The Lost Library: Fathers and Sons

“The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.” Luke 2:40

The older I get, it seems, the more I want to look backwards, to see through the clouds of time and remember — even if imperfectly — the people and events that shaped me. It’s an exercise in time travel, of sorts, a chance to go back and pay more attention. For example, I would like to go back and listen more carefully when my father tries to teach me how to use a miter box to cut perfect angles and make a picture frame for Mother’s Day. I’d like to make that frame and give it to her. I want to take notes, to have a tape recorder running. I want to stand by his side and ask the questions that I didn’t. I want to somehow force his hand to answer the questions he was never able to. I could write a book.

At the tail-end of John’s gospel, we get this intriguing, beguiling sentence: “There are also many other things that Jesus did, but if these were to be described individually, I do not think the whole world would contain the books that would be written.”

Oh, to have access to that library! To be able to roam its stacks and immerse ourselves in the “further tales and adventures” of the boy from Nazareth. I’m especially intrigued by that boy, as we know so little about him. I want him to be just a boy like I was, want to know that he struggled with math, the bullies in the schoolyard, and with the confusing glances and giggles from the girls. I want to hear him say, “Sorry, father, but I don’t want to learn to cut perfect angles today. I want to go play with my friends.” I don’t want him shielded from the pain of adolescence and his teenage years; I want him to have experienced them fully so I can know for sure he was one of us.

Perhaps we would be different Christians if we knew more about the childhood of Jesus. Perhaps we would learn how his mother taught him to love without asking why and how his father taught him to give without stopping to count the cost. Maybe some of this would rub off on us and we’d let love and giving come to define our faith and our lives instead of drawing lines in the sand and picking and choosing who gets to be on our team.  

Standing Beside His Father at the Bench

Back in the old neighborhood and under the influence 
of duties and ancient Psalms 
you grew strong and wise like others around you but different somehow. 
Awake before dawn, you knew just how many steps 
from bed to workshop, thirty-eight,
walked in the dark without bumping into furniture or stubbing a toe 
until you stood beside him, already hard at it.

You came to know the need for the right tool for the job
the feel and comfort of a well-worn handle
closed your eyes and allowed it to fit perfectly in your hand
knew its purpose and limits and origins in the family. 

You savored that favored place beside him — watching, imitating, repeating
doing your small part for the family business
sweeping up curls of cedar and acacia. 

Obedient to all this and yet, you knew there was more 
knew you would leave at some point as all boys and girls must 
and give yourself to another. 
For you, another father.
You would be about his business and learn new steps
from bed to temple, fishing boats to tax collectors 
to villages beyond sight and knowledge
to kneel in the dirt and heal
to stand at the center and teach
to be followed, adored and welcomed 
then ridiculed, plotted against, betrayed and denied
lashed thirty-nine times, crucified. 

And still you would rise from that bed 
and do it all again, every step
knowing I would be sitting here today
telling the hidden story as best I can imagine.