Three Days: A Mother's Story

Dedicated to my “Joseph”

And there were many other things that Jesus did, but even if they were written out, one story at a time, I do not think the entire world could possibly contain all those books. Amen.

John 21:25

PREFACE

FIRST OF ALL, you must understand that this book is a work of fiction. And, although I have attempted to do my research, I am neither theologian nor historian. I am simply a storyteller who asked the question, What is the rest of Mary’s story?

Just as I was beginning this project, a friend said, “What makes you think you can write about the mother of Jesus?” And I had to agree with her that it did seem quite an undertaking, but I felt driven to try. Now that I am finished, I can say it is probably the most spiritually fulfilling book I have ever writ ten. Yet I still feel a need to explain what qualified me to write Mary’s story (not that I feel qualified).

For starters, consider the numbers. While writing this book, I was almost exactly the same age as Mary when she stood at the foot of the cross (I won’t give you that number, but historians estimate she was around fifteen when she gave birth to Jesus). And, like Mary at that same time, I have known the Lord for thirty-three years. I will admit I am not really a numbers person, but these figures got my attention.

I am also the mother of grown sons, and I too have experienced the pain of, not completely but very nearly, losing an adult son (that is another story). And I have suffered a mother’s midnight heartache when she does not know where her son is or if he is all right. I have also felt the pain of parenting an unbelieving child. You did not know that Mary had unbelieving children? See, there is much to learn.

So please forgive me if I have not gotten it completely right or if my imagination does not match what you believe may have happened. Most of all, I hope that you can enjoy the spirit of this tale as you take a creative journey with me, and I hope even more that you’ll feel closer to our Lord and Savior when you are finished.

—Melody Carlson

1

IN THE SAME WAY that I grind barley into flour, Jehovah’s fist has ground my heart into dust today, and I fear the slightest breath of doubt could blow it all away. And so I must contain my emotions and focus on something beyond the ugliness I have witnessed during these past twelve hours. I must find something to distract my mind from the brutal images of my son’s torture and execution—images, I am sure, that will accompany me throughout the rest of my earthly days.

I have heard that the events of a lifetime can flash past the mind’s eye in the moments that precede death. I do not personally know this to be true (since I am still alive, albeit barely), but as I sit here in the darkness, knowing I will never find sleep, I find there is comfort in remembering. And so I will go back to a time and place that is happier.

My earliest memories are rooted in a garden. As a small child I trailed behind my mother whenever she went to the family garden, and there I was content to simply sit and dig in the dirt, using a broken shard of pottery for my spade. The damp, musky smell of the earth has always been a pure tonic to me. And the cool sensation of moist soil beneath my feet never fails to invigorate my soul. I believe a garden is God’s promise that life will continue.

As I grew older I learned to distinguish weeds from seedlings, and how to transplant and even graft. I knew the best time to harvest, and, perhaps even more importantly, I knew how to gather and save seeds for the next planting. For this is how the circle of life continues.

Working in the garden was never a chore for me. Nothing felt better than being out there, barefooted and with sleeves pushed up, tending my herbs, beans, cucumbers … celebrating the freshness of a new day. I am sure I believed that all the secrets of the world could be contained in a single garden, because that is where I came to understand so much about life and love and truth. And that is where I felt closest to the Lord God Jehovah. To me, the garden was a true place of worship.

And for that reason I suppose it is not so very surprising that the angel of God would go looking for me there. Not that I ever expected the angel of God to seek out my humble presence. Far from it! In fact, I was only a young girl at the time—and not an outstanding one, at that. My family was among the least impressive of Nazareth, quiet, hardworking people who were usually overlooked by anyone of influence.

To this day I have no doubt there were plenty of other girls in my village who seemed more suitable for the promise that was laid before me. There were prettier ones, smarter ones, and most assuredly there were many from families more prominent than mine. I am sure old men in my hometown still scratch their beards and wonder why their quiet and insignificant little Mary should be chosen for such an awesome responsibility—that is, unless they are part of the group who still doubt that God chose me at all. But I know in my heart what is true. And I know that God’s ways are mysterious and many difficult questions languish and then perish for lack of answers.

Not that I did not question these things for myself back then. Who would not? I had recently been promised in marriage to a friend of the family—a good man by the name of Joseph. That alone had been surprising enough. I could not even imagine how a respected man like Joseph the carpenter should be interested in someone like me, but I must admit to being flattered by his attention. Still, I am sure that the actual thought of marriage and all that it stood for seemed far away and removed at the time.

So you can imagine my complete surprise when an angel appeared to me in the garden, announcing that I was to be blessed among women and that I had found favor with the Lord. Stunned at what I knew to be an unearthly presence, I dropped my basket of freshly picked figs and fell to my knees. I still remember looking down at my trembling hands, noticing the dark lines of garden dirt beneath my fingernails as I waited for the angel to continue.

This magnificent being told me not to be frightened by his greeting. As if that were even possible! And then he announced that I, Mary of Nazareth, would carry in my womb and give birth to God’s own Son—the very Son of the Lord God Jehovah. It was good that I was not a fainter.

