by Steve Olson
“Papa, tell me the story again.”
They were working in the shop. Today they were making a table for the fish merchant. It would be used to display his wares, and soon would be covered in fish scales and such. Still, it had to look perfect before they sent it over and they worked quietly, curled shavings of wood and the smell of sawdust filling their nostrils. Mother had brought them lunch and while they ate, they shared jokes and listened as mother sang quietly. Mother smiled as she watched the son, trying to tempt a bird to land on the open window sill with a morsel of bread. Then back to work.
Now the shadows were creeping into the corners of the shop, and it was time for some water and a rest. The father sat heavily on the bench against one wall and beckoned his son to join him. Father allowed his hand to run across the bench seat, and allowed himself to enjoy the way the wood felt under his touch. It had been their first project, the son eager to learn the father’s trade and he had eagerly listened as his father taught him, work slowly, do not rush it. Take your time and enjoy the action of creating. It required the selection of the right wood, the careful measurement, sawing, drilling holes and pegs so the pieces would fit together perfectly. Take your time with this and enjoy every moment. “Love your work my child.”
As the son sat beside him the father resisted the impulse to ruffle the boy’s hair. The boy had begun to pull away, he smiled at his father but he was clearly getting too old for that now. Instead the father simply laid his hand along the boy’s leg.
“Tell me the story, papa.”
He tells the boy the story of how the angel came to him in a dream. The boy looked at his father, his eyes ablaze with excitement. He never tired of the story, of how his father by rights had been ready to dismiss his mother. How he planned to do so quietly, for he had been moved by compassion for his mother, not much older than the boy was now. While the law allowed him to do so without cause, he had still been troubled and he had spent many sleepless and l fitful nights, tossing and turning. He knew what the law said, but his heart troubled him. The angel came and told him, “Do not be afraid.” The boy grew silent as the father retold the story. He knew it by heart but each time, the words, “Do not be afraid” stirred something inside him. The father paused, watching his son and feeling as if he should pull him close and embrace him, but he stopped, knowing the boy would squirm and protest, too old for that now.
“Papa. My name…. “
The father sighed heavily and told him that the angel said he was to stay, marry the girl, and then name the boy.
“Jesus.” Yahweh with us.
The father looked once more as the boy turned his gaze toward the deepening shadows.
He turned again to his father. “What does it mean papa?”
Grasping his son by the shoulder, he repeated what the angel had told him. “Do not be afraid.”