Three Days: A Mother's Story (7 page)

Feeling my sister’s pain almost as my own, I sought out Jesus. I am not even sure why—for what did I really think he could do about it? But if Joseph had been alive, I am sure I would have run to him for help in just the same way.

“Jesus!” I used my most urgent tone to address my son. “They are out of wine, and Sarah is humiliated. Is there anything you can do?”

I will never forget the way he looked at me. Almost as if I was not really his mother. “This is not our problem,” he told me with an authority that was slightly intimidating. “My time has not come yet. Do not push me, woman.”

Well, for my firstborn son to address me in such a manner was rather shocking. Not that it was rude, for I have heard other grown men use the same terms with their mothers. But it felt so impersonal, as if he was gently but firmly shoving me away from him. For some reason—almost as if some other force was at work within me—I went ahead and told the servants to go and do whatever Jesus instructed them. To this day, I wonder at my nerve, but I can only attribute it to the mighty Jehovah.

Feeling nervous but expectant, I stood nearby and watched as Jesus told the servants to fetch the large water cisterns (there were six of them altogether, and each could hold nearly thirty gallons), and then he said to fill them to the brims with water. Without questioning, the servants obeyed.

After the water cisterns were full, Jesus told the servants to dip their wine jugs into these large vats and serve the wedding guests. Well, you could tell that the servants thought this was questionable behavior, but, for some reason, they did it anyway. Perhaps Jehovah was at work in them as well.

You should have seen those servants’ faces—my face too, for that matter—when they poured out the water that had been miraculously changed into wine. And not just any ordinary wine, but the finest wine any of us had ever tasted.

“Why has the groom saved the best wine for last?” the bride’s father demanded as he held up a cup and sniffed its bouquet. “This is much better than that cheap stuff you were serving us earlier.”

Sarah looked at me with surprised but grateful eyes, and the wedding celebration continued late into the night and on into the next day. Was I amazed by the incredible miracle my son had performed? Well, of course; who would not be? But the main thing that kept me awake that night was the stinging memory of the way Jesus had looked at me, the way he had called me “woman” instead of “Mother.” Almost as if he were dismissing me altogether, as if I was no longer his mother and someone worthy of respect and honor. And that is when I knew—I knew to the depths of my soul—something between us had changed. Something was separating us, like an invisible wedge that would go deeper and deeper, slowly driving us apart. And I believe that wedge was the Lord God Almighty. I was not sure why he would do this to me.

It became clearer to me, as time passed and Jesus’s ministry and followers increased, that Jehovah, more than ever before, was truly manifest in this man. Jesus was not only the Son of God, but he and God were connected somehow—they were
one
. I began to realize that when you looked upon my son, you were looking upon the Lord God. Indeed, Jehovah had come to live and dwell among us in the form of Jesus. But as a mother who felt she was losing her firstborn son, this was a bitter taste of things to come.

Perhaps this was even the first slice of Simeon’s prophecy, the sword that would pierce my soul, for I loved Jesus as much as—no, more than—ever. I loved him with a love that was fierce and perhaps even somewhat protective. As if I, a mere earthly woman, might somehow protect the mighty Jehovah. But I believe I still thought this. And God in his gracious glory was determined to put me in my proper place. And so he did. So he did.

My other children were quite stunned by what was happening with their eldest brother. Repeatedly they asked me how this was even possible. How had their own flesh-and-blood brother lived among them and then suddenly transformed himself into the Messiah? Their doubt and skepticism was written all over their faces, and my answers never seemed to satisfy them. Even when I quoted to them from the old prophets, such as Ezekiel and Isaiah (predictions of the Messiah Joseph had taught me back when we lived in Egypt and had time for such long discussions), still they were unconvinced.

My sons were particularly skeptical of their brother’s ministry. And one day, James, Joses, and Judas drew me into their concerns. Simon, the youngest, wisely remained silent.

“I have heard that some people think Jesus is crazy,” James said.

“That is right,” Joses agreed. “There is talk that he lives like an animal, that he does not take care of himself and thinks nothing of breaking the Sabbath.”

