Holy Writ is a collection of lovable and satirical short stories (this one’s lovable), reimagined from the world of the Bible. Subscribers get each new story delivered for free!
When Mary would ask Joseph about the book he was writing, Joseph would say, “It’s about music.”
When Mary would ask him what tune he was humming, he would say, “Dialogue.”
After Jesus was born, Joseph would carve little sheep, digging out curls of wool with a tiny pen-knife. “Baaaah!” said baby Jesus, pointing at the sheep in recognition. “Sheep!” Joseph would laugh and laugh—a rich baritone of a laugh that shook in the air with a boom. “Let me tell you about sheep,” he would say to Jesus, and with one massive hand he would gather the child onto his knee, and scoop up wooden figurines with the other. He plunked them down, like pieces on a game board, like a drunken gambler’s coins, merry and bright—and every night he told a new story.
“How can we be visiting old prophets and prophetesses in the Temple,” Mary would ask, “When you told him we were running off to Egypt in the middle of the night? And we don’t even own a donkey.” “Baaaah,” Joseph would say, waving a hand as big as an olive branch. “It gives the music color.” Besides, he thought to himself, the little wooden figures just looked right together. He’d even been working on a wooden star, to give everything some extra shine.
When the boy was older, and the figurines lay quiet on a shelf, Joseph would say, “Someday, I’m going to build us a house. A great big house, with many, many rooms. One for you, even. I’ll get it ready first, and then we’ll all go and live there together.” Jesus would swing from his arms then, and Joseph would tussle his hair, and their voices would mix together, one high and one low.
Oddly, it was the house that Jesus always talked about later on, even though he still had the figurines—had kept them, to remember Joseph by. “In my father’s house,” Jesus would say in his sermons, “there are many, many rooms.” “Ah,” said the people, “he means his Heavenly Father,” nodding to one another. “This is the child born of prophets and of kings, after all.” Only Mary could hear it in his voice—that strain of lost harmony looking for its melody. Only Mary could catch his eye at times like that.
“…Prepare a place for you…” Jesus would say again. “My father’s house...”
Afterwards, when all the people had gone home, she would take him in his arms and he would cry and cry. “You are the words of your father’s book,” she would whisper as Jesus wept. “You are the song that comes laughing out of his heart. You are the light in his eyes, the light of the world.” She looked at him then, and he knew that she meant it, and she kissed him, right on the nose.
They would lean on each other and walk up the hill, talking about the big old house they were going to build up there someday.
“You are the words of your father’s book,” she would whisper as Jesus wept. “You are the song that comes laughing out of his heart. You are the light in his eyes, the light of the world.”
love this part best! truly beautiful. no baaah about it.