed through small villages. In some, he shared a few words. In
others, he simply rested and continued on. He proclaimed no judgment or stern warnings.
When he spoke, he did so with a newfound simplicity.
"There is a God who sees," he said. "And when He sees a heart that changes, He responds with
life."
Some listened attentively. Others did not. And for the first time, that didn't bother him.
"Not everyone will respond the same way," he had learned. "And that's okay."
One afternoon, while walking along a hill, he stopped suddenly. A clear and serene
thought crossed his mind.
— My story doesn't end with me.
He understood that what he had experienced would be recounted, passed on, written
down. Not to exalt his own figure, but to reveal an uncomfortable yet necessary truth: even
those called by God need correction. Even prophets must learn to love.—Perhaps others see themselves reflected in me—he thought—. And that might make them uncomfortable… or heal them.
As he approached his homeland, Jonah felt a mixture of nostalgia and responsibility. He was
no longer returning as the same man who had left. He was returning with a deeper, less rigid,
more vibrant faith.
I knew some wouldn't understand. That others would be scandalized to hear that Nineveh had
been forgiven. That there would be questions, criticism, and suspicious glances.
But he was no longer afraid of that.
—If God was not ashamed of his mercy—he said to himself—, neither will I.
When he finally spotted the first signs of home, Jonah stopped. He took a deep
breath. Not to prepare for a confrontation, but to remember something essential:
The longest journey hadn't been abroad. It
had been into his own heart.
And that journey, although not entirely over, had already changed its course
forever.
Jonah kept walking.
Not like the prophet who flees.
Not like the angry prophet.
But as a man who had seen the mercy of God… and could no longer
pretend that he did not understand it