I can count on one hand the number of times Joseph—husband of Mary, carpenter, angel-dreamer, step-father of God—is mentioned in the Bible. What do we do with a biblical character who is so little mentioned, but who is so obviously important? We could study his lineage, make sure he satisfies all the prophetic requirements to be “parent” of the Messiah. We could find the literary parallels between this Joseph and the Old Testament dreamer. Once we’ve exhausted the ways of analyzing and exegeting Joseph’s story, what are we left with? Mostly mystery.

Luke 1:46-56 KJV

And blessed is she that believed: for there shall be a performance of those things which were told her from the Lord.

And Mary said, My soul doth magnify the Lord,

And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.

For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden:

for, behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.

For he that is mighty hath done to me great things; and holy is his name.

And his mercy is on them that fear him from generation to generation.

He hath shewed strength with his arm;

A fellow I know once sent me virtual chocolates via email on Valentines Day.  Quite unsatisfying—images of luscious dark truffles on a computer screen.  I replied, “What kind of guy gives fake chocolate?”  A few days later there was a box of honest-to-goodness chocolates in my real mailbox; I enjoyed every bite. 

Only now, five months later, do I feel ready to write about Juarez. The images, sensations and stories have been stored up. When I returned people asked, “What was it like?” There wasn’t much to say. Sad. Powerful. “Why did you go?” I don’t know.

Chubby legs encased in tights, (how I hated those itchy things, sagging unbearably at the crotch), I waddled down the gravel road. My equally chubby hands clutched a pretend nurse’s bag, and my blonde Dutch haircut bouncing over my blue eyes.

My patience, thin and fraying, gave way with a not-so-gentle snap. My hands steered the misplaced, unfocused student back to her desk while my brain frantically tried to manage the multiple tasks occupying its own scattered focus. Distraction soon led my gaze back to the wayward second grader. Her head was bent over her desk, and her back shook with silent sobs. I left the papers I had been trying to grade and came to her side.

“What’s wrong, Lisa?”

I’m a work intern at the Center for Action and Contemplation (CAC) in Albuquerque, New Mexico, spending nine months under gloriously blue skies and with a diverse community of fellow spiritual seekers.