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CHAPTER XVIII Farewell
In all, Joseph fathered eight children. All five boys were master carpenters.
Young Judas could handle an adze better than any of the others. The senior Joseph, clearly the best woodworker in the family, observed that his third son and namesake, Joseph, learned quickly. This one exceeds the others in raw talent for the work, his father had decided. Possibly exceeding even himself. A fortunate man, all of his sons worked in the trade and, still, they were unable to keep up with the work. The girls, Milcah, Sarah and Rhoda, were a great help also and especially to their mother, his precious Mary.
The house and family of Joseph prospered, enjoying their reputation as the most skilled carpenters throughout the region of Galilee. Jesus, being the first born, was secretly the pride of his father's eye. He'd often watched his eldest son bent over his workbench and his heart warmed to a gentle smile. My son! Such a man! His back was strong, his mind sharp; his work was, well, among the finest.
As for Jesus, he loved the smells of the carpenter's shop. . . the pungent fragrance of pitch, of fresh cuts of aged wood, of the oils used to preserve and reveal the grain of each piece. He loved working with tools, working with his hands and the satisfaction of creating something good and useful. His father had taught him the value of a job well done, whether it was an attractive archway entrance to a home or wheels for an ox cart. And he loved the good fun of working with his brothers and his father, the joking, the teasing and the good-natured insults. They enjoyed the talk of men.
Jesus was, however, preoccupied at times. He has been preoccupied all his life, thought Joseph. He remembered with fondness the time they thought they had lost him. Palavering with the elders in the Temple . . . Joseph smiled at the memory. It wasn't amusing then.
Over the last several months, his son had become detached from the family business. Joseph understood. He had understood all along. I will lose him. The time is approaching. A terrible ache throbbed in his bones when he thought of it, a permeating pain, from which escape seemed impossible.
In the natural and ordinary earthiness of growing up, it had sometimes been hard for Joseph to think of this son as whom he knew him to be. While a happy child with a quick wit and a hearty laugh, Jesus was pensive at times, preoccupied with things beyond his father's ability to imagine. Beyond anyone's ability to imagine. Despite his terrible uniqueness, Jesus had been a fine son, every inch a source of pride to his father and mother.
He was thirty now. Clearly, his heart was no longer in the shaping of wood.
And then . . .
"My father," Jesus had begun. They had just completed the evening meal. Joseph at the head of the table, Mary at the other end. Things that affected the family were always discussed together. Even the youngest was invited to participate. And Rhoda never let such an opportunity pass. She was always ready to talk, ready to be--wanted to be--involved. Jesus reclined at his father's right hand. James, the eldest next to Jesus, reclined to their father's left. Sarah to James' left. Sarah. Dear, sweet Sarah. Much like her mother in disposition, humble, self-effacing, quiet; and across from her, Simon, who in addition to carpentry, was the family's hunter. Next to Simon, Rhoda, and across from her, Judas. Judas admired his brother Jesus and emulated him in thoughtfulness. To Judas' left, Milcah, the eldest daughter who reclined at Mary's right and who took charge of everything. The family often fondly wondered about Milcah and her mother as to which was really the "woman of the house." To Milcah's left, the boy Joseph. When Jesus addressed his father, conversation among the family faded. Even Rhoda quieted. All of them knew what was coming. Like their father, they had sensed it for months. Mary swallowed, held her breath and kept silent, tears a heartbeat away. "My father, I must leave."
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