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.
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