Mary was nervous, but Elizabeth was confident she had seen Jesus with John. She said she saw them running ahead of the caravan, exploring as usual, blazing a trail ahead of the rest of them. So, Mary swallowed her worry and her instincts, and she began preparing for the journey home. The boys always took care of each other; and John, though a bit strange, was responsible – he could be trusted to curb Jesus’ renegade impulses. At least, that’s what Mary whispered in prayer as she picked up the remaining items and stuffed them into the wrinkled, dusty travel bags purchased all those years ago.
And she kept praying as Joseph helped her up onto the aging donkey, as they joined the final stragglers of their family on the long trip home, even as she fell asleep at the end of that first day, distraught that they had caught up with the front of the caravan, and John was confused, and Jesus wasn’t there.
“No, Auntie, really I haven’t seen him since – when was it – since early this morning. He was standing on the road, watching the sunrise. I invited him to join me at the head of the group, but he said he had to stay behind. I thought he meant he would stay with you…”
Mary wrestled nightmares in the lingering darkness. Joseph was asleep, but he had promised they would turn around at first light.
She stared at the stars and begged for an angel.
In the morning, no messenger had come, and Mary was awake, unnoticed. She nudged Joseph gently, and stood, organizing her things. She left a note for Elizabeth, asking her to carry her belongings until they could return with Jesus. With Jesus. Mary refused to think of the terrors he might have seen during the night. She and Joseph hurried back onto the road toward Jerusalem.
The sun was barely peeking above the eastern horizon; still, her body burned with tension and dreadful anticipation of the destination a day’s journey ahead. Jesus could truly be anywhere.
The rocks around her were as silent as her thoughts, resisting the “what if’s”. She set her eyes straight ahead, and Joseph led the donkey resolutely. After a few hours, he began to sing, and the desert sands held onto his voice, sustaining it against the empty winds. He sang until the city gates arose, an unholy mirage against the sky.
The sounds of animals and mobs drifted toward them, and Mary whispered fervently. She listened for her child’s voice. Indeed, almost a man, but still her little boy. Passing through the black iron gate, she glanced up and saw archers on the wall. She shuddered at the image. What could her boy do against this monster that held the temple hostage? How could he, so innocent, protect himself, without his parents, in a city built on blood? Oh God, where could he be?
Three days spent stumbling, lost in the darkest crevices of the city. Crawling through alleys between the dens of the desperate. Mary held her breath against the stench; she kept her mouth closed to choke the fear down. She and Joseph grasped at each other those nights, in agony when they returned and collapsed in their rented room. But after three days…
Whispers throughout the city. This news travels fast. A boy. A demonstration? A revelation? He sits in the temple, listening. His questions shake the very foundations of power. Tremors move through the ranks of the authorities. The masses gather, wide-eyed.
The beast writhes in the throes of birth pangs unbidden and most unwelcome.
Luke 2:41-52