Three Days: A Mother's Story (14 page)

“
Where
in Galilee?” she asks with the same enthusiasm she had as a child. “Can we go there? Can we meet him too?”

I laugh. “I am not sure exactly where. I do not think even the men knew for sure. But Mary has invited me to come and stay at her home in Magdala. Would you like to come too?”

Sarah throws her arms around me, hugging me tightly. “Oh yes!” she cries. “Let us leave at once.”

17

WHEN WE GET BACK to our families, they are packed and ready to leave. In fact, some have already started out, promising to meet the others just north of the city.

“You are coming with us, Mother?” Hannah asks with surprise.

I smile. “If I am welcome.”

She hugs me. “Of course you are welcome. You are our mother.”

And so we travel, and I walk with light feet and a happy heart. But no mention is made of Jesus. Not one word is said about either his death or his resurrection as we move slowly northward. During the first day of our journey, other than Sarah and my grandchildren, most of my relatives and neighbors seem to be keeping a safe distance from me, as if they do not quite know what to make of me. Even my Hannah, who seemed so glad I was joining them, stays ahead of me in the group.

“Do you remember the story Jesus once told about the Samaritan?” Sarah says in a voice loud enough that others might hear. Then she nods at me as if I am to continue from there.

“Yes, I do,” I say, also in a clear voice that draws my grandchildren’s attention. “Jesus said we need to love our neighbors. But then someone asked him, ‘Who are my neighbors?’ Do you remember that, Sarah?”

“Yes, and that is when Jesus told about the man who was traveling to Jerusalem. Now, what happened to him? Do you recall, Mary?”

I smile at her, knowing full well that she knows what happened. Using my best storytelling voice, I begin. “A man from Jericho was out on the road one night. He was all by himself when suddenly he was attacked by bandits! The poor man was stripped, robbed, and beaten nearly to death by these wicked men. It was horrible!”

I notice that our fellow travelers are walking a little nearer to us now, almost as if they too wish to hear this frightening story. So I continue. “Well, this unfortunate man was lying alongside the road, naked and bleeding, and along came a priest who was also on his way to Jerusalem, but when he saw the poor naked man barely breathing next to the road, he just hurried along his way.”

Several people make
tsk-tsk
sounds as if that priest was not a very nice fellow, but they say nothing. “Next there came a Levite, also heading for Jerusalem, but he heard the cries of the injured man. He paused to look down at him, but then he quickly crossed over to the other side of the road and continued on his way.”

“That is horrible,” I hear a neighbor murmur.

“Finally, just as the beaten man was about to give himself up for dead, a man from Samaria came down the road.” I pause long enough to allow them to think about this, and I can tell by their smug faces that they are certain a Samaritan will treat the unfortunate traveler far worse than the others had. The Samaritans are despised by my people. Maybe they even imagine the Samaritan will actually slit the poor man’s throat.

“Well, the Samaritan sees the wounded man, and immediately he stops. He gives the man wine and pours oil on his wounds and then bandages him up and gently loads him onto his donkey and takes him to an inn in Jerusalem, and there the Samaritan stays and cares for the ailing man until he is better. Then the Samaritan pays the innkeeper a good amount of money to continue caring for the man until he is well enough to travel.”

Now some of my neighbors and relatives are murmuring, questioning whether something like this could ever actually happen. “So, Sarah,” I say to my sister. “Which of those men was the neighbor to the man who had been attacked by thieves?”

“Well, if I was that poor man, I would have to choose the Samaritan as my neighbor,” she says.

“I agree. And that is the kind of neighbors we should be too. When Jesus said to love our neighbors, he meant that we should love everyone we meet, no matter who they are or where they are from.”

“What if that person you meet is Herod?” my cousin Nathan asks. I can tell by the tone of his voice that he means to taunt me. “What if we are talking about the man who sentenced your son to death? Tell me, do you also love
him
?”

I carefully consider this before I answer, deciding that I can only be honest. “The truth is, Nathan, I do not feel much love for Herod right now. But Jesus commands us to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us.”

“So do you
love
Herod, Mary?”

