“Silly girl,” I told her. “You are already twice as lovely.”
But I suppose I actually did feel beautiful on my wedding day. I had no illusions about my physical appearance, for I have never considered myself a beauty. But I did feel truly beautiful on the inside. I am sure that, more than anything else, this had to do with the secret blessing that slept within my womb. But I was surprised when numerous friends and relatives proclaimed my beauty with happy toasts. Of course, some of them were feeling the afterglow of the music and wine, but I received their compliments with grace, smiling quietly to myself.
Yet it was the expression on Joseph’s face that I will always remember about that day. It was a certain moment as we stood beneath the canopy and said our vows. It was an unforgettable look of true love and adoration. I have no doubt that I was truly beautiful in my husband’s eyes that day and always. However, I must admit to feeling a bit guilty, or maybe it was just sympathy for my dear bridegroom, when he finally took me to the sweet little house he had prepared for us right next to his widowed mother’s home.
He had somehow found the time to create several well-made pieces of furniture for our own use—a low table, a bench and a stool, and a lovely carved trunk. The small space was clean and orderly. But when I saw the bed off in the corner, a sturdy pallet constructed, I knew, by my beloved’s own two hands, I looked at him with troubled eyes. To my relief, he simply laughed.
“No need to worry, dear Mary,” he said in a reassuring voice. “The angel made it very clear that I am not to take you as my wife until after God’s Son is born. And, have no fear, I am prepared to wait for you.”
I reached out and hugged him, telling him once again how much I loved him.
“But know this,” he said as he took my face into his two hands. “I greatly look forward to that day, my love.”
So it was that we slept together side by side in our wedding bed without having sexual relations. And so it continued for the next six months. I knew that Joseph loved me and even that he desired me in the way a husband desires his wife. But not one time did he pressure me. Not only was Joseph a good man, but he had more integrity than any man I have ever known—even my own father, and I always felt that no one would ever measure up to him.
But here is what I still find very interesting as I recall those first months of our marriage—during that time of restraint and self-control, my husband and I became very intimate. Not on a physical level, of course. Although, it was amusing how everyone in our families assumed we were physically intimate and even teased us for looking so happy all the time. But we drew very close on a deep emotional level—or perhaps it was spiritual. All I knew was that it was a level of intimacy I had never experienced before. Nor do I expect to experience it again.
My sweet Joseph. Jehovah knew exactly what he was doing when he chose this dear man to be my husband and Jesus’s earthly father. The Lord God made no mistake in selecting Joseph the carpenter of Nazareth. Sometimes I even wonder if God did not choose Joseph first and then me later. I remember telling Joseph this very thing once, and he laughed so hard. Of course, he told me I had it all backward.
Even so, I have marveled at how some (those who believe in my son’s deity) have treated me with such awe-filled reverence and respect—and really it was Joseph who wielded the most earthly influence on Jesus’s life. In some ways, I was only the earthen vessel that poured God’s Son into his human life. But it was Joseph who cared for us and provided for us, who protected us, and who faithfully taught Jesus everything from the Shema to how to make a perfectly fitting oxen yoke. Perhaps someday people will acknowledge my Joseph, honoring him for all he so willingly contributed to God’s own Son. Or maybe not. Maybe we shall all be forgotten, blown away like the chaff from the grain. It is so hard—even in the light of day—not to give in, not to surrender to this cloak of despair.
Others are awake now. And soon we gather together in the gloomy rooms of this gloomy home that is feeling more and more like a prison to me, but little is said. What is left to say? Finally some of us decide we must return to the tomb and see for ourselves what has happened. We are like lost children as several of us silently slip outside and toward my son’s final resting place. We know it is Sabbath and most would consider it a sin for us to make this short journey. But we cannot help ourselves. We need to know.
Once we are far enough away not to be observed, we speak in hushed tones, trying to encourage each other, reminding one another of things Jesus once said, promises he made. But our words emerge flat and without hope, lifelessly hanging in the chilly morning air.
