Three Days: A Mother's Story

by Melody Carlson

  The women say very little to one another as they peel cucumbers and slice bread, but there is a quiet congeniality among them as they work. Once again I feel the outsider, and I even question why I have remained here among them. My own family is still in Jerusalem. I could be staying with them. But, after yesterday, all I knew was to return to this place with the women.

  Still, how I long to join the women as they work, to be able to distract myself with the kind of mundane chores my hands can easily perform, and possibly to forget—at least for a moment—why we are all here, gathered together and waiting so endlessly. But John, who seems to be in charge, at least for now, has made it clear that I am to rest. I know this is his way to honor me, and I know he understands that my spirit is downcast, but how much better it would be to keep my hands busy when my heart is aching so.

  Still, I must respect John’s role. For it was only yesterday, as we stood at the foot of the cross, when my son looked down upon me and, despite his anguish and pain, spoke to us with clarity.

  “Woman,” he said to me, “this is your son.” Then, gasping for breath and moving his pain-stricken gaze to his favorite disciple, he said, “John, this is your mother.”

  I knew in that moment that his end was coming soon. I also knew this was his way of ensuring that his earthly mother would be cared for after he was gone. But I was struck by something else, something I am still not ready to face. Something that slices through me as painfully as the sword old Simeon spoke of more than thirty-three years ago. But not now, I cannot face this now.

  And so I turn my attention away from where the women are working, and I return to another time when Jehovah disappointed me. Perhaps it is not fair to think of it like that. Suffice it to say that once again I did not get my way. But then, as I have mentioned, Jehovah’s ways are higher than mine, and, as always, his ways are right and sure and true. It is a pity I cannot always remember that.

  So just as I was beginning to feel homesick for Nazareth and growing excited at the prospects of leaving Bethlehem to journey north, we had a most interesting group of visitors. While we were still at the inn, we were told that someone was there to see us. To our surprise, it was three scholarly men who had been traveling for some time in search of the king whose star had shown so brightly on the night of Jesus’s birth.

  Of course, we gladly showed them our son, and these impressive-looking men, wearing fine garments of richly dyed silk, fell to their knees and worshiped him. Then they gave us valuable gifts of fine gold and rare spices and warned us that Herod was now aware of the birth of a new king.

  “Your leader is threatened by your son, and he plans to make a decree that all baby boys in and around Bethlehem be put to death,” they informed us. “You must flee the country at once.”

  That is why our plans to return to Nazareth were postponed. Of course, I could not complain, since our unexpected journey to Egypt was to protect our son. And I must say that I came to enjoy our time there. In many ways, it was as if Joseph and I were newly married, for the time had finally come when we were allowed to live together as husband and wife. And, my, how we both enjoyed our nuptials! Indeed, we were a happy little newlywed family of three.

  It was during this relatively peaceful era that I had time to ponder all the miraculous things God had done for us. And I remember one day when the three of us were enjoying a picnic and I asked Joseph what had first made him come to my father asking for my hand in marriage.

  “What attracted you to a scrawny young girl like me?” I said as I placed a delicate chain of wildflowers on Jesus’s head like a crown.

  First Joseph made a joke about how I looked to be a sturdy girl and able to work hard, but then he grew more serious. “Do you remember that old woman who came through town a few years back? I believe some of the townsfolk called her Crazy Azuba.”

  “Yes!” I said. Of course I remembered this old woman—I had spoken to her and felt sorry for her. “She had no family and stayed down by the well for a few days.”

  He nodded. “Most of our neighbors shunned her. Probably because of some of the strange things she said.”

  “I think she was just lonely and desperate.”

  “I agree. And one day I saw young Mary sneaking food to her. You had it hidden beneath your tunic, and I am sure you thought no one was looking as you slipped it into the old woman’s hands.”

  I felt my cheeks growing warm at this memory. Later that same day I had been made to confess my transgressions to my mother and was then punished for stealing our family’s food. Even when I told her I had planned to skip meals for the next two days to make up for the loss, she was still angry at me.

  “I got in trouble for it.”

  He smiled. “So I heard.”

  “The curse of living in a small town,” I said. “Everyone knows everything.”

  “But your kindness stopped me. It made me pause to really look at you. And when I looked, I liked what I saw.”

  I felt a lump growing in my throat. To think that my actions—ones that had landed me in such trouble—had actually been what attracted this good man’s attention . . . Well, it was just too much to consider.

  “Thank you,” I told him in a shy voice, suddenly feeling a bit like that insecure thirteen-year-old girl again.

  “Thank you, Mary.” And with Jesus soundly sleeping, we finished off our conversation with a long embrace.

  So, you see, I actually became rather fond of our vagabond lifestyle during our exiled period. The sights I was blessed to see during those times! Even now I look back upon it all with fondness. As always, Jehovah knew what was best for us. And during this time I learned to trust him even more. Of course, it helped to have those gifts of gold and spices, worth enough to purchase our housing and food for some time. And Joseph, being a skilled carpenter and very industrious, was always able to find work no matter where we went. I am sure this is just one of the many reasons God chose Joseph to help care for us.