“I am
willing
to love Herod, but I may need my Lord’s help to do so. Right now I am working just to forgive Herod, and I must admit even that is difficult.”

Sarah puts her hand on my shoulder. “It is a start.”

I sigh. “It is much easier now than it was yesterday when Jesus was still in the tomb.” Of course, this is where I lose Nathan’s attention. His expression tells me he has no interest in hearing of this. And I can tell that any mention of Jesus rising from the dead makes all of my neighbors and relatives very uncomfortable.

However, I am excited to share this news with my good friends Rachel and Myra. I know they are traveling with a group that is ahead of us and that they started out even before daybreak.

I am so pleased to find them when we finally make camp at nightfall.

“Oh, Mary,” Rachel exclaims, taking me into her arms before I have a chance to speak. “I have been so distressed for you and your great loss.”

Myra stands quietly to one side, but I see tears building in her eyes as I step back from Rachel.

“But I have good news,” I begin, and then I pour out the wondrous story of Jesus’s resurrection.

“Is it really true?” Rachel asks with hopeful brows. “Have you seen him for yourself?”

“Not yet,” I explain. “But I believe I will.” I tell them of my plan to continue on to Galilee, where he has promised to meet the men.

“And then you will return to Nazareth and tell us what has happened?” Rachel says.

“Of course,” I reassure my friends.

During our nine-day journey back to Nazareth, Sarah and I continue to repeat things we have heard from Jesus, telling his parables and describing some of the miracles we have witnessed. To our surprise, a few of our relatives and neighbors grow more interested with each passing day. Or maybe we are simply the entertainment for those who are bored and road weary.
But at least they are listening
, I tell myself, and I think perhaps Jesus’s death—whether they believe in his resurrection or not—has gotten their attention.

We arrive in Nazareth just before dusk on the ninth day of travel, and I invite Sarah’s family to spend the night with us. But in the morning, as they repack for the last leg of their journey back to Cana, I likewise pack my own things.

“Where are you going now, Mother?” James demands when he sees me heading out the door of my house. I suspect my daughter-in-law, Joses’s wife, has informed on my activities, but I do not mind.

“On to Galilee,” I announce as I continue to go out the door, holding my head up.

He is walking beside me now, his hand on my arm almost as if he means to stop me, which I think is quite ridiculous. “Why, Mother?”

I turn and attempt to smile at him. Oh, how I wish he could understand. “I hope . . .” I begin. “I hope it is to see my Lord.”

He stops walking as a frown creases his dark brow. “Do you still believe in that nonsense? That Jesus has risen from the dead?”

I stop in the middle of the street, looking into my second oldest son’s eyes for a long moment before I say, “I am your mother, James. Would I lie to you?”

He shakes his head and looks somewhat embarrassed.

“If I say he has risen, and everyone who has seen him says he has risen, why cannot you believe he has risen
?
”

He shrugs, looking down at his sandals the same way he used to do as a small boy who had been caught at mischief.

“Listen to me, James,” I speak in an urgent voice now. “This is not a lie, this is not a game, this is very real. Your half brother, Jesus from Nazareth, truly is the Messiah. Whether you like it or not, he
is
the Christ, the Son of the Living God. And if you do not believe me, you should go and talk to Jesus’s disciples up in Galilee. You should hear them tell you of all he has done, the miracles, the teaching, the fulfillment of prophecy. Maybe you would believe them.”

James takes in a deep breath, then quietly says, “I have been studying the old prophets, Mother, and I can see that some of their words do align with some circumstances in my brother’s life.”

I am so stunned that I am barely able to form words. “So . . . are you . . . have you been considering this?” I finally manage to ask.

“I remember a day,” James looks over my head toward the synagogue, “before all this craziness began . . . or perhaps it was even the beginning. It was on the Sabbath, and Jesus was in the synagogue and, as he often did, he stood to read from the scroll. A priest handed him the book of the prophet Isaiah, and Jesus opened it up and began to read. Do you know what he read?”

I nod and wait.

“‘God’s spirit is on me,’ Jesus read out loud that day. ‘Because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to heal the brokenhearted and to deliver the captives, to return sight to the blind, to set the oppressed free, and to declare the year of our Lord.’”

