NOTES: Okay, this is a little inaccurate, but hey, it's the Bible. One could argue that the whole thing is like fanfiction for Yahweh. I am fairly sure the Joseph that helped raised the Christ was dead, and therefore not present, at the time of the Crucifixion. But I always felt kind of bad for him. So, it's a little blasphemous and conjectural. Deal; suspend your disbelief- that's why you're here anyway, right?
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He always was his mother's child. When I married her, she was pregnant-not by me, as the entire world knows. I didn't want to marry her, but this foreign fellow came to visit me, we talked for a while, and next thing I know, I'm a husband. Cuckolded already, before the honeymoon even. The night he was born, we couldn't find a place to stay, and ended up in a barn, of all places. Mary was unconcerned. Her time came, and she screamed in pain, and cried slow tears while holding her firstborn in her arms.
He was a sweet baby. Never made a fuss, and happy to be held and cuddled. He laughed a lot, and played in the sawdust piles in my workshop. The fine shavings clung to his soft baby curls like pollen does to a bee, and he would sneeze and sneeze and sneeze. Mary would laugh delightedly at his little baby noises.
He wasn't a bad child. A little odd, maybe. Never as wild as the others, who ran around the hills like a herd of goats, frolicking and butting heads. He tended to wander off by himself. Don't worry about Jesus, Mary told me, he'll be fine. Well, don't be surprised when the jackals eat him, I wanted to say. Son of God he might be, but I doubt anyone's told the jackals. I'd stomp back to my shop, angry with Mary for her unshakeable faith, angry with myself for lack of the same.
He was a polite youth. He always had a kind word for everyone, even strangers. He was affectionate with me, and my family, even though he knew there was no blood between us. He reserved his special smiles for his mother, though. I didn't really mind too much; seeing any two people so happy within each other has it's own pleasures. And could he talk! Like an old woman sometimes, he would talk and talk, of hope, and the love of God, and the rewards of the Kingdom of Heaven. People gathered to listen, and I was very proud.
He was a kind boy. He never cried over the goats I slaughtered for food, or the lambs that died in birth, but any lost or lonely animal seemed to find its way to him, drawn like Bedouins to an oasis. A gentle touch and a few murmured words was all it took. They adored him, and would have followed him around given half a chance. James used to call him Noah as a tease, but Jesus never minded. As he got older, people joined the herds of animals. The lame, the blind, the poor, the lepers, the whores, the pagans, the tax collectors even, they all flocked to his side. I was amazed, slightly disconcerted, but didn't think it was my place to comment.
I only saw him lose his temper once, in the temple. His anger was truly terrible, shaking the walls of the building like the very earth in a righteous fury. Mary buried her face in my shoulder, just for a moment. At the time I thought she was frightened. She was, but not for the same reasons I was. Mothers always know. Despite her words, she always worried more about him than the others. The older he got, the more she fussed over him. He loved it. Thick as thieves, those two.
He was a good man. In the end, I couldn't stay with him. His mother and his strays remained. Where else did they have to go, as their world slowly died? Broken and bleeding, he called out for his father to forgive his enemies. I fled. For the first time, I was fiercely glad I was not his father, because I could not have, would not have, granted his last request.