Letters of a Mentor

(Chapter from Footsteps of Grace, a semi-fictional account of Paul and Timothy)

The cell in Rome is cold, the stone walls weeping dampness that seeps into my bones. The flickering oil lamp casts shadows that dance like memories, and I sit with a scrap of parchment, my hands trembling—not from age alone, but that thorn, ever-present, gnawing at me in the silence. It’s sharper now, a relentless companion in these chains, but I’ve stopped asking God to take it. My grace is sufficient, He said, and I cling to that, even when the nights stretch long. The quill scratches as I write, my thoughts turning to Timothy.

I see him still, that boy in Lystra, all wide eyes and eager heart, clutching his mother’s scroll like a lifeline. He’s no boy now—years on the road have hardened him, though his gentleness remains, a gift I never mastered. I write to him not as a master to a servant, but as a brother to a brother, a father to a son. “Timothy, my true child in the faith,” I begin, the words spilling out like water from a cracked jar. I tell him of the Gospel, of the churches he must strengthen, of the wolves he’ll face. But beneath it all, I’m telling him something else: You are enough.

The thorn mocks me as I write—You’re fading, old man; who’ll carry this now?—but I smile through the ache. Timothy will. I saw it in Philippi, his voice rising with mine in that jail, steady even as the earth shook. I saw it in Ephesus, where he stood firm against false teachers while I languished here. He doesn’t see it yet, the strength God’s forged in him, but I do. “Fight the good fight,” I urge him, my script shaky but sure. “Keep the faith. Don’t let them despise your youth—your fire is your authority.”

I pause, the lamp guttering low, and think of our covenant. It wasn’t sealed in a temple or with a ring, but in the dust of the road, the sting of whips, the quiet moments when he’d ask questions I couldn’t always answer. That thorn kept me low, stripped me of pride, and in its shadow, Timothy grew tall. I didn’t choose him because he was perfect—he wasn’t—but because he was willing. Willing to walk with me, to bear my silences, to stand when I couldn’t.

“Stir up the gift within you,” I write, remembering the day I laid hands on him with the elders, the Spirit crackling like fire between us. He’d trembled then, unsure, but he’s not trembling now. I tell him of my chains, not to burden him but to free him—If I can endure, you can too. The thorn pricks at me, a reminder of my limits, but it’s no match for the grace that’s carried us both. “I’ve fought, I’ve finished,” I add, my chest tight with the weight of those words. “Now it’s yours to run.”

The guard will come soon, the letter smuggled out by some faithful soul. I seal it not with wax, but with a prayer—that Timothy will read it and know he’s not alone, that our brotherhood stretches beyond these walls, beyond my last breath. The thorn may claim my peace tonight, but it won’t claim him. He’s my legacy, my brother in this unending fight, and God’s grace will hold him as it’s held me. I set the quill down, the lamp dies, and in the dark, I hear his voice—singing, steady, carrying on.

(Chapter from a longer story, Footsteps of Grace, contact me if interested in full story.)