Unafraid by Francine Rivers Page B

before he makes things right and we are free? How long will your Son be content to work in the shop alongside my beloved Joseph, building tables and chairs, yokes and plows, doors and lattices, when there is a kingdom out there to build? How long will he sweep the carpentry shop clean of wood chips before the time comes for him to sweep the earth as clean as it was in the Garden of Eden? How long before he crushes the evil men who oppress Israel? Oh, Lord, how long? How long?
    Finally the yearning became so strong, she gave in to it and one day asked Jesus, “Do you know who you are?”
    When he didn’t answer, she persisted. “Son,” she said, “do you know?”
    Why did he tense at the question? Why did he look at her with tenderness mingled with distress? She wasn’t trying to vex him. She was only asking. . . . Sometimes he would look at her as he did now, and she would feel that she was causing him grief. But how could that be? Who loved him better than she did? Who had been more devoted to him? She came close and took his hand, turning it in hers and running her fingers over the rough calluses. How could it be that the Messiah should have hands like a common laborer’s? “Oh, Jesus, should a king have hands like these? . . .”
    His hand stilled hers. “I am my father’s son.”
    But when she looked into his eyes, she wondered. Did he mean Joseph or God? Should she tell him again how he came into this world? Should she tell him that all the world was waiting for him to come out of hiding? That she was waiting?
    “You’re my son, too, Jesus. I only want to see you receive the honor due you.”
    She had seen the signs of Jesus’ power. Even when patrons didn’t pay their debts or Roman soldiers came and took from their family provisions, there was always enough bread to fill empty stomachs, always enough fresh water to quench thirst, always enough oil to keep the lamp lit through the dark night. Even after the Romans had emptied the family’s bins and jars and cruses, there was enough.
    Still, life had not grown easier as Jesus increased in wisdom and stature. His struggles seemed more intense. Whatever battles he fought within himself were not easily won, nor did he share them with her or Joseph. Would life not be easier for all when he took his rightful place?
    “David was a boy when the prophet Samuel anointed him king over Israel,” she said.
    “And it took more than ten years to develop his character so that he would be useful.”
    “Your character is perfect, my son. You are useful now.”
    Beads of sweat formed on his brow. “It is not my time, Mother.”
    “But when, Jesus? When will be your time?”
    “It is not my time,” he said again.
    Why did he look so pressed? Anger rose. She wanted to shake him and make him tell her. Surely it was her right to know. “How long must I wait before I see what you were born to do?”
    “You press me.”
    “Yes, I press you for your own good. Is it not for a mother to encourage her son to fulfill his obligations to his people? I love you, my son. You know how much I love you. Joseph and I have made sacrifices for you. But sometimes I wonder. Do you know who you are?”
    “Mother . . .”
    “All I want is to see things made right. Is that wrong?”
    “You must wait.”
    “I’m tired of waiting! Look around you, Jesus. See how your people suffer!” Her voice broke. She looked away, struggling with frustration. “When, Jesus? Just tell me when and I won’t ask again. I won’t press . . .” She looked back at him through a sheen of tears. “Please.”
    His dark eyes were moist. Sweat dripped down his temples. “It is not my time,” he said again. Something in his voice made her shudder inwardly. She sensed she had added to his travail by making demands of him, demands he had no intention of fulfilling. Perplexed and grieving, she said no more.
    Instead, she went to Joseph and asked him to approach Jesus. They had always been able to talk. Surely