Another Mother (a story)

 

Where did I go wrong? I loved him, there was no doubt about that, from the first moment that my mother- in -law placed him into my arms. Avi my husband was not best pleased that we were to have another mouth to feed, already being parents to two boys and four girls, one a sickly infant, but the child being a boy made him a little happier. Perhaps he would follow him into the pottery trade and help a little around the workshop as he got older, as his brothers had done.

Ah, how little I knew then of the tears I would cry over my son and the prayers I would offer to God on his behalf. When did his wilful spirit demonstrate itself? Looking back, I remember that from the time he could walk, he wanted to run free, away from me. His sisters and I would chase him through the dusty streets of Jerusalem as he wound his way between fruit vendors and wool merchants, weaving his lithe body between donkeys laden with packs entering the city through the gates in the walls.

I remember a day when I took him to his father’s workshop. Shelves on the walls were filled with platters and cups. Avi sat at the wheel, skilfully turning a dish, his broad hands gently sculpting the wet clay.

“Look at your clever father” I said. “He’s making a dish to eat from. You mustn’t touch.”

Before I knew what was happening, my son had thrown back his head with a defiant grin and poked his fingers straight through the side of the dish. Avi was livid with rage.

“Get him out of here! Don’t you know I have taxes to pay?”

I think that was the beginning of the hostility between my son and his father. Where the other boys were teachable and obedient, this one was defiant. As if life in Jerusalem under the Roman Empire wasn’t hard enough. We had to be unobtrusive, obey the rules, pay the taxes and avoid the soldiers.

I feared for this son of mine. I would always know that my other children stayed close to home, but as he passed from boyhood into manhood, he disappeared more and more, hanging around the inns and taverns, listening to tales from the merchants and travellers of places far away.

There was kindness in him too. We had a donkey and a cage of doves and an old goat and he was the one who spoke to them more than all the others, who changed the straw and made sure they were watered and fed. I never knew him to be unkind to an animal.

People were another matter. He was rude to the elders in the temple. He fought constantly with his father and siblings. He began taking little things from the store holders when they weren’t looking. I knew one day he would walk away from his family and he did.

I prayed for his safety. I even joined a crowd once, hoping to see this miracle Man called Jesus who had powers, we heard, to make the blind see and lame walk. Perhaps if I asked Him, He could help my son but there were so many people there and I was too far away.

 Oh, how I prayed.

For two years we heard nothing. Then one morning there was a tap on the door of our little room and outside stood Samuel, my father’s longtime friend, with a grave look on his face.

“I waited until I knew for certain,” he said “but now there is no doubt. Your son was arrested by the Romans a few days ago for breaking into a centurion’s house and stealing valuables. He was tried today. He is to be crucified on Friday.”

My world fell apart. Those few days were the heaviest of my life. I could not go out on that Friday, could not go near the place of crucifixion, even though I longed to see him one last time. I suppose you could say I was a coward. I sat in the house with my daughters holding my hands until the sun went down. My oldest boy came in.

“It is done” was all he said.

That, however, was not the end of the story.

The next afternoon I received an unexpected visitor. My daughter showed him into the room and he sat next to me on a low stool. Taking my hand, he introduced himself as John, the son of Zebedee.

“Dear woman,” John said, “You have suffered greatly. I am sorry for all that you’ve gone through. I want you to know that I was with your son when he died.”

“You were with him?” I said.

“I was there for my friend and master, Jesus, “John continued. “Jesus was the Son of God, great in power and wisdom. He was without sin, yet He was crucified, in our place, so that when we die we can go to be with God because of Jesus. “

“My son was there with Jesus?”

“Yes, he was there beside Him. I want you to know that in his last moments he spoke to Jesus and asked Jesus to forgive him for his sins. Jesus said to him “Today you will be with me in Paradise.””

I could hardly speak. The tears were coursing down my cheeks. “My son is in Paradise with Jesus” I whispered.

John smiled at me gently, that kind, good man whose face seemed illuminated with light. “You too can know Jesus,’ he said. “Repent and commit your life to God. Jesus has paid the price for your sins too.”

“I want to know Jesus” I said.

“I want to know Jesus too,” said my daughter.

“I want to know Jesus too,” said my son.

 

That was so long ago and now I am an old woman, reminiscing on all that life has brought me, the good times and the terrible days. Through all the years I have grown to know and love Jesus more and more and I trust and believe that one day I will be reunited with my dear son and see our beloved Saviour face to face.