Not Yet, Jesus

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
Meeting Jesus as a young man - before he becomes the legendary man... what would he be like? How would you feel?

Submitted: January 17, 2009

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Submitted: January 17, 2009

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Not Yet, Jesus
 
One dawn of many slowly peeks above the mountains darkened by sleep. I have not slept in a great many days or weeks, finding myself scurrying along steep rocked paths of city streets.
Light from above reaches a small clay window as I pass quietly by; a portal opens into the world of a controlled, frenetic work of a young man, one younger than I. Sweat drips from his brow as he chips, smoothes, and mumbles blessings upon a silly piece of wood. I laugh, he turns and smiles, and I am frozen by peace. He continues back to his work.
The wood begins to take shape while wood chips fly as though they are small brown doves landing beneath his torn sandals, piling into a small mountain, trying desperately to reach the heavens. The carpenter is surrounded by walls of wooden chairs, tables, and cups, stacked perfectly, awaiting their deliverance to homes of use.
The young carpenter’s rugged brown hair tosses about two profound eyes concentrated deep into the fluid, disciplined motion of his hands. His nerves are like nails dug deep in a solid tree. His movements are precise, almost making the wood beneath his touch sing of its true and future beauty. He wipes a brow filled with sweat, only to smear his face with dirt and grime. The small growth of hair on his face becomes matted and filthy.
The great red lord of the sky is rising above the grey horizon. Loud bangs come from a door. I start from the noise and see three Roman soldiers, heavily armed in golden armor and wearing silver swords on their belts, wrapped in their scarlet capes. There is a small commotion as they wait to enter in. I watch from the window as the young carpenter delivers the soldiers into his workshop. He departs for a moment, returning with an older man. I think it is his father.
One soldier reaches for a damson colored moneybag and hands it to the older carpenter; sounds of coins can be heard. It pays the soldiers’ release from the shop with their paid merchandise. The Romans look satisfied with the product before them, and all three bend to lift the young man’s finished work.
I watch them carry the heavy load. I watch them carry the cross out the door and down the street. I turn back to the window, looking for the young carpenter, but he is gone. I turn about, unsure of where to go. The small paths feel like a maze before me.
Great clouds burst open and rain falls with each cold splash. My feet move me between busy shops and warm homes. I go alone into the clean day.


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