“You know those words by heart?”

“I did after that day.”

“But still you do not believe?”

He sadly shakes his head.

“But you are considering these things now?”

His countenance brightens just slightly. “I am. Go on your way to Galilee, Mother. And if the Son of God is truly there, send word back to me, and I will join you.”

I grab my second oldest son and pull him toward me for a long, hard hug. When I release him I have tears in my eyes. Tears of gladness. “I will do as you say,” I promise him.

Then I hurry along to join Sarah and her family. But as I leave Nazareth I am filled with great hope and intense joy. I know I should be weary with travel by now, but suddenly I feel I could walk for years and over mountains if it was my Lord’s will.

After we reach Cana Sarah and I spend a night in her home, and the next morning we bid her children and grandchildren farewell and turn eastward to continue our journey on toward Galilee.

“So much has happened,” Sarah says as we walk at our own comfortable pace—the pace of two grandmothers who enjoy one another’s company. “So much is changing, Mary. And so much more will change. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Yes,” I agree. “And I am so curious about Jesus’s twelve disciples. Do you think they all heard the good news and went on to Galilee? Do you suppose they have met up with him yet?”

“Mary,” says Sarah in a tentative voice. She quits walking and puts her hand on my arm to stop me. Then she looks at me, but her face is lined in sadness. “Do you not know that there are only eleven disciples now?”

“Eleven?”

“Have you not heard about Judas?”

“Judas?” I ask. “Which Judas?”

“Iscariot.” Her voice is quite solemn now.

“What are you saying?”

“Did you not know that he, Judas Iscariot, was the betrayer?”

I consider this. “I heard some talk of a betrayer,” I admit. “But it was right after the crucifixion, and I was so heavy with grief that I am sure I did not pay much attention.”

“I can understand that,” Sarah says. “But during the days following Jesus’s death, everyone in Jerusalem talked of little else. They spoke of how it all happened and why and who, and, well, you know how stories can circulate.”

“So the betrayer was one of Jesus’s own?” I am still trying to take this in. “And it was Judas Iscariot?” I try to remember this young man whom I knew only briefly. He was one of the more learned of Jesus’s twelve. By the time I met him, I had assumed that Jesus would only surround himself with people such as fishermen and craftsmen, and I was somewhat surprised that the nicely dressed and well spoken Judas Iscariot became part of the group. Although he was kind and well mannered, he never seemed to quite fit in with the others.

“It makes no sense,” Sarah says. “They say Judas turned Jesus over to the temple guards for a miserly thirty pieces of silver. The cost of a mere slave!”

“Why would he do that?”

“Some say Satan entered his heart.”

I feel a chill run down my spine.

“Perhaps Jehovah is the only one who knows these things for sure, Mary.”

“What became of Judas?”

“They say he came to regret what he had done and that he returned to the temple and threw the money back at the priests, begging them to undo what had already begun. But it was too late.” She sighed. “He later hanged himself.”

“Oh!”

“Do you think there will be resurrection and life for Judas?” Sarah asks.

“I think only the Lord can answer that question. But I do remember the thief on the cross next to Jesus, the one who was sorry and contrite.”

Sarah nodded. “And Jesus said he would be in paradise that very day.”

But I do not know about poor Judas Iscariot. However, I am thankful that I did not learn of this sooner, for I am afraid it would be hard to forgive the man who betrayed my son—a man who had supposedly been a friend. But it is easier to think about this now that I know Jesus is alive. To my surprise, I feel mostly pity for Judas the betrayer.

We rest in the shade during the heat of the day, then start out again as the shadows grow longer. Soon we can tell we are nearing Magdala. The smell of fresh lake air drifting on a gentle breeze cools our faces, and we both quicken our pace.

It is not the first time I understand why Jesus loves it here by the Sea of Galilee. The sun dips low as we enter the town that nestles onto the hillside next to the lake. We stop and ask for directions and then quickly find the right house, which is easy to spot because of its prominence. Then, just as promised, we are warmly welcomed into Mary’s comfortable home, and she tells us that we are just in time for the evening meal. But I am much hungrier for information than I am for food.