Before I left home Father displayed the gifts of the Magi on his work bench, first removing his tools and shavings. He locked the door and lit two candles. Mother—so excited—seemed to be seeing the star as she handled the gifts. “They haven’t changed... Joseph, you’ve taken good care of them! Oh, they’re so beautiful!” And she knelt in the sawdust, the gold cup in her hands, its jewels redder than I had remembered. I had forgotten the gifts were so beautiful. “Where have you kept them...in the synagogue? The geniza?” I asked. Father nodded, frowning. “We have decided to present them to the elders...tomorrow...at the meeting. They’ll become the temple possessions. It’s different with you going away... Mother and I have decided...” But I wasn’t listening; I was absorbed in Mother’s appreciation as she handled the gifts, kneeling or half-kneeling, smiling; her shoulders lost some of their age. The myrrh box interested me, its aroma still evident, its chased lid yet untarnished. Mother lifted the clasp. The clasp was set with green stones. She called my attention to the ornamented hinges. She held out the gold cup to my father... “I wish you hadn’t worried about the gifts,” she said with a sigh. “We ought to have enjoyed them...now we can see them at the temple... Look, Jesus, at this handle...ah, those were strange days in Bethlehem... God was with us...” I loved her for her dreams and sacrifices. I loved the hints of youth and beauty in her face. Nazareth Shevat 25 Tomorrow is my last day here. As I lay on my pallet I heard rain lash our roof; I heard the wind in the trees. Then my mind dropped back and I remembered Mother singing, crooning to me, as I lay sick as a boy. I remembered songs in the evening. I heard her laughter as we played jacks. I smelled her barley bread... I smelled roasting lamb... Father was in his workshop, his plane sliding; he was singing. As a child I loved his singing. Now, silent, worried, he works in a preoccupied state, bothered by frequent visitors, concerned about my future. “It is wrong of you to go to Jerusalem, wrong to throw yourself into the hands of your enemies.” There will be no more Festivals of Light. At Nazareth I used to have a pet goat. Memories... I can not tolerate juvenile memories any longer. I am not an old man. Memories must not impede my ministry. There must be beauty. Life must have beauty. Jerusalem Shevat 29 Thy rod and Thy staff will comfort me...yeah, though I walk through the valley of death yet will I be with Thee. As I walked into Jerusalem I heard those words. It was dusk. An immense caravan choked the air, camels, drivers, gapers. Again I thought of Herod and the innocents: city life brings Herod to mind. The Kittim are evident on the main streets: helmets, standards, shields. A camel sank to the ground beside me, eying me, begging for kindness. Trumpets blared.