Unafraid_Mary

by Francine Rivers

  “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!

  Will they recognize him when his time comes to proclaim himself to the nations?

  Even as the question reared up in Joseph’s mind, Isaiah’s words came rushing in. “He was despised and rejected—a man of sorrows, acquainted with bitterest grief. . . .Yet it was our weaknesses he carried; it was our sorrows that weighed him down . . . a punishment from God. . . . Yet the Lord laid on him the guilt and sins of us all.”

  No.

  “It was the Lord’s good plan to crush him and fill him with grief. . . . His life is made an offering for sin.”

  Joseph groaned, clutching at his chest.

  “What is it, Joseph?” Mary said, suddenly at his side. “Joseph!” He felt her arms around him, but he could only look at Jesus and weep.

  Joseph felt Jesus lift him while the others were all talking at once, shaken by fear and confusion. “Hush, now,” Mary said firmly. “Don’t be afraid. Your brother is going to help.”

  As Jesus lowered him to the pallet, Joseph sensed the struggle going on inside the boy. Had there ever been a time in Jesus’ life when he’d not come face-to-face with temptation and had to battle his human nature and crush it? Joseph saw the sweat bead on Jesus’ brow now. “Oh,” Joseph groaned, filled with anguish. Would Jesus fight and overcome evil only to be killed in the end? How could this be?

  The pain in his chest increased, along with his conviction that he was dying. “Come close, my children. Come!” As they knelt beside him, he drew each down, kissing them and blessing them. “Listen to your brother, Jesus.
Obey your mother. Trust in the Lord. . . .”

  “You’ll be all right, Joseph,” Mary said, receiving his blessing, her eyes tear-filled but fierce. “I know you will. Jesus has only to—”

  “Hush,” Joseph said, putting his fingertips over her lips. Should they presume a miracle would be performed just because they wanted it? Should they expect Jesus, God the Son, the great I Am, to do their bidding? “God decides,” he whispered. “We mustn’t burden Jesus more.”

  Mary looked up at her son, her face pale and strained. Joseph saw how she pleaded with her eyes. “Mary, I must speak with Jesus.”

  “Yes, Joseph.” Mary rose quickly.

  Every breath he drew was painful. The fingers of his hand were numb and sweat soaked through his tunic. Mary quickly gathered the children and urged them from the room. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at her eldest son. “I know you can help him. Do so. Please. Do so.” She left the room.

  Jesus sat close beside Joseph when the room was empty. Joseph smiled at him. Fighting the pain in his chest, he took Jesus’ hand and placed it over his heart. “We don’t make it easy for you.”

  “You weren’t meant to.”

  Anguish clenched Joseph’s throat. “Soften their hearts, Jesus. The children . . . oh, please. Soften their hearts so they will understand and be saved.”

  “Each must choose.”

  “Even faith comes from God.”

  “Each must choose.”

  “But will they choose to believe you are the Messiah? Will they . . . ?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  Joseph looked into his eyes. “Yes.” He drew a sobbing breath. “I was thinking of Isaiah as you were speaking to the children.” His eyes blurred with tears. “‘As a lamb,’ the Scriptures say, ‘He was led as a lamb to the slaughter.’”

  He searched Jesus’ eyes and saw in them infinite love and compassion. The boy Jesus was only fifteen years old, but Joseph saw in him the Son of Man of whom the prophet Daniel had spoken. Joseph had seen the strength in him from birth and sensed the unending battle that went on around him. Not once in all his days had Jesus weakened and given in to sin. Not once had Joseph seen a sword in Jesus’ hand, even when other boys his age played Zealot or King David. Not once had Jesus given in to the human desires that plagued everyone who entered the world. Who but God could withstand the onslaught of constant temptation?

  “He was led as a lamb to the slaughter.”

  Weeping, Joseph closed his eyes. “You will take our guilt and sin upon you and be the offering. That’s why you’ve been given to us, isn’t it?” Joseph was overwhelmed with love for this boy he had reared from birth but never dared call his own. And he was torn by grief for what he feared would happen to Jesus. “They’ll reject you.”

  Jesus said nothing. He merely laid his hand gently on Joseph’s brow as Joseph held the other over his heart.

  “I love you, Jesus. Save my children. And your mother. She doesn’t understand.” How could she, and still be in such a hurry to press him on?

  “Don’t worry,” Jesus said. “I’m with them.”

  “I am so weak.” Should he doubt God now?

  “Rest,” Jesus said softly. Joseph closed his eyes again and thought he heard Jesus whisper, “You have been a good and faithful servant.”

  The pain lifted as his children entered the room and gathered around him again. Mary knelt beside him and took his hand tightly in hers. Joseph smiled, but he had no strength to speak. He wanted to tell her she had been a good wife, a good mother, but he’d said those things to her many times before. She knew he loved her. Still, he saw the confusion in her eyes, the fear, the appeal when she looked at Jesus.

  Joseph tried to speak. She leaned down, putting her ear near his lips. “Trust. Obey.” When she laid her head upon his chest and wept, he looked up at Jesus. The only one they needed stood silent near the door, tears running down his cheeks as he obeyed the will of his Father, and did nothing to keep death away. Strangely, Joseph was no longer afraid. He sighed, relieved.

