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A Day in the Life of a Carpenter

By @Joyful17

Part 1

Hands, callused and strong,

A deep Jewish voice begins in song.

Dark, curly hair, falls over His face,

As He bends over, a table, working at a craft-man’s pace. 

The Carpenter leans over His work, as beads of sweat trickle down His face. 

****An Observation****

His face was squeezed into a deep concentrated stare. Sometimes He would run His tongue against His cracked lips. If you were there, you could see that He would often pause and gaze at His powerful hands. An unusual habit, for somebody who must work all day to stay alive, in one of the cruelest time periods in History.

The work, was a chair, one of the most intricate, delicate, stunning pieces He had ever made. His hands, curly dark hair and beard were caked in saw dust. He brushed His callused hands over His leather apron, as he walked out of His workshop, that was also His house. A glance at His feet. Dusty. Utterly disgusting. His sandals worn thin from walking around town.

****The Carpenter’s Town****

If you lived in the time, where this Carpenter lived, you would find that His town was not a travel destination. Nazarene. A fishing town. Reeking of rotten fish. Living among rebels. Very dangerous, and very smelly.

He loved to play with the little children. Swinging them around. Telling them stories. For someone with very little education, He knew a great deal. Although the children loved Him, many others hated Him. Especially the fishermen. They would say nasty things. Stuck up. Too good to be a fisherman. Illegitimate son. Believes He is something special. If only they could know His soul, know every beat of His heart for them. Each breath he took for them. Each step of those brown-tan sandals, was a beat for them. Every sunset, red, orange, and pink, painting the cloudless sky. For them. He was often misunderstood. Ignored. But those thoughts weren’t going through His mind. No. Not at this moment. He was headed down to the wharf. On the Galilean Sea. He needed more customers. More money. Not that He really needed it. But He needed to be like them. Like everyone else. That’s when He ran into Simon bar Jonah. A Zealot. A rebel. It was all planned out, really. Everything was planned and put together in this Carpenter’s mind. It’s how it works, how it always had worked. The fisherman cursed loudly, as he shoved the Carpenter aside.

Muttering under his breath, “Stupid Carpenter, never did a full day’s work in His life. Probably is horrible at carpentry. He thinks he is so lofty, what a no good Roman sympathizer.”

The Zealot failed to realize that everything, even he in fact, was the Carpenter’s workmanship. Even the beautiful, twinkling lights, those burning balls of gas, were His idea and creation. He warmly smiled at the back of the stomping fisherman. The smile radiated light. It was not a gloating smile, or that of revenge. It was simply out of amusement and brotherly-love. He continued on His way. He would stop and speak with potential and past customers. Finally, as the sun was setting, He made His way home. It was a different path, then the one He usually took. It was rocky, uneven, and it was littered with piles of feces, the creatures that dropped them could not be identified. He paused. He stared in the direction of Jerusalem. As if He was foreseeing all that would happen.

****For Future Reference****

Much would happen in Jerusalem.

As He walked home, He saw a small child, crying on the doorstep. He walked up to her. He sat. The girl had dark brown hair, with almond colored eyes, and a tear-drop blue necklace. 

“What is your name, child?” He asked, although He already knew. 

“Talitha.” Came the small, snuffling response.

“My name is Jesus. Don’t worry it will be alright.”

They stayed there for a long time, watching His perfect sunset take place. It painted the sky. Pink. Yellow. Blue. Orange. And blood-red. 

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