  Joseph also proved to be a good balance for me in regard to raising our young son. I suppose I was somewhat overprotective of young Jesus during those early years. I tried to remember that he belonged to God. But sometimes it was not easy. When he started to toddle, I worried each time he took a stumble, afraid he might fall and injure his head. Or if we were near the water, I fretted that he might tumble in and sink like a rock and drown.

  “Come on, Mary,” Joseph would tease. “Do you really believe the Lord God Almighty would allow harm to come to this little one? Surely if Jesus fell into the river right now, the angels would swoop down from heaven to rescue him, and the child would be perfectly dry before he was safe in your arms again.”

  “That may very well be,” I would answer. “But I believe that the Lord God Almighty has entrusted his precious Son into my care, and I do not want to appear to be a negligent mother.” And so I always kept a diligent eye on my child when he was small. Perhaps it was not so much a matter of fear as it was a matter of responsibility. I may have been young and somewhat inexperienced in the ways of motherhood, but I took my role as Jesus’s mother very seriously.

  Although I enjoyed our adventures abroad, I was extremely relieved to learn of Herod’s death. It meant the end of our forced exile and a joyful return to our hometown in Nazareth. And what a homecoming we had. My younger sister was just preparing for her wedding, and everyone was so happy to see us.

  I think our absence helped our situation. It was almost as if my mother had forgotten all about the unbelievable confession I had made to her nearly three years earlier. I am sure she wanted to forget it, since, at the time, she had thought I was crazy.

  And yet I still recall moments when I would catch her looking at Jesus, her brows pinched together in consternation as she studied her grandson closely, and I am sure she was wondering . . . although she never said as much and we never discussed it again.

  Jesus was weaned about the same time we returned to Nazareth, and it was not long before other children
came along. And soon I was greatly occupied with all that came with caring for little ones and running an efficient household. To be perfectly honest, I became so busy with my responsibilities in our home that I sometimes forgot, or quite nearly forgot, that my eldest child was in reality the Son of God. In this mother’s eyes, he was a very normal little boy who cried when he skinned his knee and did not enjoy having me wash that stubborn dirt that always wedged itself behind his ears.

  However, I do remember a time when he did something that touched this mother’s heart in a deep way. But I do not believe it was anything inspired. Or was it? As I recall, Jesus was about four years old at the time. I often took him to the garden with me, for, just like me when I was a child, he delighted in green growing things. But on this particular day we were walking to market, and he stopped abruptly in the middle of the busy street and stooped down to pick something up. I thought it was probably a colorful stone or maybe even a lost coin, but when he stood he had a tiny mustard seed in his hand. But the way he held it up to me was as if he had just found the greatest treasure.

  “It will grow into something big, Mother,” he proclaimed proudly, almost as if he were already a gardening expert.

  Then he very reverently handed me the seed, to be kept safe in my little seed pocket until we got home. Now, I am sure he only did this because he had seen me doing it. But the expression of pure delight on his round face will always be one of my favorite memories of him during childhood. Later that day we planted the seed in a pot just for him, and he cared for it until it grew into quite a nice large mustard plant that always yielded many mustard seeds.

  Of course, it was easy to see that Jesus was an intelligent boy, always mature for his age and very responsible. I could trust him to watch his younger siblings and know that everything would be under control. But in many ways, this was not so unusual for a firstborn child. Sometimes people would comment on what a fine young man Jesus was becoming. “So respectful, so wise for his years,” they would say. Some would even say he was “special” in a way that suggested he had a deep spirituality, as if they expected he might go into the priesthood or perhaps become a scribe or fulfill some other high calling that would serve God.

  That is when I would remember that my son was indeed very special. More special than our friends and neighbors could possibly imagine. But, for the most part, it was as if this was a secret I kept hidden in my heart—along with so many other things.

  During these recent years, when Jesus came into the full realm of his ministry, I have often been asked by believers if his childhood was unusual. “Did he do miracles as a boy?” they will ask. “Did he ever heal a bird or a lamb?” And I must shake my head and admit that his boyhood, in most ways, was perfectly normal.

  Well, except for one thing—and not a small thing either. This was a boy who never sinned. To be honest, I was not even fully aware of this until recently. I think I merely considered him to be a very good boy. A noble son that anyone would be proud of, a young man with great integrity, a child you could trust to always tell the truth. Now, it was not that I had ever imagined he had sinned, but then he was not exactly what you would think of as angelic either. He never acted superior, and he certainly never lorded over anyone. He could laugh and play just like the other children. But, unlike the other children, he never treated anyone with the slightest trace of malice, and he never showed a speck of envy. How I wish I could say that of my other children!

  I suppose it was only natural for Jesus’s younger siblings to feel jealous of their eldest brother. Not that he ever gave them reason. If anything, he was exceedingly patient and kind to all of them. And most of the time I believe they truly loved their brother. But it could not have been easy for them to follow after him. It was impossible for them to ever measure up. And, while it is perfectly normal for a father to take his first son into business with him, I could not help but notice the resentment of Jesus’s younger brothers when they did not get the same measure of attention Jesus received. I hope they do not forget how they got it later, after my Joseph died and Jesus took over the role of spiritually guiding them and teaching them the ways of carpentry.

