Three Days: A Mother's Story (11 page)

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 my 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?”

I nodded. “And I have seen him heal cripples too. I once saw a man with legs so twisted he could not even sit up straight. Jesus reached down and touched him, and the man instantly leapt to his feet.”

“Incredible!” Myra said.

“My sister who lives in Sepphoris knows a woman a little older than us who had been bleeding for years and years,” Rachel said. “Nothing would stop it, and she was very weak and sick. But she had heard about Jesus, and somehow she pushed her way through a crowd, and when she barely touched your son’s outer garment, she was instantly healed.”

“So many miracles . . .” I sighed. “How can it be that everyone does not believe in him?”

Although it was only two rather insignificant women and many small children whom I was able to share these truths with, I was so very thankful for those times. In some ways, they became like my family, making my time at home happier than it had been since Jesus had first left for his ministry.

When the harvesttime came, my children invited me to travel with them to Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles. Now, unlike Passover, this is not a journey we make every year, but it had not slipped my attention that all my children had seemed more religious and devout lately. I did not feel it was so much their eldest brother’s influence on them, perhaps, as it was a competition of sorts. My sons were reading more and more at the temple, even choosing sections from the old prophets. I had to wonder if they thought they might be able to perform their way into their eldest brother’s acceptance, or perhaps even mine. I could have been wrong, but it felt like they were up to something.

But when Hannah told me they wanted to invite Jesus to go along with us, I felt certain my children had cooked up some sort of questionable scheme. I tried my best to dissuade them, but it was clear that all my children had already agreed on this plan. They knew Jesus was up near the Sea of Galilee at the time, and James was appointed to go and invite him.

“He refuses to come,” James said upon his return the following day.

“Yes, that is like him,” Joses said.

“He is too good for us,” Hannah added.

I was forced to depart their company for the quiet solitude of my garden. As I sat on my favorite thinking stone, which was also a praying stone, I had to wonder when my children would ever figure this thing out. Were they always to perceive their brother Jesus as only that—their brother? Would they never see who he really was and accept him as the Son of God?

Just the same, we traveled to Jerusalem for the Feast of Tabernacles. I guess I hoped I might see Jesus while we were there, although my children were all certain he would not show. In fact, I think they received some kind of satisfaction from their false conclusion. Perhaps it made them feel they were somehow spiritually superior to their brother. I have no idea. But not long after we had arrived, I heard Jesus was indeed in the city. It was Mary of Magdala who told me the good news.

I ran into her in the marketplace, where we hugged and greeted one another joyfully. I felt as if I was seeing my long-lost relative.

“Have you seen the Lord?” I asked.

She smiled. “He is here, Mary. He decided quite suddenly to come. We have all come up with him.”

I inquired after everyone’s health, and she assured me that all was well. “And your son is well too.”

“It has been so quiet,” I told her as I inspected a cabbage. “I have missed his public teaching.”

“So have many. But perhaps it is only for a season.” Then her face grew cloudy. “I know I should not be worried,” she said. “But I have heard rumors . . .”

“Rumors?”

“The Sanhedrin are plotting against him. They call him a blasphemer and say he breaks the Sabbath.”

I nodded. This was not unexpected. Everyone knew that the Sanhedrin, the ruling Jewish council, wielded great power in our country. Even the Romans, who supposedly ruled all the land, allowed the Sanhedrin to police their own people. Other than giving the death penalty, there was little the Sanhedrin could not do. And, according to widespread rumor, most of these men were fiercely opposed to Jesus.

She sighed. “Of course, it is useless for any of us to warn him.”

I attempted to smile. “Our Lord will do as he sees fit.”

“Yes. I know.”

And so we parted ways. I did not ask her to send a greeting to my son. I knew that was not necessary. I only hoped that before we returned to Nazareth I might simply see him. If only for a glance.

Jehovah must have been listening to my heart, for the very next day I was blessed to spot my son in the temple. Although, I must admit that my throat tightened with fear when I realized what was transpiring, for it seemed clear that the Sanhedrin were up to something. They were there in great number, almost as if to corner my son. Then suddenly one of the Pharisees thrust a young woman in front of him.

One look at this woman and I had no doubt what she had been caught doing. She was young and beautiful, but her hair and clothing were disheveled, as if she had just been pulled from bed. I had to wonder whose bed it had been. And where was the man who must have been equally involved in this crime? Naturally, that was not mentioned. But mostly it was her expression—eyes cast downward and a tightness to her mouth—that made her offense indisputable.

“Teacher,” said the scribe who had assisted the Pharisee in dragging the woman through the temple. “This woman was discovered in the act of adultery.”

The Pharisee who still held tightly to the poor woman’s arm shoved her to the ground right in front of Jesus. “The law of Moses commands us to stone this woman,” the Pharisee said with a face that was red from exertion. “What do
you
say?”

I think I stopped breathing as I watched my son’s face, waiting for him to speak. But he said nothing. He simply knelt down, focusing his attention on the ground at his feet as he traced his fingers through the dust. It was almost as if he could not hear the enraged men as they continued yelling and pestering him about this woman and her crime and what was to be done. I think they actually believed they had entrapped him.

“According to our laws, she should be stoned!” the red-faced Pharisee yelled.

Still Jesus continued to scribble in the dust.

I am sure my heart must have stopped beating by then, and I am surprised I did not collapse completely. Finally Jesus stood, and the Sanhedrin and everyone in the temple grew quiet.

“Let him who is without sin among you,” he said in a calm but clearly audible voice, “let him be the first one to cast a stone.”

Slowly they all began to leave. In fact, everyone, even the bystanders, began to leave. Including me. I heard that not one man was left in that area.

John told me much later that Jesus had then asked the woman about her accusers, and if any of them had condemned her. And when she said no, he told her that he did not condemn her either and that she should go and sin no more.

Of all the things my son has done, this one has probably touched me the most deeply. Why is that? I cannot help but recall a time, thirty-three years ago, when that woman being shamed could have so easily been me. Now, I was not guilty of adultery or fornication, but to be found pregnant outside of marriage would have made it seem like I was. After seeing that woman humiliated like that, so close to being executed, I finally understood why my mother had been so upset back then. Even though I told her I had been chosen by God, all she could see was that her daughter, if truly pregnant, would be subject not only to the condemnation of the elders but possibly to a stoning as well.