“And some even say he teaches cannibalism,” James said, “that he tells his followers they must eat his flesh and drink his blood.”

I shuddered but said nothing.

“He is in great danger,” Judas said, as if he was actually concerned for his half brother’s welfare. “He is very close to going over the edge, Mother.”

“We should go to him,” James urged. “We should warn him to be more careful.”

“And to take care of himself,” Joses added. “Perhaps he needs a rest.”

Their words were like thorns caught in my clothing that day; they poked and stabbed at me until I was nearly sick with worry for Jesus. That was how I let my sons talk me into going to Galilee to see him.

“You are his mother,” James said as we set out on our mission to rescue my firstborn son. “Jesus must listen to you.”

“We can talk him into coming home for a while,” Joses said. “He needs to take a break from all his traveling and speaking.”

I could tell they were concerned for Jesus, and I knew they really loved him. But something about our trip did not feel right. Even so, I could not quite put my finger on it. And their words combined with their strength of unity were persuasive.

It was not difficult to locate Jesus once we reached the small town in Galilee. We simply followed the crowd. They were clustered around a house where we were informed that Jesus was inside, reportedly teaching his disciples and others. But I remained outside as I asked one of Jesus’s followers to go in and get him.

“Please tell Jesus that his mother and brothers are here to see him,” I said in a voice filled with maternal authority. And my three other sons stood behind me, nodding. As I waited I tried to decide what I would say to Jesus. I thought he should be aware of our concern and listen to our warning. Perhaps he would even agree to come home.

But we waited and waited, and Jesus did not come out. Finally the man I had spoken to earlier emerged, but his face bore a frown.

“Where is my son?” I demanded, feeling slightly aggravated by our long wait in the noonday sun.

“Jesus has sent you a message,” the man said.

“What is it?”

This poor man looked clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. First he shuffled his feet, then he cleared his throat, and finally he spoke. “Jesus said, ‘Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?’”

“What?” James demanded. “He knows who we are—”

The man held up his hand to stop him. “Jesus also said that whoever does the will of his Father in heaven—those people are his mothers and brothers and sisters.”

In other words, my eldest son had absolutely no interest in seeing his own family. It was as if we were strangers to him. Or worse, since he was continually surrounded by virtual strangers, we were even lower than that in his eyes. Or so it seemed.

So, there you see, Jehovah
did
put me in my place. Thoroughly humbled by my son’s lack of reception, I turned away and began to walk toward home. But my sons were incensed that their own flesh and blood should treat them, and particularly me, in such a fashion. I was not paying close attention to their angry words. I was too caught up in a grief all my own, but I could tell by their tone of righteous indignation that they talked of little else for quite some time.

As I walked toward Nazareth, I felt that Jehovah was speaking to my heart, gently correcting me in regard to my eldest son—or rather the reaction I felt toward my son. Feeling the burning conviction of God’s Spirit, I walked along in quiet repentance, my head bowed as I silently confessed my sin to Jehovah.

My sin, I knew, was my motherly pride. I actually felt that I was somehow responsible, if only in a small way, for Jesus’s successful ministry—as if I should receive some kind of glory or honor. How it pains me even now to remember how I honestly believed this back then. What a silly, shallow woman I was! I still wonder sometimes why Jehovah chose someone like me to be the mother of his Son. I am so unworthy.

But I was not stupid, and I fully realized in that moment how pride truly does precede the fall. And so, for the sake of Jesus even more than for myself, I had no desire to stumble just then. I knew I had a responsibility to keep a pure heart not only before the Lord Jehovah, my God, but also before my son, the Holy One of Israel. And with this realization, I had tears of contrition streaming down both cheeks. So much so that I was unable to see clearly and finally had to stop walking. Along the side of the road, I stood and sobbed, looking to the heavens and longing for forgiveness.

My sons, unaware of my heartache, were quite a ways ahead before they noticed that I was no longer walking with them.

