The rhythmic pounding of the hammer drifting in from the husband's workshop seemed especially calming that day. The steady beat starkly contrasted the emotions I felt inside since John came and brought me the news.
I smoothed my hands over the fabric I had tucked away so many years ago as I felt the first tears fall down my cheek. It was the remnants of material I had used to make the robe the husband and I presented to him before he went out to the wilderness that day. After that forty days he spent in the wilderness, he came home to us on fewer occasions.
Since the day I knew he was being formed in my womb, I had known he was set apart. I will never forget the day the angel appeared to give me the news that I was with child. Everytime I recall the mystique wonder of that day, I still get a strange warm tingling sensation. There was a little guy growing inside me! But how could it be when I had not known any man? Some questions will never be answered I guess, I thought to myself.
Leaning out the window, I studied his silhouette for a while. There was the man I loved, sweat dripping down his forehead. It was just the two of us now, still he laboured hard for us. The last months had been especially trying but still he had been strong for us.
Reaching for a clean towel, I slipped outside, plodding softly on the dusty ground till I was beside him. Then gently, I dabbed his forehead with the clean towel. Putting his hammer down, he dusted his hands off on his workpants and turned to face me. "Hi love," I whispered as he reached out to embrace me. There was that far-away look in his eyes again. "You're thinking of him too, aren't you?" he whispered as he gently brushed a stray strand of hair off my face. Closing my eyes, I leaned in and rested my head on his chest with a sigh.
He led us over to the bench by the corner and for a while, he held my hand and neither of us said anything, allowing time for us to walk down that path in our heads again.
He had been a good son, but he never failed to surprise us. Remembering the day we found him in the temple amongst the teachers brought a smile to my face. He was only twelve, but he asked questions and talked with such authority that his father and I were left amazed. And then there was that incident at the wedding. They had run out of wine and for some reason I thought it would be good for him to help them out. Looking back now, I should have known he would have had a sense of when it was time for him to go about his Father's business.
After that day, he came and went even more -- more going than coming. Stories I heard about him came more from the town gossips than from him directly. Oh yes, so many stories we heard about him -- the good, the bad and the ugly. And each time, I would smile to myself while getting flour or picking out new material. Oh my Son, my precious Son.
And then the time came when they arrested him. I closed my eyes for a few brief moments and allowed that scene where John came running in with the news to replay in my mind. They had arrested him for blasphemy. Blasphemy! My Son! He was no blasphemer! Why would they think that of him? Just a little while ago they had been celebrating him in Jerusalem and now they wanted him crucified! I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled watching it all unfold before my eyes. The path he took to Golgotha and the way they ridiculed him the entire walk there... The crown of thorns they placed on his head... The way they mocked him "King of the Jews" with that purple robe... My body trembled as that picture of him on that tree flashed before my eyes over and over again. Blood mixed with sweat, tears and water streamed down from his head, his hands and his feet. Oh my Son, my precious Son. What I would give to take his place!
And then that few moments I had with him... That few moments where he looked me in the eye. Even in all the pain he was in, there was still that look of love and respect he had always shown the husband and I. Then with all the strength he could muster, he whispered, "Dear woman, your son," and to John who had kept close to us while this all unfolded, he whispered, "Here is your mother."
He asked for a drink, and they moistened his lips with wine vinegar. And with that, he was... he was... I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips firmly together as fresh tears fell. My shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.
The husband leaned closer and put his arm around my shoulder. The pain in his eyes were as raw as if it had all been merely yesterday. He was weeping too and for a while we both sat, holding each other.
...
Their cheeks were moist as her fingers touched the Son of Man's face on the stained glass. They had heard the story so many times before, but it was not until they lost their own twenty-one year-old daughter that the pain of that story sunk in.
Someone knew. Someone cared.
"Come, my children," the kind face portrayed on the stained glass seemed to gently whisper. Who were they to be found worthy to share that meal at the table with the Good Teacher?
Then they saw them. Mary and Joseph. They were at the table too.
An interpretation of Luke 4:1-15, 1:26-38, 2:41-52, John 2:1-11 and 19:16-27
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