13
I AWAKEN FROM A horrible dream where cruel men are pounding heavy nails through my son’s hands. Slamming their hammers again and again as blood splatters and Jesus winces in pain. Then, being only half awake, I am relieved to realize it was only a dream—a horrible nightmare. But my relief is short-lived when full consciousness and memory returns. And that is when I know—it really happened.
Now those vivid images of Jesus, bleeding and already in severe pain, being strapped down onto those rough wooden beams as men hold his beaten body in place so they can pound metal spikes through his hands and his feet, are freshly burned into my mind. The clanging of the hammer, metal upon metal, still rings in my ears.
Lord, help me, I pray with desperation. Please, help me! And suddenly, and thankfully, I hear the pounding of another hammer, wood upon wood this time, and another image comes to mind. I can see Jesus working in his father’s workshop. His tall, lean frame is bent over as he carefully pounds a wooden peg into a lovely trunk that has been crafted with careful precision. I can almost smell the fragrant aroma of cedar shavings as I watch my Joseph smiling down on this fine young man, nodding with approval.
“You are a better craftsman than I,” Joseph says to Jesus.
“Can a pupil be greater than his teacher?” Jesus asks his earthly father.
“Maybe if he has a good teacher.” And they both laugh.
Those were happy days. Back when my Joseph was alive and our family lived together under one roof. But times changed. And there was that brief period when I truly believed I could never be happy again. It was after Joseph died and most of my children were married (some happily, some not), and then Jesus set out on his ministry, keeping me at arm’s length. But after that period came to an end, and as I began to understand and accept my new position with Jesus, respecting him as my Lord, my life became very happy again.
Indeed, I think the past two years have been some of the happiest for me. No one was as surprised about this as I was. Shortly before my own mother died, just as my oldest children were becoming young adults, she told me how those later years, with her children now raised and waiting on her, were the best. “It is a time to play with the grandchildren,” she told me. “Welcome it when it comes, Mary. It is one of the most blessed times of life.” I only wish she could have lived longer to enjoy more years like that. But, heeding my mother’s words, I was determined to take pleasure in this season of my life as well.
Having the freedom to travel with my sister and hear the words of life that came from the mouth of God’s own Son was much more rewarding than I ever imagined possible. Of course, the fly in the ointment was that my other children still did not understand or even accept it.
“Why do you go away so much, Mother?” Hannah complained to me one day. “Do you not want to watch your granddaughter growing up?”
“I love little Mary,” I told her as I took the toddler into my lap. “And nothing pleases me more than seeing her grow.”
“Then why do you leave all the time?” Hannah frowned.
“You know why I leave,” I said as I braided Mary’s dark curls. “I have told all of you that I feel there is much to learn from the Son of God.”
“He is just Jesus, Mother.”
“To you, he is just Jesus. To me and thousands of others, he is the Son of God, Messiah, and he has the words of life—words my spirit longs to hear.” And then I told her the story of the man who had two sons. She and her younger sister listened intently as they worked together to grind grain into flour. I tried to tell the story as well as Jesus had. But when I was done, they both looked rather confused.
“That is not fair,” Hannah said. “The older brother stayed home like a good son, helping his family and being responsible. But then the younger brother came home after spending his entire inheritance, and the father went out and welcomed him and even gave him the finest robe?”
“And then slaughtered the fatted calf?” my other daughter added.
Well, at least they were listening.
“And the younger son was just out having a good time,” Hannah said.
“It did not sound like that good of a time,” my younger daughter commented. “Eating with the pigs and all. But even so, Mother, I have to agree with Hannah. It does not seem fair to me either.”
“But it was as if the father’s son had been dead,” I tried to explain. “Imagine if you thought one of your children was dead—and then he came back to you. How happy you would be!”
They both nodded now. Mothers can always understand this feeling.
“But what does it mean?” Hannah asked as she poured flour into a storage pot.
“Just that,” I said. “Only you have to imagine the story being that of your heavenly Father. Think how Jehovah must rejoice when one of his children returns to him.”
Hannah got a sly look on her face. “And think, dear Mother, how your children rejoice when you come home to them.”
I just smiled. There is no way you can make people understand something they do not want to understand. And while I do not like thinking of my precious daughters as swine, I was not sure that it was wise for me to continue throwing these pearls out for them to trample upon. Although, I must admit that I did continue to do so occasionally, and I suspect I will probably continue doing so until the day I die. For I am, after all, a mother. Tell me, does a mother ever give up?
As I was saying, my children always seemed sad to see me leaving. But I could not help myself. Whenever I heard that Jesus was nearby, I felt I had wings attached to my feet, and I could not wait to fly. In some ways, I think my children were a bit envious of this newfound freedom of mine. I think they believed they should own a part of me, that they should be able to pin me down, to have me remain in their company whether I liked it or not.
“There she goes again,” Hannah said as she balanced little Mary on one hip and sadly shook her head.
