Holding Heaven by Jerry B. Jenkins

Author:Jerry B. Jenkins
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2010-05-21T16:00:00+00:00

DEATHBED

CONVERSATION

NEARING THE THIRTIETH

ANNIVERSARY OF HIS BIRTH, JESUS HAS AGAIN WORKED UNTIL DUSK. HE STRIVES TO ACCOMPLISH THE WORK OF TWO MEN, KEEPING UP WITH THE DEMAND FOR WOOD WHEELS, SADDLE PIECES, SANDAL SOLES, OXEN YOKES, PLOUGHS, AND THE LIKE. THOUGH OF ONLY AVERAGE HEIGHT, HE IS LEAN AND SINEWY, HIS TORSO SOLID, ARMS AND SHOULDERS TAUT FROM HARD, DAILY PHYS–ICALLABOR.

Wearing His father’s ancient wood-soled sandals and carrying a pot under one arm and a ragged cloth towel draped over the other, He has walked less than half a mile to the only well in Nazareth. He waits in the shadows as two young women laugh and talk, finishing their drawing of water. When they are gone, He makes sure no one else is about, hurries to the well, disrobes to His loincloth, and lowers the community bucket deep into the water.

Hauling it up thrice, He pours it into His pot each time until full. He brushes the wood chips and saw–dust from His hair, beard, chest, and arms. Then He hefts the heavy pot above His head and dumps half of it over Himself, bracing against the cool liquid in the twilight.

Jesus vigorously wipes Himself down, then empties the pot over Himself, finally toweling off. As He pulls His garment back on He hears a familiar voice.

“Son?”

He wrings out the towel. “Yes, Mother. Is he—?”

“He’s asking for You.”

Jesus hurriedly fills His pot again. “Coming,” He says, and lifting the vessel, joins her. “Is he lucid?”

“He is. Very weak. Very tired.”

Jesus nods. “Is he in pain?”

“No doubt, but he will not complain.”

“What does he want of Me? Is it the end?”

“Who can know?” she says. “He wants to talk.”

Jesus smiles. “He wants to listen.”

His mother shakes her head as they hurry along.

“Coming to find You reminds me of when You were twelve.”

“I remember.”

“We were worried sick.”

“At first you weren’t.”

She shrugs. “We assumed You were with friends.”

“I was! New friends.”

“Adults! Men of the temple! Scholars. Merely a child, and You had them astonished.”

“I was merely asking questions.”

“Questions with sharp points.”

“You were angry with Me, Mother.”

“You admonished me! Said I should know where You would be, that You would be in Your Father’s house, about His business.”

Jesus drapes an arm around her shoulders. “And so I was.”

Back at the cramped house, the aroma of fresh hewn cypress, pomegranate wood, olive wood, and even some rare and expensive cedar wafting from the attached shop, Jesus carried a heavy chair to His father’s bedside as His mother poured a cup of water from the pot. “I’ll be nearby,” she said.

Joseph was dozing noisily. Jesus prayed silently, Father, Your will be done. I shall miss him, but I thank You for him.

When Joseph roused, Jesus carefully held the cup to his lips. “My son,” the old man said.

“My father.”

“The accounts? The orders?”

“Rest,” Jesus said. “Everything is on schedule and under control.”

“Because of You,” Joseph said.

Jesus chuckled. “Because of you. The shop could run itself for years.”

Joseph shook his head but did not respond.

Finally he managed, “You have been a good son.

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