  Sometimes I even worried that Jesus was spending too much time helping our family. There was no denying that we needed his assistance, but even so, I felt concerned for God’s purpose for him here on earth. When was the Messiah to make himself known? When would his kingdom begin? When would he receive the honor due to the Son of God? How it grieves me to think of this now. Had I known that his path was taking him straight to his death, I never would have wished for it to begin. I would have patiently bided my time, relishing each living moment still spent in his presence.

  8

  OUR LIVES FLOWED INTO a relatively uneventful pattern during our first ten years back in Nazareth. As I mentioned, I was busily seeing to the needs of my family, almost unaware that we had a piece of God living in our midst. Although, I do recall a certain Passover, more than two decades ago now, when I received a vivid reminder of who my firstborn son really was—or rather whose he was.

  As was our custom, we had traveled down to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. Not unlike my children, I welcomed the change of pace this annual pilgrimage offered. Of course, the preparation involved work, but it was happy work, and once we were on our way I was always reminded of my own girlhood days and how excited my sister and I would become at the thrill of a new adventure on the road. As usual, we traveled in the company of family and friends and neighbors, and, as usual, the children usually ran free and sometimes a bit wild.

  Yet even when I made this journey as a mother with my large brood of children, I never concerned myself too greatly over their safety or welfare. I knew that between our neighbors and relatives, my children would be well looked after. It was the same way I watched over my sister Sarah’s two little girls when they latched onto me, as they so often did, begging me to tell them stories of our adventures in Egypt. To them Aunt Mary was something of an experienced traveler.

  And, most assuredly, I never worried about Jesus. By this time, he was nearly an adult, not to mention a very responsible and trustworthy young man. Naturally, we had no reason to concern ourselves over his actions. Now, our young Joses, on the other hand, actually fell into mischief a time or two during these trips. Although, it was nothing we could not easily sort out eventually.

  As is the usual case, after being away for a couple of weeks, I looked forward to going home again. For although I liked the adventure, I welcomed the thought of being back under my own roof, eating from my own garden, and sleeping in the bed made by my husband’s strong hands. And so I was happy when it was finally time to leave Jerusalem.

  It was early in the morning when we began our journey back to Nazareth. But by that same afternoon, I realized that I had yet to see my eldest son. “Joseph!” I called toward the front of our traveling group, where most of the men were walking together, discussing important things like politics and the future of our people. “Have you seen Jesus?”

  It quickly became obvious that Jesus was nowhere among our group. Joseph immediately offered to return to Jerusalem on his own to search for our missing son. But I knew I would be at my wits’ end if I did not go with him. My family offered to keep our other children with them as they continued toward home, hoping to meet up with us later. Meanwhile, Joseph and I hastened back to the city.

  We searched where we had been staying but found no sign of him or even anyone who had seen him. We went to the various sites around town, looking around the numerous pools and public gardens as well as the marketplace, but by nightfall we had not found our son.

  I know that neither of us slept much that night. And although I prayed to Jehovah, asking him to protect his Son and to keep watch over him, I still fretted over Jesus’s safety. It was so unlike him to worry us like this. It seemed the only reason for such distress must be an unfortunate disaster of some kind. Unwelcome images of my beloved son, injured in some way, flashed
like uncontrollable lightning bolts through my mind. Perhaps he had been run down by a careless soldier’s horse. The Romans have always been so inconsiderate of our people. Or maybe he had eaten something bad and fallen ill and was now lying along the street somewhere, stricken with fever and thirsting for a cup of cool water. Only my prayers could quiet my fearful heart, but even then I was uneasy and without sleep.

  It was not until the following day when we went to the temple that we noticed an impressive young man with a group of teachers and elders gathered attentively around him. Then, upon second look, we realized that the young man was our son!

  Well, I ran over right to where Jesus was standing, and, interrupting my son in mid-sentence, I demanded to know what he was doing. “Do you not know that your father and I have been sick with worry for you?” I said rather loudly. “We’ve been all over Jerusalem looking everywhere for you!”

  “Why were you looking for me?” he said calmly. “Did you not realize I would be right here taking care of my Father’s business?”

  While I knew this was not any form of back talk or disrespect, it hurt just the same—almost like a slap in the face. His Father’s business? I remember pondering his explanation as we hurried out of town, hoping we might catch up with our traveling companions and abandoned children. What kind of business could that possibly be? After all, Jesus was only twelve—a mere boy, really. Still, I hid his words, like I have hidden so many other things, as if they are seeds planted deeply within my heart. Perhaps one day they will all sprout and grow into something that makes more sense.

  But not today, I am thinking as I sit here listening to John reminding us of the words my son said only days ago. “Do you not remember,” John says with enthusiasm that is easily betrayed by the sadness in his eyes, “Jesus said that he was going somewhere, somewhere we cannot follow, but that he was sending a helper back to us—a loyal friend who will guide us to the truth.”