“Yes, there she goes,” my other daughter said in a pained voice that sounded just a bit insincere. “I wonder when we will see her again.”
“It will not be long,” I promised as I waved and headed on my way.
“Tell Aunt Sarah hello,” Hannah called with a slightly wistful tone.
But whenever I invited them to take a day trip with me when I knew that Jesus was teaching nearby, they quickly came up with excuses. I just do not understand that. I would think they would have been happy to escape their everyday chores for a little adventure on the road, not to mention some unforgettable teaching. But always they would say, “No, thank you, Mother. Not this time.”
Even when I left my family to join Sarah during this Passover, explaining that she and I both felt the need to be near our Lord, still they could not accept this.
“But this is Passover,” James complained. “It is time for families to be together, and you are our mother.”
“Jesus is my family too,” I told him. “Just as those who do the will of our heavenly Father are my family.”
“Are you saying we are not your family?” James looked indignant.
I smiled at him. “You will always be my children, and I will always love you. But I cannot choose you over my heavenly Father.”
And then I left to meet Sarah. She and I had already made plans to stay with some women friends who were close followers of Jesus—Joanna and Susanna and the other Marys along with a few more. These devoted women had committed themselves during the past two years to serving our Lord, and I was honored to be included among them. And although I do not like to hurt my children’s feelings, the truth is that I do feel more related to those who believe in the Son of God than I do to my own flesh-and-blood relatives. I cannot deny it.
I think this was best driven home one time when Jesus came through our hometown for a brief visit. I remember the day vividly. I was so excited at the prospect of him sharing the good news among our neighbors and relatives in Nazareth. I had told many people, some who had already passed judgment based on hears
ay, encouraging them that this was their chance to go and hear Jesus for themselves. Not only was I happy to see Jesus having this opportunity to convince the locals that his words were true, I was hopeful that he and his disciples would honor our home with a visit. I had spent days gathering foods to prepare a fine dinner for all of them.
“Listen to Jesus,” I urged everyone who would listen. “See for yourself if his words are not the truth.”
I was not too surprised, although I was deeply dismayed, to see that my own family had little interest in hearing him teach.
“He is our brother,” James said in an uninterested voice, as if that explained everything.
“Why should we leave our work just to hear him speak?” Joses asked.
But I did notice Joses and James as well as Simon hanging like dried cornhusks on the perimeters of the small crowd that had gathered at the synagogue to hear Jesus. And, as always, Jesus’s teaching was excellent, and even the priests were impressed with his knowledge and skill. But suddenly—almost instantly—they seemed angered by that very thing, as if they resented that a local man could be so wise.
“Where did this man get this kind of wisdom?” a respected elder demanded. “How is he able to do mighty works?”
“Is not he just the carpenter’s son?” another said. “Is not his mother Mary?”
“That is right,” the elder said. “And are not his brothers and sisters ordinary people who live in our town? What makes him think he is so special?”
Soon they were all scoffing him and no one wanted to listen.
“A prophet is honored everywhere,” Jesus said calmly, quoting old Scripture, “except in his hometown and in his own house.”
The part about “his own house” hurt me a little. It made me sad to think Jesus did not feel honored in his family home, but then I knew it was true. Everyone in his immediate family, except me, refused to believe in him. They would not accept that he had been sent by God. And so he left Nazareth the same morning. Shaking the dust from his feet, I am sure, as he and his disciples continued on to places where crowds of thousands hungered for his words and thirsted for his miracles. He did not waste his time on our unbelieving and insignificant little town. And I do not blame him.
In fact, I felt a similar sense of rejection myself, as if I too was being dishonored—of course, my shunning was nothing like the way they treated Jesus, but it existed nonetheless. I would walk down to the well, and suddenly I would hear the voices get quieter, followed by hushed whispers and quick sideways glances. I knew what they were saying. And it hurt. Deeply.
It seemed the only real joy I found in my hometown was being in the privacy of my little garden. I loved taking my grandchildren there with me, teaching them to love and respect the plants. But one cannot hide in one’s garden forever.
As a result, it became increasingly easier to leave my hometown and to travel with the crowds that followed Jesus’s ministry. When Jesus said that foxes have holes and birds have nests but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head, I could almost understand. For sometimes it seemed I had no home either. Surely, I knew I still had my home back in Nazareth, the one so lovingly built for me by Joseph and now shared with two of my sons and their families, but more and more I did not feel at home there. Perhaps it was because I was thinking more about my heavenly home and my heavenly Father. Or perhaps it was simply because of my belief in the deity of my firstborn son, combined with the fact that I no longer felt welcome among my own neighbors.
But all these worries were instantly forgotten whenever I heard Jesus preach. Like so many others in the crowd, I devoured his words of life. I wanted to store them all inside of me so I could pull them out one by one later and at will. For the first time ever, I wished I was able to write, but having grown up poor—and a mere girl, at that—my education was quite limited. Still, I tried to inscribe his words upon my heart. I tried to memorize his stories so I might one day be able to tell my grandchildren, hoping that perhaps they, unlike their parents, would have ears to hear.
