Free Unafraid by Francine Rivers

that reason enough to throw stones at a sick old man?”
    Mary’s throat tightened at the pain she saw in her son’s eyes. She cupped his cheek. “There is no reason in cruelty. It just is.”
    God opened her womb again, and James was followed by little Joseph, named after his father. Then came Anne, named for Mary’s mother.
    The children loved Jesus and were as envious of his attention as they were for hers or Joseph’s. Anne especially wanted to sit in her big brother’s lap whenever Jesus was in the house. She pleaded with him to tell her stories, and Mary would listen as he told his younger brothers and sister about Noah and the ark full of animals, Jonah and the big fish, Daniel in the lions’ den. He sang psalms to the children in the evenings. Mary and Joseph sang with him when they were songs they knew, but sometimes Jesus would sing familiar words to a tune they had never heard before.
    Each morning, when she kissed Jesus before he went off to study the Torah with other boys his own age, she felt a pang of sorrow that she didn’t have him all to herself anymore. He was growing up, and her days were filled with a woman’s duties to her household. When Jesus came home, he didn’t sit and talk with her. He went straight to work alongside Joseph, filling orders for customers and helping put bread on the table for their growing family.
    Is this really the Messiah? This quiet boy who says little and seems to have no ambition beyond learning the Law and Joseph’s trade?
    The thought came to her out of nowhere and she winced, disturbed by it. She pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to rub it away. But it remained like a dark echo of someone else’s voice.
    Can this really be the Messiah who will deliver Israel? Is this the warrior-king who will deliver his people?
    How could such a betraying thought come to her mind? She knew who Jesus was! She knew that her firstborn had been conceived by the Holy Spirit! She knew he was the long-awaited Messiah!
    A clatter of noise and familiar voices drew her outside, where she saw James and Joseph having a sword fight with two sticks. She sighed. Those two seemed so determined to vie for position with their fists. She often found herself dreaming of the easier days when she and Joseph had had only Jesus. Loving, teachable Jesus, who drank in the world around him but never seemed a part of it. Her son of another world. Her son of the Holy Spirit. How could she help but favor him?
    Her thoughts were cut short as James and Joseph’s play grew more heated. James shoved his younger brother into the dirt and stood over him, stick pointed at his heart. “You’re dead!”
    Tears streaked Joseph’s dusty face as he pushed himself up. “It’s your turn to be the Roman.”
    “Stop it!” Mary cried out and then was immediately sorry for speaking so harshly. Why were boys so bent toward war? She knew it was the dream of every Jewish boy—including hers—to break the chains of Rome.
    Jesus had come to do just that, but she wondered if it would happen in the way everyone expected. Jesus, her son. God’s Son. Would Jesus one day march upon Jerusalem as King David had done? Why was that so difficult for her to imagine? What cost to this child who could look at his quarrelsome friends and siblings with such love?
    She knew Jesus struggled, too. She remembered when he had been a little boy, disturbed by frequent nightmares. How many times had she taken him into her arms and asked him what was troubling him? He would never say. She saw the pain in his eyes when he came home from synagogue, the look of anger when he saw someone being treated unjustly. At times, there would be a sheen of sweat on his brow as he sat with his prayer shawl over his head, his face strained as he prayed.
    One day she asked him, “Why do you look so distressed, Jesus? Tell me what’s wrong.”
    “What good would it do to tell you?”
    “It might ease your burden.”
    He looked at her, his dark