Prose

Mathew 13:54-58 
Isn’t this the carpenter’s son?  Isn’t his mother’s name Mary, and aren’t his brothers James, Joseph, Simon and Judas?  Aren’t all his sisters with us?
 
The inside-bevel gouge jumps when it hits the knot, the tip leaving the wood and creating a small but deep cut on my right hand.  As a left-handed carpenter my right hand often suffers for any clumsiness or lack of attention.  I extend the hand too late and drops of blood appear on my good tunic.  I can already hear mother’s shrill cry about the cost of Egyptian cotton and her time and my lack of consideration for the work of others.  There is no real pain, though.  My hands are like my father’s, strong, muscular: the hands of a carpenter always are.  I can remember, as a boy, my father picking us up or holding our hands, his own like two oaken limbs, hard and powerful.  I always felt safe when I was touching one of them.
            “You’re hurt.”  The voice behind me is startling.
            “I’m fine.”
            “Simon, dear brother, please let me help you.”
            Before I can respond he is on me.  His soft hand covering mine, his eyes pinched shut, his lips moving.  I feel the sting fade and know that there won’t even be a scar.
            He finishes, lifts his hands, steps back.
            “Thank you.”  I mumble.
            “Not at all.  I’m glad to help you.  We see each other so seldom.”
            “I’ve been right here.”  I don’t mean to sound cross but I do.  “Dad and I are here every day.”
            “Yes, you are.”  He smiles and the warm feeling that seems to fill my stomach has a nauseating effect.  “I’ve been traveling.  I thought I would see you at that wedding last week, though.”
            “Couldn’t go.  We had a big order for some official who just got stationed here.  He wanted four chiffoniers.  Dad and I had to go and find out what a chiffonier was.  They make them east of Germania, a soldier told us.  It’s really just a fancy cabinet.”
            “I was sorry to hear you would not be attending.”
            “Well, I have to earn a living.  Joseph isn’t getting any younger and now, with all the girls finally married off and James and Joseph working with those eastern traders, it’s just me and pop.”
            “Where is Judas?”
            “Our brother or that shifty guy you hang around with.” 
            This creases his brow, but only for a moment.  “Our brother.”
            “He pops in and out.  He’s worthless as always.”
            “He’ll come around.  The prodigal son will return.”
            “Sure, when he’s sick or broke or in some other trouble.”
            “You need to be more forgiving, Simon.”
            “You need to stay home.”
            He turns from me then.  “That is not my path.”
            “Son of a carpenter and who would believe it?  You have the hands of a woman, brother.”  I see his head tilt down and now he is considering them.  “We have new cut cherry wood in the back, can you bring some up front for me?”  I know he can’t.  It would be too heavy for him; he hasn’t done any real work in two, maybe three years. I am being mean but cannot seem to stop myself.  I point to a table that I recently finished. “Can you finish sanding the legs?  Maybe start the staining?”  I pause for effect.  “No, I suppose not.”
            He turns to face me. “You’re a good son to our father, Simon.  I’m sorry the burden had to fall past me, to your shoulders, but things are as they must be.”
            “Go then.  Your friends are waiting, I’m sure.  Sit and discuss and talk and teach and accomplish nothing.  Go waste your time.”  It is I who turn away.  I find myself close to the piece I’d been working on and allow my head to drop as if I am considering it.  I regret my behavior almost immediately but won’t turn around.  I know I am right.
            I feel his arms slip past my shoulders and he embraces me, his chin at my neck.  “I am sorry for this burden, brother.”  The hug tightens for a second, then another, and then it is over.  I don’t turn around until I hear him leave. 
 
            Later, I notice that the blood drops on my tunic are also gone; my mother’s complaints avoided.  I make a mental note to thank him when he gets back from Gethsemane.