Finally we reach the tomb, but all is the same as yesterday. The centurion guards are still at their post, although we suspect we have startled them, for they suddenly jump to attention. But when they realize it is only us, they make a couple of jeers, and then, because we offer them no encouragement, they turn to each other and make jokes at our expense.
It is clear that the stone is unmoved. It remains securely positioned over the opening just as it was yesterday. Even the seal is untouched, unbroken. Nothing has changed. We turn away feeling even more lost than before. No one speaks as we return to where we are staying—what seems to be turning into our own sort of tomb.
How long must we wait, Jehovah? How long? And why have you done this to us? To your own beloved Son? Why? These are my private thoughts. I do not reveal my personal fears or doubts to the others. For the sake of my son, I shall remain strong—if only on the outside.
Later on, John, a beloved disciple, reminds the others of what my son recently said—“I shall be gone from you for a while, but let not your heart be troubled, do not be afraid.” I take great comfort in these words. I know that my son always told the truth. Indeed, he proclaimed himself to be the Truth. And, really, I have no reason to doubt him. In all honesty, it is Jehovah who has me worried right now. I still cannot imagine how he allowed all this to happen.
6
WAS IT ONLY A week ago that I told my dear friend the other Mary that I still feel like a fifteen-year-old girl on the inside? And how true it was then. But now I feel as if I am one hundred years old—no, much, much older. I feel like I have been trudging on this ancient earth since the beginning of time. My soul is weary as a stone, and my feet are aching and tired. I fear that I am too old to continue like this much longer.
I do remember another time when I felt almost this fatigued—although it was purely a physical kind of weariness. At the time I was young and healthy and my spirit was strong with high expectations. I knew it was close to my birthing time when Caesar Augustus made his proclamation that all citizens must be registered at the birthplace of the patriarch of each family. Joseph had been born in Bethlehem, the City of David, and so it was decided that we would travel there together. I did not mind the prospect of this journey. I had always wanted to see Bethlehem, just south of Jerusalem, and besides, almost everyone was on the road going somewhere. It was nearly as festive as Passover.
Joseph, extremely concerned for my welfare, purchased a donkey, which we could barely afford, so I could ride during portions of our journey. He thought he had given us plenty of time to travel, and we stopped frequently so I could rest, but when we finally reached Bethlehem late in the evening, we discovered there were no vacant rooms to be had. I knew I was experiencing birthing pains—indeed, I had been feeling them off and on since midafternoon, although I had kept this to myself since Joseph was already quite worried. But as we entered Bethlehem, I knew that my baby, God’s Son, would wait no longer. The child was demanding to be born.
“It is time,” I told Joseph in an urgent voice as he returned from inquiring about a room. “The baby is coming.”
He nodded. “I know. And I have found us a place to stay.” He made a half smile. “I wish it was something better, Mary, but it is the best I can do.”
“Anything will be better than having God’s Son born out here on the road,” I told him. And so it was we found ourselves sharing
space with donkeys and oxen and even a few nesting chickens. But, looking back, I think the humble stable was preferable to being in a crowded inn where we surely would have been forced to share space with strangers. And, although the acrid scent of animals was strong in the air, it was not as objectionable to me as the stench of sweaty travelers packed into a stuffy room. In fact, the smell of manure and hay almost reminded me of the earthy smell of my garden. Or so I told myself.
“This is perfect,” I assured my worried husband.
He lit an oil lamp and found fresh straw to make a bed in the most protected corner of the stable. He covered the straw with the woolen blankets we had carried with us. I did my best to make myself comfortable and even attempted to sleep between the birthing pains, but soon it was time to push the baby from my womb.
I prayed for mercy as I squatted and attempted to relax my muscles, just as my mother had instructed me to do in the quick birthing lesson she gave me shortly before we left Nazareth. And then, when the moment seemed right, I bore down hard, gripping my husband’s hand until I actually saw him wince. He later told me he only winced because he knew I was in such pain.
