Jess is young and scared. She collects slivers of hope like spun silver. She studies her reflection in the mirror and slaps mascara around her tired eyes. She changes countless pampers and sweeps toast crumbs under the cupboards. Her hair turns prematurely gray and she can hardly force herself to run a comb through it every morning.

Her sister knocks on the door one muggy morning. She wonders if she can use Jess’s bathroom. Her oversized sweatshirt slumps on her shoulders, pride a worn out thing collecting dust. Jess opens the door and a pungent odor wafts in the house as her sister steps inside. The next day there’s a cousin leaning against the doorknob, and a week after that, another woman. Jess throws the toys off the couch to make room.

Her daughter Leslie throws her head around on her pillow at night. Jess sits on the edge of the bed and holds her. She watches the street lamp spilling light on the pavement outside her grimy window.

The next day Leslie discovers how to untie her sneaker and her face morphs into wonder. This is my sweet girl! Jess wants to snag the world by its sleeve and make it pause and listen. Look how precocious, how brilliant, how wonderful she is! That afternoon her sweet girl twists in Jess’s lap and plants her fist in her cheekbone. Her face stinging, Jess pushes her to the floor. Leslie wraps her arms around Jess’s leg, screaming. Clinging like a tick, Jess thinks. Let her scream.

Sometimes she looks at herself—her stained jeans and tangled hair—and wonders how she got here. Three relationships ruined, three spineless, selfish men taking advantage of her check from the government. She had been gullible and lonely naive. Now drugs and her kids are the only antidotes to the ravaging sores each man left on her heart.

Jess boils hot dogs while her children watch cartoons. Random relatives filter in and out of her house, leaving behind dirty socks and acrid smells. Her son crawls underneath the table and emerges licking his fingers. Jess has no idea what he found to eat but she doesn’t care. She opens the fridge and discovers mouse droppings and tiny teeth marks in the butter. She slams the door shut.

Leslie and Jonah and Darren. Three little smudgy faces with grins that make your heart skip a beat. Jess craves their love. They don’t always reciprocate, and then Jess is so lonely she watches the floor tilt sideways.

---

Jesus is young and dedicated. He watches the people, His children, get swept up in a dusty, busy throng like so many sheep. He carves sweet-smelling cedar into spoons, tables, beds for His children. Shavings curl from the blade of His knife, catching shards of afternoon sunlight. The carpenter’s shop is quiet as if it’s waiting with Jesus. Always, the Father is near, a palpable Presence with His hand on the Son’s shoulder. It feels as natural as the grain of the wood.

In Jerusalem, the masons, tax collectors, fishermen, and gardeners are sweating at their respective labors. In the Upper City, the high priest reclines on his tasseled pillow, a goblet of wine in his plump hand. Officials ponderously stroll and dictate heavy words to inky scribes. The rabbi sits cross legged on the floor of the synagogue, parchment unrolled on his lap. Fresh-faced boys, some bored, some enthralled, listen to his words.

In the Lower City, bleary eyed men sprawl on sagging beds. Prostitutes wait in the stifling heat for the cool of the evening when they will paint their faces and dance with the filthy men who are now hungover from last night.

The quiet of Jesus’ shop is broken by the sound of children playing on the street. Jesus opens the door. They crowd into His shop and run dirty fingers over the wood, His tools. They scoop shavings up and throw them at each other until a thick haze hangs in the air. Delight spills from their eyes like the sunshine lying in squares on the dusty floor.

Jesus will hang on a cross, His body a mess of open sores, for these people. He will love them and they will not reciprocate, and Jesus will be more lonely than any human has ever been. But he will sew His grace into the very fiber of their souls. And some will accept His gift and they will fall on their faces, crying, “Abba, Father.”

He will give everything for His children.