They Called Him Yeshua: The Story of the Young Jesus

At the cock’s crow, Joseph’s eyes flew open. He grabbed

his dagger and jerked upright, then relaxed at the sight of

the golden aura of dawn on the eastern horizon. The aroma

of freshly baked bread drifted across the rooftop, and he

moaned and slunk back in a heap on his mat.

Ima’s baking—her fail-proof wake-up call.

Through one slitted eye, Joseph glimpsed the amethyst

sky crowning Nazareth, still shrouding the dawn. He lowered

his gaze to the rooftop sleeping quarters he shared

with his brothers.

Nathan and Cleophas still slept. Joseph sighed at their

snoring. The two seldom stirred to the sound of the cock’s

crow. How fortunate to be younger brothers.

He stretched and rose on one elbow as he watched their chests

rise and fall. His brothers seldom enjoyed the carefree sleep of boys

since they’d begun men’s work in the family’s fi elds. They

were growing up—but then, everyone’s life had changed

since Matthan had left. But the responsibilities of the eldest

did not fall on Nathan’s and Cleophas’s shoulders.

Joseph’s stomach twisted with the familiar ache, and

he rolled onto his back and stared up at the fading stars.

Was Matthan looking at the same sky this morning? Was he

safe? His older brother had left home three months ago, and

the family had not heard a word from him. Had he joined

the rebels? They all suspected he had, even though no one

talked about Matthan. Abba Jacob had forbidden the family

to even speak Joseph’s older brother’s name.

Joseph rubbed his stomach to ease the familiar ache.

Then he stood and straightened the simlah Ima had lovingly

sewn to serve as his outer garment and blanket. He stepped

over Nathan and crept down the steep stone stairs along the

exterior of the family’s small row house and walked toward

the door into the kitchen as he prayed.

Yahweh, protect my brother. Watch over him, wherever

his heart has led him.

The aroma of Ima Naomi’s brown bread made his mouth

water as he pulled open the rough wooden door, ducked his

head, and stepped into the golden glow of burning oil lamps.

He blinked for a moment, and familiar shapes emerged

in the lamplit haze. Little Miriam and Keturah, one bent

over the grinding wheel and the other at the smoking

tannur along the back wall of the tiny kitchen, were too busy

working to see him slip through the door into the kitchen.

But Ima Naomi, her round face red from the heat of baking,

sensed his presence and turned from the steaming

bread she had just pulled from the clay tannur. She greeted

Joseph with a peck on the cheek.

“Why so early, my son?” She bustled between rough

wood shelves loaded with hand-carved sycamore bowls,

dried fruits and vegetables, dates, figs, and assorted grains.

“The flour must be finer, Keturah,” she called across the

room. Joseph had learned that Ima could command more people

than a Roman centurion and remain calm.

“If you skimp on the grinding, beautiful daughter, the

bread will be coarse.”

“Yes, Ima.”

Joseph caught his sister’s shy glance in his direction,

and her cheeks blushed a sudden pink. He winked, assuring

her of his brotherly delight in her, and she turned back

to her grinding. Since Matthan left, Joseph was the oldest,

and his little sisters tried desperately to please him. And he

wanted to assure them he loved them unconditionally. The

girls had captured his heart when they had been born, an

easy task after having only men in the house for so many

years.

And soon their home would gain another woman.

Joseph’s thoughts drifted as he stared toward a small room

just off the kitchen at the back of the house—a recent addition

still under construction.

He felt a playful jostle of his shoulder. Ima had stepped

away from her baking at the tannur and stood at his side,

her graying, dark, curly hair grazing his shoulder.

“You’re thinking about Mary, aren’t you?”

Joseph’s neck and cheeks grew warm as his sisters

giggled.

“How did you know?”

Ima’s arm encircled his waist. “When your eyes spark

like flint against flint, I can see that Mary is occupying your

thoughts, my son.”

He kissed her forehead and whispered, “The sparkle of

flint against fl int is but a shadow of what I feel for her, Ima.”

She threw her head back and laughed, lines crinkling

around her eyes.

Behind him, on the other side of a woolen curtain in the

sleeping chamber Abba and Ima shared, Joseph heard the

sounds of Abba waking.

“My wife, have you started the Shavuot celebration without

me?”

Abba Jacob shoved aside the curtain and rubbed sleep

from his eyes. Tying the cord of his sleeping garment around

his generous waist, he stretched his hands overhead with a

yawn, his fingertips brushing the straw-plastered ceiling. He

was an imposing man, a head taller than most Galileans.

Jacob strode across the kitchen and, with a good-natured

growl, grabbed Keturah and buried his beard in her neck

as she squealed. Joseph smiled as he watched his father’s

morning antics.

“Enough, Jacob, you’ll wake the village.” Ima’s reprimand

came with a smile and a fl ash of pride. Jacob ben Matthan

 was known throughout Nazareth as an honorable

man and exemplary abba. Joseph guessed that was why it

had hurt so when his firstborn had abruptly left the family

without explanation.

Abba Jacob released Keturah and leveled a playful look

at Ima. “Careful, or you’ll be my next victim.” In two steps,

he closed the distance and kissed Ima. “Good morning,

beautiful wife.”

Joseph had always admired the love Abba showed Ima

Naomi. Men seldom demonstrated their affection for women

in public.

I want to love Mary like that—to protect her, show her

tenderness, and look at her that way.

A question tugged at Joseph’s thoughts.

But will I be a good husband like Abba?

Joseph was painfully aware that in just twelve short

months, his qualities as a husband would be tested.