14
THE DARKNESS SURROUNDS ME as I pull my blanket more tightly around my shoulders. I long for this night to end. I remember his words—“I am the light of the world. Whoever believes in me will no longer live in darkness but will have the light of life!”
Now I understand that Jesus was speaking of spiritual enlightenment and not physical darkness, but as I sit here in the black of night, I cannot help but feel that our light has been extinguished. Where are you, my Lord? Will you ever return with your light?
I remember another time when I thought Jesus was removing himself and his light from us. It was during this past year, the last year of his life, that Jesus began to pull away from the crowds and the public speaking. It worried me at first. I could not understand why he would do such a thing—especially after he had gained such widespread popularity and influence. But John told me that Jesus’s intent was to focus more of his time and energy to teach his disciples with more intensity than he had been able to teach the large groups. And, as much as I missed sitting among the crowds and listening to his words of life, I had to respect his decision. He was, after all, God’s Son. I trusted that he knew what he was doing.
So it was time for me to return to Nazareth again. Now, certainly, my children were pleased to have me home during this period—well, at least initially. And, to my surprise, I felt a new sense of fulfillment being back with them. It actually seemed that I was putting something important into practice—something I had heard from one of Jesus’s followers.
My friend Mary of Magdala told me, as we were parting ways, “The Lord said that if we seek to gain our own lives, we will lose them . . . but if we give up our lives for his sake, we will gain them.”
Somehow I knew after hearing those words that it was time for me to go home. It seemed that every time I returned to Nazareth after hearing Jesus’s preaching, there was an enormous letdown. It always felt a bit like dying to me. As if I truly was losing my life.
But I hoped that this time might be different, and I was more determined than ever to share the truth and the stories I had heard during this past year. Although, I quickly figured out—no great surprise here—that my own children were not the least bit interested in listening to me. Nor were most of my neighbors. However, I soon discovered that they did not appear to mind if I told their children my “childish stories,” as everyone began to call them. I suspect the young mothers in our town may have simply enjoyed knowing that their children were occupied and out of harm’s way for a spell each day.
So it became something of a ritual, in the late afternoon while mothers were busy with food preparations, that my grandchildren and their friends gathered around me in the shade of my garden as I repeated their uncle’s parables. These little ones would listen with wide eyes, and, to my amazement, they never questioned the truth of these stories. Sometimes I think they understood the stories even better than I did. Now, those were wonderful times.
“Tell the one about the shepherd,” urged Thomas, my oldest grandson. He was almost eight at the time.
So I launched into the story of the good shepherd and his hundred sheep and how distressed he was when one lamb became lost.
“Where are you?” I said, holding my hand above my forehead and peering out into the distance. I was pretending to be the shepherd. “Where is my little lost lamb?”
The children made baaing noises, and we laughed.
“It is dark on the mountain,” I said. “And my little lamb is in danger of getting eaten by a wolf or a bear.” Then Thomas stood up and growled, and the children squealed with delight. And on we went until we finally rescued the little lost lamb and he was returned to the flock, where a great celebration took place. Then the children cheered, and sometimes I gave them barley cakes or dried dates as a treat for our own festivities.
As word spread among the children, our little story time in the garden began to get larger. Of course, all were welcome there. To m
y surprise, instead of feeling bad that I was stuck in my hometown instead of hearing the Lord’s teachings, which I did sorely miss, I found great comfort in repeating his stories to the children. Perhaps this was my own way of losing my life for his sake. Who can know such things?
I knew that word of my storytelling was spreading among the adult community in Nazareth, and it became obvious that some thought me quite strange and eccentric for spending so much time with children. Some even believed I was becoming a fanatic. But it was not long before something unexpected started to happen.
I adopted the habit of going to the well quite early in the morning. Of course, I knew that my daughters-in-law and daughters were willing to bring my water for me. But often they did not go until the sun was high, and I have always been concerned about watering my plants in the heat of the day. Besides, I enjoyed walking through our sleepy village, and it was reassuring to know that the larger crowds of women (including the ones who liked to whisper about “that crazy mother of Jesus,” as they often called me) would not be there yet. And then there was the quiet cool of the morning to greet me. So this was not an unpleasant task for me.
As time passed, I began to notice that two of my neighbor women started coming to the well while I was there. These were women I had known most of my life. They were only a few years younger than me, but, like me, they had reached an age where child rearing and household responsibilities were not as demanding as they had once been. And it was not long before these two women began talking to me. At first it seemed to be friendly small talk. But I soon realized by their questions and comments that they were genuinely interested in hearing about my son.
I invited these women to meet me in my garden on certain mornings, and there, in the privacy of herbs and vegetables, I told them all I could about Jesus’s teachings and his ministry.
“I have heard that he heals the blind,” said Rachel, the more talkative one. “Have you ever seen this for yourself?”
Three Days: A Mother's Story Page 8