Then, after several unsuccessful pushes and feeling that this child might never be born, I cried out to Jehovah for strength, and it was in the very next push that I felt something give within me, and I knew the child was emerging. Joseph seemed to know exactly what to do as he caught and then cradled the slippery babe in his strong hands. He had even brought along a clean knife to sever the cord. He confessed afterward that my mother had spoken to him as well. Wise woman, my mother.
Confident that both my son and I were in good hands, I fell quickly to sleep and was surprised to later awaken to the sound of infant cries. But then I remembered. My son was rubbed clean and wrapped with the soft linen cloths I had packed specifically for that use. Joseph had even created a makeshift cradle from one of the feeding mangers. He padded the rough wooden trough first with straw and then soft hay, then lined it with a blanket folded several times over. A perfect little bed!
He smiled proudly as he placed the squirming bundle of life into my arms. And then, holding up his hands and looking to the heavens, Joseph proclaimed our son’s name aloud. “We will call him Jesus.” Then my husband knelt in an act of worship and said, “Glory be to the Son of the Most High. He will deliver his people from evil.”
As if in a dream, I studied the small, wrinkled red face and the downy-soft swirls of hair. I counted the delicate fingers, examining each perfectly formed nail. And I cannot deny that those wide, dark eyes looking up at me with such trust were truly amazing. But then it always seems nothing short of miraculous when a total and complete human being emerges so perfect from the womb. Even so, when I gazed down at this tiny bundle resting in my arms, all I saw was a baby. A beautiful baby, no doubt. What mother does not think so? But he did not look particularly holy. There was no angelic aura about him, and he smelled perfectly human to this mother’s nose. And so I took him to my breast and thanked God for granting me such a divine gift.
This is not to make this event seem ordinary. Believe me, nothing was ordinary about the night my son was born. First of all, both Joseph and I had noticed the most incredible star lighting up the cobalt sky. We were amazed at its shimmering brilliance, unlike anything we had seen before or since, and we felt certain that it was a sign from Jehovah—as if to announce that his Son was coming into the world.
And then, of course, there were the shepherds. They arrived quite suddenly in the middle of the night. Wide-eyed and with grass in their hair, they fell to their knees to worship our son. At first I was astonished that they had even known what was happening or how to find us, but then they explained how angels—many, many angels—had appeared to them on the hillside, waking them from a sound sleep to announce that a king and savior had been born and to tell them where to find us.
Joseph laughed after the shepherds finally departed, saying, “Blessed be our Lord, Mary. Look at how our mighty God resists the proud and reveals himself to the humble.”
I smiled at our temporary abode in the lowly stable. “That certainly describes us, does it not?”
“Yes, my love. Jehovah is a good and gracious God.”
I marveled at so many things that night. And while my son seemed a normal infant to me—he did not speak or sing or glow with heavenly light—I had no doubt that he was indeed the Son of God. And, yes, it is true, I worshiped him too.
I still do. Even as his body lies lifeless in the tomb, he is still my King. And somehow, despite this troubling doubt that I fight so hard to dispel, I know he will be my Savior. Jehovah’s ways are not my ways, but I must trust him. In time he will deliver—just as he has always done.
7
IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO pretend that my son’s innocent blood was not shed yesterday. And although I must attempt to be strong for the others, I cannot forget how I stood in the crowd and watched as the Roman soldiers whipped and scourged my son. I cannot erase the dark red streak that flowed from his body and stained the ground below. What mother could bear to see her child bleeding? What mother would not run with a clean cloth in hand and press it to the wound, saying, “There, there, it will be all right”?
But I was not allowed this most basic of mothers’ privileges yesterday. I was held at a distance, merely another face in the crowd, cringing inwardly with each wicked blow.
I remember the first time my son’s blood was shed. On the eighth day after Jesus’s birth, Joseph announced it was time for his circumcision. Now, I had never questioned the customs of my people when it came to this practice. Why would I? It was only with my own lovely child about to go under the priest’s knife that I seriously doubted the wisdom of this law. Of course, Joseph assured me that Jesus would be perfectly fine and that this operation had been done thousands of times on thousands of male babies and none had died from it yet. At least none that he knew of.