“He will be great,” the angel continued. “He will be called the Son of the highest, and the Lord God will give him the throne of David, and his kingdom will reign forever and ever.”

Naturally, I was still trying to figure out how I could possibly carry God’s baby in my womb. I may have been young and inexperienced, but I knew enough about the ways of life to realize that a woman must be intimate with a man to bear a child. And so I boldly asked the angel how this could possibly be so.

“God’s Holy Spirit will come to you this night,” the angel said. “And God’s own Son will be planted within you.” And then he told me about my relative Elizabeth and how she too was going to have a baby. This was incredible news to me, since Elizabeth was already quite old and previously unable to have children.

“Nothing is impossible with God!” the angel said.

And so, right there in the garden, I bowed my head and said, “I am pleased to be God’s servant! Let it happen as you say.” Then the angel vanished quickly as he had come. I stayed there on my knees, eyes closed and head bowed, for a few moments as I pondered over all I had heard. Finally I opened my eyes, and there on the packed ground of the garden path I noticed a small flower seed. Now, most people would overlook such a tiny insignificant thing as a seed. But out of habit I immediately picked it up, tucked it into the little pocket I had sewn into my tunic specifically for that purpose, and then, remembering what had just transpired, I stood and looked around.

At first I thought perhaps I had simply daydreamed this entire happening. But something inside my heart told me it was real. That very night it all occurred just as the angel had promised, and the next morning I knew that miraculously, just as a seed is planted in the mysterious darkness of the fertile earth, I now carried the seed of God’s own child within the secret depths of my body.

Imagine my joy and bewilderment as I considered this phenomenon—so unbelievable, so amazing, so totally unheard of. I wondered what I should do next. Who should I tell? Or was I to keep this secret hidden within me for the time being?

But from that moment on, I knew that my life would never be the same. I had no idea how all the things the angel had told me would come to pass, but I knew my journey had begun. And somehow I knew it would be up to God to get me to the final destination.

Of course, I had no idea that the final destination would be this fearful and hopeless place where many of us huddle together in gloom and in doubt. I had no clue that in the end, my son would be publicly scourged like a common criminal, spat upon, and beaten almost beyond recognition. And as if that were not punishment enough—and
punishment for what?
I have asked myself again and again—he was brutally nailed on a cross where he was tortured for hours before he finally gave up his precious and sinless life. And for what? These are the silent questions that beat their fists upon my soul during this darkest of nights. But I must not heed their cries. For my son’s sake, I must not give in to despair.

2

IT IS IN THE darkest hours of the night when your faith is put to the hardest test. This is as true now as it was thirty-three years ago when I came to the full realization that I was carrying a baby no one in my family or community could possibly understand or even accept. Shortly after my conception, I attempted to explain to my mother the honor of being chosen by God. For some reason, I thought she would be happy for me.

“Mary!” my mother scolded as she slapped a firm lump of dough into a rounded loaf. “You are speaking nonsense, my child. I will hear of no more such talk from you!”

“But it is true,” I insisted. “I
am
with child.”

I had never seen a look like that in my mother’s eyes, but it sliced through me like my father’s butchering knife, and it filled my young heart with real fear. “Mary,” she said in a quiet but incensed voice, “if you are with child . . . and if it is not the child of your betrothed . . .” She took in a sharp breath that actually seemed to cause her pain. “Then you shame your family and you place yourself in serious peril.” Her strong fingers had released their hold on the dough and now gripped me tightly, biting into my arm. “Tell me it is not so!”

I just mutely shook my head. What more could I say? How could I convince her that this was about honor and had nothing to do with shame? Then I remembered another piece of information the angel had given me. “There is something else,” I began in a cautious tone. “The angel told me that our cousin Elizabeth is also with child—”

“This is madness, Mary!” She glanced over her shoulder to be sure no one was lurking in our open doorway eavesdropping on our conversation. “Your cousin Elizabeth is well past her childbearing years. And her husband Zacharias is . . .” She lowered her voice and looked uneasy. “He is
unable
.”

“But the angel said—”

“Enough, Mary!” She turned her attention back to her loaves. “Do not speak of this again.”

And so I went to bed with a heavy heart that night. For the first time in my life, I believed that my name, Mary, which literally means “bitter,” befitted my life. I cried quietly into my shawl as I considered my plight. How was I to bear God’s child if even my own mother did not believe me? I was no fool; I understood our laws. An unmarried woman could not be with child and survive. Such women were called horrible names, they were publicly humiliated, and then they were stoned.

Unable to sleep, I quietly rose from my bed, slipped outside, and went to the garden. By the light of the nearly full moon, I found my favorite thinking rock, and there I sat, pondering over my predicament. It was while on that rock that I remembered how Hannah, the faithful mother of the great prophet Samuel, had once poured her heart out to Jehovah, and so I did the same. First I gave thanks for the honor he had bestowed upon me, but then I begged him to deliver me, to protect me. I asked him to show me a way through my wilderness. And just before dawn the answer became as clear as the noontime sun.