The days in Nazareth were quiet, and time seemed to pass slowly. As I grew, I learned what it meant to be human. There were moments of laughter, of work, of learning. Yet, there was always a tension within me, an awareness of something greater, something that no one around me could see. My Father had sent me for a purpose, but for now, I was simply Jesus, the carpenter's son.
I spent my days in Joseph's workshop, watching him work with wood, shaping it with care. The way he worked taught me patience and precision. Joseph had a quiet strength about him, the kind of strength that comes from a lifetime of faithfulness. He wasn't my true father, but he cared for me as his own. I could see his love for Mary, for me, and for our family in the way he worked tirelessly to provide. Yet even with all his devotion, I could sense his uncertainty at times, the unspoken question lingering in his heart: How could I, a simple man, be entrusted with raising the Son of God?
I respected Joseph. I honored him as a father, but deep within, I knew there was a greater Father to whom I owed everything. Sometimes I wondered if Joseph could feel it, too—that silent, invisible pull that always drew my heart heavenward. But he never asked, and I never spoke of it.
As I learned the trade, I experienced the simple joy of working with my hands. There was a rhythm to the work, the feel of wood under my fingers, the satisfaction of creating something from nothing. I understood the joy of creating, for it mirrored the joy my Father had when He spoke the world into existence. Yet, as much as I found peace in this, there was a longing that grew within me. I knew this was not my final work. My hands, meant to heal and to bear the burdens of many, would one day be pierced by nails. But for now, they held hammers and chisels.
I often wandered the hills around Nazareth, feeling the wind against my face, looking at the stars that I had placed in the heavens long ago. The beauty of creation never ceased to move me. The birds, the trees, the rivers—they were all reminders of the Father's love, a reflection of His perfect design. And yet, humanity did not see it. They were blind to the glory around them, lost in their own pain, their own sin. My heart ached for them, even then. I had come to save them, but for now, I was hidden.
As a child, I had friends, other boys my age who played and laughed without care. We would race through the streets or sit by the river, throwing stones into the water. I joined them, but even in those moments, I could feel the difference between us. They would speak of their futures—what they would become, what they would build, how they would live their lives. I listened quietly, knowing that my future was already written, that it was not one of building homes or raising a family, but of carrying the sins of the world. I smiled and laughed with them, but in my heart, I carried a burden they could never know.
Mary would often watch me with those same loving eyes, full of a mother's care. She had known from the beginning that I was set apart, but she never treated me differently. She raised me with wisdom, tenderness, and faith, just as she would have any other son. Still, there were moments when I caught her looking at me with a quiet curiosity, wondering what the future held. I could feel her prayers at night, whispered in the stillness, asking the Father to give her strength to raise me well, to prepare me for what was to come. She didn't understand it all—how could she?—but she trusted. Her faith was simple, yet strong, a faith that would sustain her through the hardest of days.
There were moments, though, when I felt the weight of silence between us. There were questions Mary never asked, but I could feel them hovering on her lips. How much did she truly know? How much could I share? I longed to tell her everything—to explain why I had come, what my destiny was—but it was not yet time. So I kept the fullness of my identity hidden, even from her. My heart ached in those moments, torn between my love for her and the knowledge that one day she would have to watch me suffer. How could a mother bear such a burden? I knew her heart would be pierced, just as mine would.
As the years passed, I grew stronger, both in body and in spirit. I poured over the Scriptures, not because I didn't know them—I was the Word made flesh—but because they were a lifeline to my humanity. I saw the Father's plan unfolding in every word, every prophecy. I could feel the truth of Isaiah's words, the weight of what they foretold: "He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." Those words were about me. They spoke of the pain I would endure, the rejection I would face. But they also spoke of the hope I would bring, the redemption that was to come. It was all there, laid out before me, and yet I knew the time had not yet come to reveal myself.
One day, when I was still a boy, around twelve years old, I traveled with Mary and Joseph to Jerusalem for the Feast of Passover. The city was alive with pilgrims from all over, and the Temple was filled with the sounds of worship and sacrifice. My heart stirred as I walked through the streets, my spirit awakening to the significance of the place. This was my Father's house, the place where His name dwelled, where His people came to seek Him. But they didn't understand. They didn't see the fullness of what the Temple represented—His presence among them, and one day, the sacrifice that would make all others unnecessary.
I remember wandering into the Temple courts, drawn to the teachers who sat there, discussing the Scriptures. I listened quietly at first, but soon, the words came to me, words filled with wisdom beyond my years. I asked questions that made the teachers pause, and I answered their questions with a depth that surprised them. They marveled at my understanding, and for a brief moment, I felt the joy of revealing the knowledge that I carried.
But soon, Mary and Joseph came searching for me. They had been worried when they couldn't find me among the crowds. Mary's relief was evident as she embraced me, but there was also a touch of frustration in her voice. "Son, why have You treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for You."
I looked into her eyes, feeling both the love and the misunderstanding. "Why were you searching for me?" I asked gently. "Didn't you know I had to be in My Father's house?"
She didn't understand, not fully. I could see the confusion in her eyes. But she held her tongue, trusting that there was more she couldn't yet grasp. And so we returned to Nazareth, and I remained obedient, waiting for the appointed time. I could feel the weight of the world pressing in, but for now, I was hidden, preparing, waiting for the moment when I would step into the light.
The days passed, the years unfolded, and I grew in wisdom and stature. The people of Nazareth saw only a carpenter's son, a young man learning his trade, living an ordinary life. But I knew the time would come when the hidden years would end, and the journey to the cross would begin. Until then, I waited in the quiet, carrying the burden of my mission in silence.