Still, I fretted a bit as I waited for Joseph to return with my son. And, in all fairness, it was the first time I had been separated from my infant child. But then, while sitting there, something occurred to me with such power and peace that I believed it came from Jehovah himself, and I knew in my heart that this baby was not only my son but also God’s beloved Son, and, of course, the Lord God was watching and protecting his own. With a calm spirit, I smiled as Joseph emerged with my child in his arms.
We had to remain in Bethlehem up until the time for my purification. But those were restful and quiet weeks, and Joseph saw to it that my son and I were perfectly comfortable, getting us a room at the inn as soon as the census was completed and travelers returned to their homes.
Even so, I was greatly relieved when my forty days of confinement were completed and it was time to go to Jerusalem. Our money had dwindled during this time away from home, and when we reached the temple and I needed to purchase my purification sacrifice, we could only afford a pair of turtledoves.
I saw the sorrowful look on my husband’s face, but I smiled, hoping to reassure him. “Have no doubt, my dear,” I said. “The Lord God Jehovah will honor my offering today.”
Joseph laughed. “Yes, I think you are right.”
When Joseph paid his fee to redeem our son, we smiled at each other over the irony of this ritual. Then Joseph whispered in my ear, “We are paying to redeem the Redeemer.”
Just as we were ready to leave, an astonishing thing happened. A godly old man named Simeon approached us with the light of God dancing in his eyes. He spoke to us as a true prophet, and tears of joy ran down my cheeks as this old man rejoiced that he was finally able to see the real Messiah, proclaiming for all who were listening of how this child, this chosen one, would bring God’s salvation and glory to Jerusalem.
Suddenly the old man grew more serious, and, peering directly into my eyes, he spoke of misunderstanding and rejection, and finally he told me that a sword would be thrust through my heart. At those words, I felt a chill run through my soul. Not that I was so
concerned for my own welfare, but what about that of my dear son? I clutched my baby closer to my breast as I took in a sharp breath.
Then, to my relief, an ancient-looking woman named Anna came over to us. We heard someone say she was a respected prophetess. With great intensity she studied our child for a long moment, as if seeing something we had missed. And suddenly she lifted her hands and broke out into a beautiful song of worship and praise. She thanked God for sending the one who would free Jerusalem. And with her words came a feeling of peace and joy.
I never forgot Simeon’s warning. In fact, those words have echoed through my soul again and again these past two days. And the old prophet was right. A sword has been thrust into my heart. And there it remains. I remember my son’s words yesterday as he was hanging on the cross. “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”
And, while I confess this to no one, this is how I feel today. Abandoned. Even so, I will not give up hope. I will not surrender to despair.
In the same way that my ancestors have encouraged themselves for generations, by retelling the old stories of faith and deliverance, I will continue to remember my own stories. I will continue to relive the many times when Jehovah came through.
We returned to Bethlehem after our trip to Jerusalem. We planned to have a brief rest, collect our things, and then to travel home to Nazareth. How I longed to return to my hometown! Certainly, some say that Nazareth is not much of a town. Or that Galilee is not much of a region. But it was everything to me. Besides that, my family had not yet seen our new son. I could not wait to travel.
But Jehovah had other plans for us. Of course, this thought forces me back into the present. For it seems that Jehovah always has other plans. What is new about that?
I go and sit by the window, watching as the younger women, the two other Marys and several others, keep themselves busy with food preparations and menial household tasks. These chores would normally not be done on the Sabbath, but everyone was too consumed with the grief of the crucifixion yesterday, and things went undone. Besides, we have sat under Jesus’s teachings long enough to understand that Sabbath law was meant not to shackle us but to free us. And whether we are hungry or not, our bodies need some nourishment today.
Three Days: A Mother's Story Page 3