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

It seemed that every time I returned to Nazareth after hearing Jesus’s preaching, there was an enormous letdown. It always felt a bit like dying to me. As if I truly was losing my life.
    But I hoped that this time might be different, and I was more determined than ever to share the truth and the stories I had heard during this past year. Although, I quickly figured out—no great surprise here—that my own children were not the least bit interested in listening to me. Nor were most of my neighbors. However, I soon discovered that they did not appear to mind if I told their children my “childish stories,” as everyone began to call them. I suspect the young mothers in our town may have simply enjoyed knowing that their children were occupied and out of harm’s way for a spell each day.
    So it became something of a ritual, in the late afternoon while mothers were busy with food preparations, that my grandchildren and their friends gathered around me in the shade of my garden as I repeated their uncle’s parables. These little ones would listen with wide eyes, and, to my amazement, they never questioned the truth of these stories. Sometimes I think they understood the stories even better than I did. Now, those were wonderful times.
    “Tell the one about the shepherd,” urged Thomas, my oldest grandson. He was almost eight at the time.
    So I launched into the story of the good shepherd and his hundred sheep and how distressed he was when one lamb became lost.
    “Where are you?” I said, holding my hand above my forehead and peering out into the distance. I was pretending to be the shepherd. “Where is my little lost lamb?”
    The children made baaing noises, and we laughed.
    “It is dark on the mountain,” I said. “And my little lamb is in danger of getting eaten by a wolf or a bear.” Then Thomas stood up and growled, and the children squealed with delight. And on we went until we finally rescued the little lost lamb and he was returned to the flock, where a great celebration took place. Then the children cheered, and sometimes I gave them barley cakes or dried dates as a treat for our own festivities.
    As word spread among the children, our little story time in the garden began to get larger. Of course, all were welcome there. To my surprise, instead of feeling bad that I was stuck in my hometown instead of hearing the Lord’s teachings, which I did sorely miss, I found great comfort in repeating his stories to the children. Perhaps this was my own way of losing my life for his sake. Who can know such things?
    I knew that word of my storytelling was spreading among the adult community in Nazareth, and it became obvious that some thought me quite strange and eccentric for spending so much time with children. Some even believed I was becoming a fanatic. But it was not long before something unexpected started to happen.
    I adopted the habit of going to the well quite early in the morning. Of course, I knew that my daughters-in-law and daughters were willing to bring my water for me. But often they did not go until the sun was high, and I have always been concerned about watering my plants in the heat of the day. Besides, I enjoyed walking through our sleepy village, and it was reassuring to know that the larger crowds of women (including the ones who liked to whisper about “that crazy mother of Jesus,” as they often called me) would not be there yet. And then there was the quiet cool of the morning to greet me. So this was not an unpleasant task for me.
    As time passed, I began to notice that two of my neighbor women started coming to the well while I was there. These were women I had known most of my life. They were only a few years younger than me, but, like me, they had reached an age where child rearing and household responsibilities were not as demanding as they had once been. And it was not long before these two women began talking to me. At first it seemed to be friendly small talk. But I soon realized