“You must rest, my love,” Joseph said, tender but firm. Though her mind rebelled, she knew she hadn’t the strength to argue. She was so exhausted she could hardly stand, let alone search the city for her son. She wept.
God, forgive me for losing him! God, forgive me for not keeping watch!
* * *
Abijah told them to search the marketplace, for that was the most common destination of boys visiting the great city. It was easy to become caught up in the excitement of activity as foreign merchants displayed their wares and patrons haggled for better prices. Mary and Joseph spent a full day searching through the maze of narrow passageways, lined by booths displaying everything from clay lamps to gold jewelry.
Jesus was not there.
They went to the synagogue, but they didn’t find Jesus among the friends who had joined them for Passover celebration, nor did they find him among the boys watching the Romans go through their military exercises, or in the Temple court among the money changers or near the pens of animals. Thinking he might have found John, they went to the Essenes Gate, hoping to find him there among the desert dwellers who had not yet returned to the encampments above the Salt Sea.
Jesus was in none of these places.
Mary prayed unceasingly as she and Joseph hurried from place to place, looking for the son God had given her. Fear gripped her as she imagined all the things that could have happened to him. He was so young. So innocent.
“Yes, my love,” Joseph agreed, “but he’s not foolish.”
Still, she couldn’t eat or sleep. “I don’t even know how long Jesus has been separated from us, Joseph. I’m so ashamed. I assumed he was with our relatives. I assumed he was with the caravan. The last time I saw my son was the morning Passover ended, and I was getting everything packed for the journey back to Nazareth. He must have said something to me. He must have. I just wasn’t listening. Why wasn’t I listening?”
“We were all distracted that day, making preparations for the journey home.” He held her close. “Mary, Mary. The Lord is with him.”
“I’m so afraid God will take him from me.” She closed her eyes as she leaned against her husband. When she had become distracted by her many responsibilities for her other children, and for the child she knew she was carrying now, had the Lord decided it was time to hide Jesus away until his time came to take power? She knew in her heart that the Lord was with Jesus wherever he was, that his life rested in the hands of the Father. Still she grieved and pleaded.
Oh, Lord God of Israel, I want my son back. Please, give me my son back.
When they rose the next morning, Abijah told them he had spoken with his friends at the synagogue. “Eliakim said he saw Jesus at the Temple.”
Heart leaping with hope, Mary threw on her shawl and headed out the door, Joseph on her heels. She ran until her side ached, walked until she could draw breath with less pain, and ran again. Pressing through the throng, she made her way up the steps to the Temple mount. She hurried along the corridor, peering between the columns, searching, praying.
And then she saw him sitting in the midst of the teachers.
Mary stood staring, her heart pounding, her lungs burning as she drank in air and gave silent thanks to God that Jesus was safe. Then, astonished, she realized that he was so intent upon what these men were saying that he didn’t even notice her or Joseph standing nearby.
Does he even care about you?
The tears came, scalding, as she stood silent, watching her son. Had he been here the entire time? Had he made any attempt to contact his relatives or catch up with the family who loved him?
He is careless of your feelings. You don’t matter to him. You’re no longer important. How dare he put you through such pain and worry!
Anger welled inside her. How could Jesus do this to her and Joseph? She stepped forward, jerking her arm from Joseph’s grasp. The men stopped talking when they saw her approaching. Glancing back, Jesus saw her. He smiled and rose. She was so angry, she wanted to shake him. Didn’t he know how frightened she’d been? Hadn’t he considered her feelings at all?
“Son!” she said, her voice trembling. “Why have you done this to us? Your father and I have been frantic, searching for you everywhere.”
He searched her eyes intently, then looked up at Joseph as he stood beside her. “But why did you need to search?” Jesus said gently. “You should have known that I would be in my Father’s house.”
See how he defies you!
Mary shook her head. She saw no defiance in her son’s eyes, but neither did she understand what he meant. His home was in Nazareth, not Jerusalem.
“Come,” Joseph said, putting his arm around Jesus’ shoulders. “Your Uncle Clopas and Aunt Mary have taken charge of your brothers and sister. They’ll all be wondering what happened to you.”
Mary took Jesus’ hand as they left the Temple. She wove her fingers between his and held on tightly.
FIVE
Mary gave birth to a daughter the following summer and named her Sarah. Anne pouted every time Mary nursed the baby. She began sucking her thumb because the baby did and stole the teething toy her father made for her baby sister. The boys squabbled with one another, drawing attention to themselves.
Eighteen months later, the twins, Simon and Jude, were born. By this time, Mary had come to realize a painful truth: Only Jesus was good. His brothers and sisters were incapable of obeying for any length of time. Even when they wanted to be good, they slipped into rebellion.
It was difficult to accept that Jesus’ loving nature, faithfulness, obedience, and eagerness to learn and serve had absolutely nothing to do with her abilities as a mother.
