Three Days: A Mother's Story by Melody Carlson

I invited them to take a day trip with me when I knew that Jesus was teaching nearby, they quickly came up with excuses. I just do not understand that. I would think they would have been happy to escape their everyday chores for a little adventure on the road, not to mention some unforgettable teaching. But always they would say, “No, thank you, Mother. Not this time.”
    Even when I left my family to join Sarah during this Passover, explaining that she and I both felt the need to be near our Lord, still they could not accept this.
    “But this is Passover,” James complained. “It is time for families to be together, and you are our mother.”
    “Jesus is my family too,” I told him. “Just as those who do the will of our heavenly Father are my family.”
    “Are you saying we are not your family?” James looked indignant.
    I smiled at him. “You will always be my children, and I will always love you. But I cannot choose you over my heavenly Father.”
    And then I left to meet Sarah. She and I had already made plans to stay with some women friends who were close followers of Jesus—Joanna and Susanna and the other Marys along with a few more. These devoted women had committed themselves during the past two years to serving our Lord, and I was honored to be included among them. And although I do not like to hurt my children’s feelings, the truth is that I do feel more related to those who believe in the Son of God than I do to my own flesh-and-blood relatives. I cannot deny it.
    I think this was best driven home one time when Jesus came through our hometown for a brief visit. I remember the day vividly. I was so excited at the prospect of him sharing the good news among our neighbors and relatives in Nazareth. I had told many people, some who had already passed judgment based on hearsay, encouraging them that this was their chance to go and hear Jesus for themselves. Not only was I happy to see Jesus having this opportunity to convince the locals that his words were true, I was hopeful that he and his disciples would honor our home with a visit. I had spent days gathering foods to prepare a fine dinner for all of them.
    “Listen to Jesus,” I urged everyone who would listen. “See for yourself if his words are not the truth.”
    I was not too surprised, although I was deeply dismayed, to see that my own family had little interest in hearing him teach.
    “He is our brother,” James said in an uninterested voice, as if that explained everything.
    “Why should we leave our work just to hear him speak?” Joses asked.
    But I did notice Joses and James as well as Simon hanging like dried cornhusks on the perimeters of the small crowd that had gathered at the synagogue to hear Jesus. And, as always, Jesus’s teaching was excellent, and even the priests were impressed with his knowledge and skill. But suddenly—almost instantly—they seemed angered by that very thing, as if they resented that a local man could be so wise.
    “Where did this man get this kind of wisdom?” a respected elder demanded. “How is he able to do mighty works?”
    “Is not he just the carpenter’s son?” another said. “Is not his mother Mary?”
    “That is right,” the elder said. “And are not his brothers and sisters ordinary people who live in our town? What makes him think he is so special?”
    Soon they were all scoffing him and no one wanted to listen.
    “A prophet is honored everywhere,” Jesus said calmly, quoting old Scripture, “except in his hometown and in his own house.”
    The part about “his own house” hurt me a little. It made me sad to think Jesus did not feel honored in his family home, but then I knew it was true. Everyone in his immediate family, except me, refused to believe in him. They would not accept that he had been sent by God. And so he left Nazareth the same morning. Shaking the dust from his feet, I am sure, as he and his disciples continued on to places where crowds of thousands hungered for