Heart pumping joy and pride, he stared at her—still striking after so many childbirths. His gaze settled on the children: five boys, four working in the shed, their sisters cooking, baking and drawing water while the eldest sat apart from them—uninvolved. He’d grown into a fine young man. He pulled his weight with the family business, even household chores—remarkable for an adult with many siblings. Sometimes, his mastery of carpentry astonished the older man. When that happened, he would remind himself that the lad was not your run-of-the-mill, enamoured-with-girls-and-swag kind. He was…disparate. It had been that way from the onset.
He remembered the circumstances of his birth. The mother had gotten pregnant. He wanted no part of that and decided to quietly divorce her. He loved her, yes, but no way was he starting married life with a bun in the oven he did not put there. His decision had been overridden—from quarters he could not argue with. It was his introduction to the not-ordinary nature of the child.
There had also been that occasion when they had gone up to Jerusalem from Nazareth for Passover. It had been one week of reminiscence and happiness. Three days into the journey home they could not find the boy anywhere… When they eventually located him holding court amongst doctors and professors, his mother had been unable to hold back a sharp rebuke:
“Son, why did you do this to us? Your father and I have been worried sick looking for you!”
Till his dying day, he would always remember the response.
“Why were you searching for me? Didn’t you realize I would be here seeing to my father’s things?”
And the boy had only been twelve! After that they had returned and he had lived obediently with them.
Now all grown, he sat, staring at the red disc sinking in the Galilean horizon, alienated from his siblings, parents and the activities around him. One might think it was aloofness at first but closer examination would reveal a spiritual undertone to it, like one involved in communion with some unseen being(s).
Once, he had needed his wife to do something. Miryam, he’d called a number of times. Getting no response he had approached where she sat beside her son. Her face was the picture of serenity. On the verge of raising his voice to ask if she’d developed some hearing impairment, he’d experienced it; peace that calmed all fears, gave assurance for tomorrow and caused joy to bubble up on the inside. He’d stood there for longer than he planned, irritation at his wife forgotten, basking in a warmth that was so out-of-this-world he did not want it to end.
Standing there, he knew with a certainty he could not account for, that Immanuel’s time in his household was drawing to an end. It was time for him to go become Mashiach. He wished it was not so, but even as he did, he knew it was selfish–this was the reason he was born. They had only been chosen as surrogate parents. And for that he was glad! To have lived under the same roof with divinity for almost three decades, was more than any mortal could ask for. He was blessed, in every sense of the word, and all of his kindred could testify.
He headed for the inner room, and the box where the Torah and other parchments were kept. It was time to write Yeshua into their family tree.
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