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problems.
He tried to wave me off, and I noticed those gouges again.
“I had to go all the way across the river today, into the city. I
only just got back to the synagogue an hour ago.”
“Those rabbis work you too hard. Why don’t they send some of
the other boys once in a while?” I know I shouldn’t criticize the
rabbis. I know they’re good men. But they don’t appreciate Yeshua
properly; it’s a failing of theirs.
Yeshua smiled and patted my hand.
“You know they can’t, Ma. The others would stand out like a
sore thumb. I’m the only one that can go into the city, thanks to
you.” He winked at me, and I had to admit that he was right. He’s
such a good boy, my Yeshua. Better than those other boys he works
with, although I’m sure that you think that’s my pride talking. But
it’s not just pride. He’s the best thing that’s ever come out of me,
that’s the plain truth.
I looked at his hand covering mine. That gouge was deep, even
deeper than I’d first thought. His thumb was nearly falling off.
“Tsk! Let me fix your hand. Yeshua, you need to take better
care of yourself.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“It isn’t!” I went to the cupboard where I kept my special
supplies and pulled out a fat lump of clay, warming it between my
hands as I kneaded it. I sat down again and made him put both
hands on the table, flat and spread out. I couldn't help frowning.
“How the rabbis can look at this and not feel even an ounce of
remorse, I don’t know.”
“Ma, it’s not like it’s going to kill me.”
I scowled.
“Do you think that’s the only thing you have to worry about?
What if you get hit by a bus, or smashed under a girder or
something. Do you know how much work I have to do to make
you look nice? It's not like I pop open a can of Play-doh and poof,
you're all fixed!” The clay was nice and soft finally, and I started to
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