  Closing his eyes, he entered his reward.

  “Joseph!” Mary cried out when he stopped breathing. “Joseph!” She pulled Joseph’s shoulders up and held him in her arms. How could this be? She looked up at Jesus. He was weeping. “Why?” she sobbed. “Why?” She knew he could have healed Joseph! She knew he had the power. Hadn’t he healed Anne with a brush of his hand? Hadn’t he multiplied their loaves of bread, filled their cruses with oil? Why had he allowed Joseph whom he loved to die?

  Because he doesn’t care. Because it serves his purpose.

  No. She refused to believe it. She could see the sorrow in Jesus’ eyes. She knew he loved Joseph. How many times had she seen them laugh together as they worked side by side in the shop? or seen them with their heads close together as they read Scripture?

  And now your son just stands there and watches him die. He does nothing. And now you’re alone—a widow with seven children to feed and no man to provide for you. Is this the way God takes care of you?

  No! She would not think such evil thoughts! She would not allow doubt to slither into her mind and sink its fangs into her, spreading poison.

  “Jesus.” She moaned. “Jesus!”

  He was beside her at once, his hands upon her shoulders. “I am here, Mother.”

  She wept as she eased Joseph’s body back onto the pallet and touched his face tenderly. How would she go on without Joseph’s strength, his wisdom, his encouragement and love? Hadn’t God spoken through him and guided them to Egypt, then back to Israel, and then here to Nazareth? And Joseph had been faithful, quick to obey when God spoke.

  The children were all crying, confused, frightened, grieving. She understood how they felt, for she was caught in the same feelings, drowning in them. She tried to think what to do. Reaching up, she gripped Jesus’ hand resting on her shoulder. As firstborn, he was now head of the family.

  “I have no money to buy spices,” Mary told her sister. How would she prepare Joseph’s body for burial?

  “We have spices, Mother.” Jesus rose and went to the box Joseph had packed in Bethlehem that night so long ago when they had fled after the angel warned them Herod would try to kill Jesus. He opened it and took out the alabaster jar.

  “What is that?” Mary’s sister said.

  “We can’t use that,” Mary said.

  “Use it.” Jesus held it out to her.

  “But it was a gift to you, my son.”

  “A gift?” Her sister looked between them. “Such a jar? Who would give such a gift?”

  “It is mine,” Jesus said, “and I can give it to whom I choose.” He placed it in her hands and left Mary alone in the room with her sister and the body of her husband, Joseph.

  Weeping, Mary held the jar reverently. Removing the seal, she opened it and the room was filled with the sweet scent of myrrh as she obeyed her son.

  In the months following the death of her beloved Joseph, Mary was torn by confusion and anger. Sometimes she felt she was surrounded by attackers, whispering doubts and accusations. It was all she could do to cover her head and pray.

  Oh, Lord God, I don’t know why you’ve taken Joseph from us, and why life must be so hard. I don’t understand why your Son must labor like every other man, putting bread on our table by the blood and sweat of his brow. I don’t know why so many years have passed and he still hides himself away.

  But I dwell in your promises, Lord. . . . You said Jesus will be very great and will be called the Son of the Most High. You said you will give him the throne of his ancestor David. You said his kingdom will never end. I remember it as if it happened yesterday. I remember. But, O Lord my God, it is so hard to wait to see the fulfillment of your promises.

  Jesus worked hard to provide for the family, dealing with recalcitrant patrons who dragged their feet about paying their bills, or those who complained for no other reason than to hear the sound of their own voices. Mary never saw Jesus lose his temper.

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nbsp; When the time was right, Jesus arranged marriages for his sisters, finding for them young men who sought to please God above all others. Jesus continued to work with his brothers in their father’s shop, teaching them the skills Joseph had taught him. Along the way, Jesus tried to teach them the ways of God. James was often difficult, and young Joseph followed his example, but Jesus remained patient, loving, firm.

  “What use is studying the Torah when Rome crushes our people? I should be learning how to use a sword!” James cried out passionately, contending with Jesus yet again.

  Jesus answered quietly. “Your work is to remain faithful to God.”

  James’s face reddened. “I am faithful! How am I not faithful? I study. I recite.”

  “You study, but you don’t understand. Your heart is given over to wrath.”

  “My heart is filled with righteous anger!”

  “Where is the righteousness in following after those who would spill innocent blood?”

  “Show me a Roman who’s innocent!”

  “James!” Mary tried to calm herself. “Listen to your brother.”

  James turned on her. “You always take his side. Just because Jesus is older doesn’t mean he knows everything.”

  Angry, Mary rose. “You will show your brother the respect he’s due as head of this family. Listen to what he says.”

  “I won’t listen.” James covered his face and wept in frustration. “I already know what he’ll say, and I’m sick of hearing it.”

  Mary looked at Jesus, beseeching him to say something to turn the boy from living in resentment and anger. Jesus rose and went out to take another of his long walks in the hills.

  Sitting with her boys, she pleaded with them. “You must listen to Jesus, my sons. You must allow him to train you as he desires, for one day you will see that he is more than your brother.”

  Joseph looked at her. “The rabbi told us every Jewish mother looks upon her firstborn son as the Messiah.”