“Get up, Son,” his mother said as she looked into the alcove where he customarily slept. “Your breakfast is ready.”
“Can’t,” he said. “Can’t move.”
“Yes you can. Your food will get cold. Do you want another cold breakfast?”
“Is that Dad I hear?” he asked, rising and reaching for his clothes.
“That’s him. He’s out back working already. He’ll be needing you soon, don’t you think?”
“I need a day off. Dad’s work is too hard.”
“Day off, my love? What about me? What’s this in my hand?” she asked. "Marigolds?"
He smiled, entering the breakfast nook.
“It’s a broom, Mom. That’s all. An old broom,” he said.
“That’s all! There, you see? When do I get a day off? Not even on the Sabbath. We have to eat that day too, do we not?”
“We all three need a day off then,” he said. “Soon. Let’s choose one.”
“Eat up, my boy!” said Mary, his young mom. “Your food’s getting cold. One day you’ll be old and forgotten. Won’t have your poor mom or dad here to beg and prod you, let alone make you a hot breakfast!”
Looking straight into his mom’s eyes with that special love very few are capable of, the boy Jesus began eating his porridge and spoke.
“I can assure you, Mom--both you and dad-- that I’ll never be old and I’ll never be forgotten!”
A speechless Mary stared at her only son. She’d seen him this way before. Mysterious. As if he could see into the future or something.
