Читать книгу Time - Alan Sorem - Страница 8

Two weeks passed. Yeshua and Yaakob were in the woodworking room. Yosa had taken the laden pony cart to make deliveries in the nearby villages.

The house was a large one for Nazareth. There were eight rooms spread about in a single storey, which included the workshop, plus a stable at the left side to shelter the donkey and milk cow and pony.

The house and the long garden behind testified to Yosef’s prosperity. The house had one interesting feature: the workshop at the right side was the only room to have a wooden door, rather than a curtain, facing the central hallway. Yosef had crafted the door in earlier years to keep the younger children from bursting in with their games and disturbing his concentration as he turned the wood.

Years ago the two older brothers had moved from apprenticeship to status as partners with their father. Recently Yosa had joined them. Today Yosa was delivering furniture while the two older brothers completed the decorative finishing touches on several items of furniture ordered by a man in Kapharnaum. And soon they were to receive word from a friend in Caesarea Maritima concerning possible orders. The seaport, one of Herod the Great’s massive projects, was now the headquarters of Pontius Pilate, the Roman prefect for central Palestine.

As he worked Yeshua thought once again about what his dying father had said to his mother. From his youth, Miriam and Yosef always had been open with him, in discipline and in instruction. What else could there be to say? When would she tell him? Perhaps it was an apology. He smiled as he remembered the one time he had seen his father truly angry with him. When he was twelve. In Yerushalayim.