“See!” James said as the three of them hurried back to my side. Then he used the edge of my veil to tenderly dab my wet cheeks. “Jesus is a disrespectful son! He has hurt our mother.”

“He is tearing this family apart!” Joses exclaimed. “Something should be done about it.”

I stopped crying, and, standing up straight, I looked at the three of them. I endeavored to give all of them my sternest expression, something I had always reserved for only the worst of childhood offenses but had not needed to use for years.

“Quiet!” I finally said in a loud voice. “Be silent, my sons.”

They looked surprised, but, seeing that I had attained their attention, I continued in a quiet but very intense voice. “I cannot force you to believe that your brother truly is God’s own Son or persuade you to accept him as the real Messiah, but I will
not
abide your slander of him for one more moment. Do you understand?”

Apparently they did, for they remained quite somber for the rest of the journey home. As I walked I continued silently praying to Jehovah. I thanked him for his correction on my soul, and I asked him to show all my children the truth about their eldest brother, to help them accept that the Lord God Almighty had ordained this event since the beginning of time and that no amount of skepticism or complaining could alter that fact.

From time to time I have noticed small things, like a nod of understanding from my oldest daughter, Hannah, or maybe I will catch Joses actually quoting his oldest brother—these little things give me a glimmer of hope for Jesus’s siblings. But, for the most part, my grown children, like the majority of my neighbors in Nazareth, are about as faithful as a millstone when it comes to accepting Jesus as Messiah.

Still, I cannot help but wonder what they are thinking now. I am sure my children have received word of their brother’s tragic death, since they are still here for Passover and all of Jerusalem hums with the news. Are they sorry they did not treat him better during his last years on earth? Do they wish they had done things differently?

This weary mother’s heart cannot even begin to figure out such things on the second sorrowful day of our great loss. And I have long since learned there is nothing I can do about such things anyway. So once again—as I have done so many times before—I will pray. I will place my other children in God’s hands. Only Jehovah can convince them of the truth.

10

MOST OF MY PRIDE was put to death on the road home from Galilee that day. Now, I am not perfect, and I still have my moments when I must remind myself that I am only an earthen vessel—and not a very lovely one, at that. But something inside me was greatly changed that day. As a result, I kept a distance from my son’s ministry for quite a while. It seemed the right thing to do at the time. Perhaps it was Jehovah’s spirit guiding me—that still, small voice I have come to respect and love. But I knew I should stay away for a spell. And so I did.

Even so, I would ask anyone who had seen him to tell me everything they could remember. “What did he say?” I would inquire eagerly. “What did he teach?” And it was during this time when I felt myself becoming like a child who was hungry for truth and knowledge. And after what seemed a long period of waiting, I finally knew that the time had come. I was ready. Ready to go and sit among the hundreds of others, just another believing face in the crowd, eager to hear and learn from my Lord. For that is how I had begun to think of him—as my Lord. And this renaming of my son brought great peace and comfort to my heart. Indeed, things were changing in me!

How my spirit rejoiced on the day I felt that still, small voice telling me that it was time—that I was free to go and hear him. I already knew that Jesus was up near the Sea of Galilee, and I quickly packed a few things and set out on the road. As I traveled I met others who were going to hear him as well. People from as far away as Jerusalem had heard about his teachings. Many had left jobs and even families to journey up here just to see him.

“How long have you known of Jesus?” a young woman about the age of my Hannah asked me.

“I am still just getting to know my Lord,” I told her. And this was not necessarily untrue.

“Have you heard that he can heal the sick?” another woman asked.

I simply nodded and listened as my fellow travelers spoke of the marvelous things Jesus had done. Without revealing my relationship to Jesus, I took in their comments, hiding each word like a tender morsel in my heart. Then I stopped in Cana to visit my sister Sarah, who had been recently widowed. I talked with her awhile, expressing my sorrow at her loss. Then I told her where I was going, and Sarah, still amazed at the wine miracle, decided she would join me on this pilgrimage. I was surprised but truly happy to have her company. Even so, I did ask her not to reveal our identity to those we traveled with, and she agreed.