Three Days: A Mother's Story by Melody Carlson Page B

mothers. But it felt so impersonal, as if he was gently but firmly shoving me away from him. For some reason—almost as if some other force was at work within me—I went ahead and told the servants to go and do whatever Jesus instructed them. To this day, I wonder at my nerve, but I can only attribute it to the mighty Jehovah.
    Feeling nervous but expectant, I stood nearby and watched as Jesus told the servants to fetch the large water cisterns (there were six of them altogether, and each could hold nearly thirty gallons), and then he said to fill them to the brims with water. Without questioning, the servants obeyed.
    After the water cisterns were full, Jesus told the servants to dip their wine jugs into these large vats and serve the wedding guests. Well, you could tell that the servants thought this was questionable behavior, but, for some reason, they did it anyway. Perhaps Jehovah was at work in them as well.
    You should have seen those servants’ faces—my face too, for that matter—when they poured out the water that had been miraculously changed into wine. And not just any ordinary wine, but the finest wine any of us had ever tasted.
    “Why has the groom saved the best wine for last?” the bride’s father demanded as he held up a cup and sniffed its bouquet. “This is much better than that cheap stuff you were serving us earlier.”
    Sarah looked at me with surprised but grateful eyes, and the wedding celebration continued late into the night and on into the next day. Was I amazed by the incredible miracle my son had performed? Well, of course; who would not be? But the main thing that kept me awake that night was the stinging memory of the way Jesus had looked at me, the way he had called me “woman” instead of “Mother.” Almost as if he were dismissing me altogether, as if I was no longer his mother and someone worthy of respect and honor. And that is when I knew—I knew to the depths of my soul—something between us had changed. Something was separating us, like an invisible wedge that would go deeper and deeper, slowly driving us apart. And I believe that wedge was the Lord God Almighty. I was not sure why he would do this to me.
    It became clearer to me, as time passed and Jesus’s ministry and followers increased, that Jehovah, more than ever before, was truly manifest in this man. Jesus was not only the Son of God, but he and God were connected somehow—they were one . I began to realize that when you looked upon my son, you were looking upon the Lord God. Indeed, Jehovah had come to live and dwell among us in the form of Jesus. But as a mother who felt she was losing her firstborn son, this was a bitter taste of things to come.
    Perhaps this was even the first slice of Simeon’s prophecy, the sword that would pierce my soul, for I loved Jesus as much as—no, more than—ever. I loved him with a love that was fierce and perhaps even somewhat protective. As if I, a mere earthly woman, might somehow protect the mighty Jehovah. But I believe I still thought this. And God in his gracious glory was determined to put me in my proper place. And so he did. So he did.
    My other children were quite stunned by what was happening with their eldest brother. Repeatedly they asked me how this was even possible. How had their own flesh-and-blood brother lived among them and then suddenly transformed himself into the Messiah? Their doubt and skepticism was written all over their faces, and my answers never seemed to satisfy them. Even when I quoted to them from the old prophets, such as Ezekiel and Isaiah (predictions of the Messiah Joseph had taught me back when we lived in Egypt and had time for such long discussions), still they were unconvinced.
    My sons were particularly skeptical of their brother’s ministry. And one day, James, Joses, and Judas drew me into their concerns. Simon, the youngest, wisely remained silent.
    “I have heard that some people think Jesus is crazy,” James said.
    “That is