Three Days: A Mother's Story by Melody Carlson

beloved husband, it was Jesus who met me there. And as I looked at my son through eyes blurred with tears, I saw the compassion of the almighty Jehovah on his face. And, like me, Jesus was crying. We embraced, and it was as if I was being held in the arms of my heavenly Father. In my deep need, I wished with all my heart that this fine young man might stay in my home and care for me like that forever. Alas, that was simply my selfishness at work.
    However, Jesus did remain in my home for a few more years. How quickly those years passed. Already a fine carpenter, he took over Joseph’s carpentry business, training up his brothers so that they could take over in time. He stepped easily into the role of provider and father figure to his siblings. Not that they always appreciated this or respected his wisdom and grace in dealing with them. But they could not have asked for better. Nor could I.
    “Why do not you take a wife, Jesus?” my oldest daughter, Hannah, asked him one day as he was at work. I paused near his workbench, pretending to examine a small stool he had just finished, as I listened to his response.
    He planed a piece of wood, going over it again and again until the plank was as smooth as the Sea of Galilee on a day without wind. “I already have my hands full with this family,” he told her with a smile.
    “But you should have a family of your own,” she insisted. “There are lots of nice girls in Nazareth who think that Jesus the carpenter is a very good catch.”
    He laughed. “You better tell them to cast their nets elsewhere, little sister.”
    I suppose I was relieved that Jesus showed no interest in marriage. Although, Hannah was right. There were plenty of young women in our village who thought highly of my son, plenty who would have been pleased to marry the honest, hardworking carpenter who took such good care of his family.
    Then suddenly everything changed. It happened when Jesus was around thirty years old. One morning, after seeing my firstborn son nearly every single day of his entire life, he bid me farewell, and, instead of going off to work, he simply walked away.
    Something about the determined look in his eye reminded me of the time he had stayed in the temple to attend to his Father’s business. I also knew, thanks to rumors that flew through our region like grassfire, that my dear cousin Elizabeth’s son (who was nearly the same age as Jesus) had just started a very unusual sort of ministry. People were calling him John the Baptist and John the Preacher, and some even thought he might be the Messiah. Although, I also heard that he quickly set them straight on this account, assuring everyone with ears to hear that he was only getting them ready for the one who would soon come.
    He told his listeners that while he, John, baptized with water, the one who was coming would baptize with fire. I am still uncertain as to what this means, for I have yet to see my son, the true Messiah, bring down fire on anyone. And, of course, now it seems too late. Even so, I hate to doubt John’s prediction.
    Naturally, I suspected that Jesus was going off to listen to his cousin’s preaching. And I later learned through a neighbor named Myra (she and her husband had witnessed this strange event for themselves) that Jesus had actually asked John to baptize him.
    “John the mighty preacher was nearly speechless,” Myra told me. “But then he said—and I swear that I am not making this up—that he was not worthy to tie Jesus’s sandals and that Jesus should be the one doing the baptizing.”
    In that moment, I felt something running through me—a rush of excitement mixed with a very real fear. And I knew this was the beginning. Although I felt disappointed, I was not very surprised when Jesus did not come home that day. Myra told me that after the baptism Jesus had turned and walked away, still dripping, heading straight for the wilderness.
    “I heard that John the Preacher lives in the