James had come as a shock to her. Joseph, Anne, Sarah, Simon, and Jude merely confirmed the nature of her purely human offspring. While Jesus found his own way through God’s heart beating within him, nothing she tried with her other children changed their tendency to give in to sin! They fought with one another. They rationalized and justified their actions when caught doing wrong. They whined to get their way. When disciplined, they pouted and claimed she was favoring one over another. Their self-centeredness couldn’t be soothed away with hugs and kisses or driven away with discipline. All of her children were strong-minded. While Jesus’ mind was directed toward doing what pleased God, the others were bent upon pleasing themselves. Even when they were kind and thoughtful, there was an edge of self-satisfaction in their behavior. Mary couldn’t count the times she’d bitten her tongue so that she would not cry out, “Why can’t you be more like Jesus?” But who was she to cast hard words when she saw herself in each of them?
And yet, even in their disobedience, they were precious to her. And she loved them all equally. They were her children by Joseph. When she observed the other mothers in Nazareth, she saw that her plight was no different from others’. Life was a constant struggle. Each child came with joy, but added one more mouth to feed, one more body to clothe, one more mind to educate and train up in righteousness. And not even one among her own natural children by Joseph was righteous—not one! She had seen their will at work from the moment they left the womb. Then they had crawled and explored the world around them, reaching for things that would do them harm. “No, no,” she would say. “No, no.” And her son or daughter would cast her a beguiling smile and still reach out for what was forbidden.
Sometimes she couldn’t help but laugh at her children’s persistence, while at other times, she would weep. Sometimes they made her so angry, she wanted to cry out. She tried to be diligent in teaching them all she knew about the Law. She prayed for them constantly. She loved them fiercely. She lived each day with their development in mind. She was careful how she lived before them. After all, what good was it to teach God’s ways and not live them?
With each year that passed, she watched Jesus and counted herself blessed among women for this one perfect son. She looked at him and her heart swelled with joy and anticipation. It never ceased to amaze her that the God of Abra
ham, Isaac, and Jacob had chosen her to be the vessel for the Messiah. She was a woman like any other, as imperfect as her children. Surely the Lord was teaching that lesson to her above all else. She laughed at herself and thanked God that he had given her other children so she would know it was not by her efforts and Joseph’s that this son was so perfect, so blessed, so high above all others who walked the earth. He was God’s Son through her flesh.
Every day held its own trouble, but she recognized that the difficulties of life rubbed away the rough spots of her faith just as Joseph smoothed and polished a cup. She struggled to show her sons and daughters the way of faith, accepting that God was refining and sifting her in the process.
Still, there were times when she had to fight her own inner rebellion, her own nature to want to see the fullness of God’s plan played out before her eyes. Oh, Lord, let me live long enough to see Jesus in his glory. She had been quick to say yes to God, but that same impetuous faith made her impatient to see the Lord’s plan fulfilled and the world come under the reign of the Son of Man, God’s Son on earth.
When, Lord? When will this Son of yours come into power? How long will we all have to wait before he makes things right and we are free? How long will your Son be content to work in the shop alongside my beloved Joseph, building tables and chairs, yokes and plows, doors and lattices, when there is a kingdom out there to build? How long will he sweep the carpentry shop clean of wood chips before the time comes for him to sweep the earth as clean as it was in the Garden of Eden? How long before he crushes the evil men who oppress Israel? Oh, Lord, how long? How long?
Finally the yearning became so strong, she gave in to it and one day asked Jesus, “Do you know who you are?”
When he didn’t answer, she persisted. “Son,” she said, “do you know?”
Why did he tense at the question? Why did he look at her with tenderness mingled with distress? She wasn’t trying to vex him. She was only asking. . . . Sometimes he would look at her as he did now, and she would feel that she was causing him grief. But how could that be? Who loved him better than she did? Who had been more devoted to him? She came close and took his hand, turning it in hers and running her fingers over the rough calluses. How could it be that the Messiah should have hands like a common laborer’s? “Oh, Jesus, should a king have hands like these? . . .”
His hand stilled hers. “I am my father’s son.”
But when she looked into his eyes, she wondered. Did he mean Joseph or God? Should she tell him again how he came into this world? Should she tell him that all the world was waiting for him to come out of hiding? that she was waiting?
“You’re my son, too, Jesus. I only want to see you receive the honor due you.”
She had seen the signs of Jesus’ power. Even when patrons didn’t pay their debts or Roman soldiers came and took from their family provisions, there was always enough bread to fill empty stomachs, always enough fresh water to quench thirst, always enough oil to keep the lamp lit through the dark night. Even after the Romans had emptied the family’s bins and jars and cruses, there was enough.
Still, life had not grown easier as Jesus increased in wisdom and stature. His struggles seemed more intense. Whatever battles he fought within himself were not easily won, nor did he share them with her or Joseph. Would life not be easier for all when he took his rightful place?
“David was a boy when the prophet Samuel anointed him king over Israel,” she said.
“And it took more than ten years to develop his character so that he would be useful.”
“Your character is perfect, my son. You are useful now.”
Beads of sweat formed on his brow. “It is not my time, Mother.”
“But when, Jesus? When will be your time?”
