You Have Always Been Drawn to Wood

by Phil Ware



Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother ... (John 19:25).

I have often wondered what Mary, the mother of Jesus, thought as she
watched her boy -- who also happened to be God's Son -- die on the
cross. Would she remember the manger of wood? Would she remember the
wood shavings in her boy's hair as Joseph, a true man of honor, stood
by her and helped her raise God's Son? Would she realize in looking
back that her boy had always been drawn to wood?

The following is a meditation I wrote years ago as I tried to imagine
what it was like for Mary at the foot of the Cross. I hope these
thoughts are a blessing and a challenge to you as we wait for the light
of hope to dawn on Sunday and remind us that death does not have the
final word in Jesus' life, and because of Jesus, it does not have the
final word in our own lives!

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As Mary stood watching, she remembered all of it, but especially that
last conversation with her boy. He was not a boy, of course. He was
tall and strong and more than thirty birthdays old. But, he still was
her boy. "I must go now," he had said, "I have always been drawn to
wood."

She had looked into his dark eyes, her smile full of hurt and a
mother's love. "Such a fine young man," she thought as she brushed the
sawdust and wood shavings from his curly brown hair for the thousandth
time. But this time was different. Something about the set of his jaw
and the flash of fire in his eyes told her this was the last time.

"I must go, now, mother!"

Even in his twenties, Yeshua was respectful and supportive. This was
especially so after Joseph died. Yeshua took over the carpenter's shop
and did what the eldest son was expected to do.

"You have sawdust and shavings in your hair, Yeshua. Just like when you
were a little boy with your father." She hoped her words might hold him
close a moment or two longer. But as she spoke them, it was Mary who
paused. She thought of the man who had stood by her when the only
explanations were divinely insane. She missed him so. Yeshua's presence
in the shop had always reminded her of Joseph. While they looked
nothing alike, he was very much his father's son. With Joseph's death
had come the resurrection of suspicion and the cruel taunts, "Mary's
boy! Mary's boy!" Yeshua would shrug and smile his wry grin, as if he
heard some faraway song awakening some primal instinct deep within his
heart.

Mary's smile and motherliness brought no response this time. "You have
always been drawn to wood!" she said nervously. She had kept her
feelings hidden, but since the wedding in Cana, she knew the promises
from long ago were beginning to unfold. He was no longer her little boy
-- she knew it as well as she knew the dark eyes, the curls of brown
hair, and the tenderness in his voice when he spoke to her. This was
his goodbye. More than leaving home, he was leaving her and all she
knew as family behind.

"You have always been drawn to wood!" she softly repeated. She touched
his brown curls and brushed the shavings from his hair one last time.

It was true -- he had always been drawn to wood. She had said it often,
hoping against hope that it would keep him near her, or at least near
the carpenter's shop. Despite the angel's promise that he would be King
and Savior, when he was born, she had placed him in a wooden manger.
Now, in the shadow of his cross, the thought now pierced her like a
dagger, "You have always been drawn to wood."

"I must go, now, mother!" he had firmly said. "It's time. James, Joses,
and Jude can run the shop. They will take care of you. It is time for
me to do what you know I must do. My carpentry is needed elsewhere. As
you have so often said, 'I have always been drawn to wood.'"

As she stood shivering from the cold in her soul, she now remembered
everything -- the manger, the wood shavings, and especially that day he
left. And now, just three years later, the rattling sounds of her son's
labored breathing shook her to her marrow. Tears stained her cheeks as
she stood looking at the little boy she once swaddled and placed in the
manger. Mary softly cried and said for the final time, "My precious
son, you have always been drawn to wood."