“It is not my time,” he said again.
Why did he look so pressed? Anger rose. She wanted to shake him and make him tell her. Surely it was her right to know. “How long must I wait before I see what you were born to do?”
“You press me.”
“Yes, I press you for your own good. Is it not for a mother to encourage her son to fulfill his obligations to his people? I love you, my son. You know how much I love you. Joseph and I have made sacrifices for you. But sometimes I wonder. Do you know who you are?”
“Mother . . .”
“All I want is to see things made right. Is that wrong?”
“You must wait.”
“I’m tired of waiting! Look around you, Jesus. See how your people suffer!” Her voice broke. She looked away, struggling with frustration. “When, Jesus? Just tell me when and I won’t ask again. I won’t press . . .” She looked back at him through a sheen of tears. “Please.”
His dark eyes were moist. Sweat dripped down his temples. “It is not my time,” he said again. Something in his voice made her shudder inwardly. She sensed she had added to his travail by making demands of him, demands he had no intention of fulfilling. Perplexed and grieving, she said no more.
Instead, she went to Joseph and asked him to approach Jesus. They had always been able to talk. Surely Jesus would confide in him.
“You should not ask him.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m his mother.”
“God will tell him when the time is come.”
“How can you be so patient when you know all things will be made right when Jesus comes into power? Look around us, Joseph. We need him now.”
“I don’t have the right to ask why he doesn’t make himself known now.”
She heard something in his voice and turned to him in the darkness. “You don’t think I have the right either, do you?” Eve had been deceived in the Garden. Was Mary being tempted now?
“No, I don’t,” Joseph said with gentle firmness. “Though you bore him, it was God who gave him life, and God will decide what he is to do with it. Let him be, Mary.” He drew her close. “The Lord will tell him when. Don’t be in a hurry.”
She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. She let out her breath slowly and was silent for a long while, pondering the events of her life. The Lord had spoken once to her, but he had spoken four times to Joseph, directing their steps. Her husband lived with his eyes and ears open, seeking God’s will. She saw every day how much he loved Jesus, how much he loved her and their own children.
The Lord had chosen Joseph to be her husband, to be head of the household, and she would listen to his counsel.
* * *
Joseph loved to watch Jesus with his half brothers and half sisters. Their exuberance and antics often made Jesus laugh, and the sound of it made Joseph laugh also. “Quiet, my children. Give your brother a place to sit.”
“Tell us again about David and Goliath!” James said.
“No! Tell us about Joshua and Jericho.”
The boys never tired of hearing the chronicles of battles.
“Tell us about Noah and the ark again, Jesus,” Anne said, leaning against him. “Please . . .”
“You’ve heard that story over and over again,” James protested. “I’m tired of it!”
Jesus sat his twin brothers on his knees. “We begin with the beginning . . .”
Living with Jesus day to day sometimes made Joseph forget this young man was God’s Son and not his own. Then he would remember and feel a surge of awe. Jesus didn’t read the Scriptures, but spoke them naturally as if he’d written them himself. Sometimes he said more, so that he was relating what happened in a way that made it seem he was witness to the events of the Torah.
Joseph looked at his wife, smiling behind her loom, her head tilted as she worked, and listened to Jesus tell how the world was created. Joseph shivered as Jesus spoke of earth as formless and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep. Joseph’s children sat around Jesus, flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. Jesus had been conceived of the Holy Spirit, but exactly what that meant was beyond Joseph’s comprehension. The boy was fifteen and had Mary’s cheekbones and dark eyes. There were other men
in Nazareth who were taller, others who walked with assurance, others who spoke Scripture word for word and claimed to know God’s will for Israel.
How often had he heard men cry out for the Messiah to come! How often had he heard men arguing about what God wanted from Israel.
“God wants us to break the yoke of Rome from our backs!”
“It is God’s judgment upon us that we suffer as we do!”
“Have we not suffered long enough? If we stand and fight, will not the Lord our God fight with us?”
“Fool! Who are you to say what God will or will not do?”
“So we sit on our hands and let the Romans take their provisions from our poverty?”
“We wait.”
“How long must we wait? How long?”
Closing his eyes, Joseph leaned back. He was exhausted from the long trek to Sepphoris and back after a hard day’s work. He was grateful for the denarius he’d received, though it barely stretched to cover the family’s needs. He was grateful for the work God gave him, and even more grateful for the one who shared his load: Jesus.
His arm ached again. His fingertips were numb, but the pain raced up his arm and across his chest. He rubbed his arm and breathed slowly. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, and he could rest.
Joseph looked at his children gathered around Jesus, and it struck him again. The boy he loved most was not his own. My son who is not my son. He has grown up in this small village like a tender green shoot, sprouting from a root in dry and sterile ground. He looks like any other boy. He isn’t beautiful or majestic in appearance. People look at him and see a carpenter’s son and nothing more. When he speaks, who but his brothers and sisters listen? And even they don’t understand that Jesus is not one of us.
He is the Son of the one who said, “I Am the One Who Always Is.” God is in him. God is with us!