Jesus: The Death of my Best Friend

Everyone has a best friend. Mine is the best. He never lies. He never thinks of himself. He always takes care of me. I wish I could have met him.

My friend did not have the luxury of being born in a hospital. He took his first nap on a bed of hay, not cotton. But despite the brute welcoming to this world, I have been told that he did not shed one tear.

I do not know much about his childhood. One story I heard was that his parents accidentally left him behind on a journey once when he was twelve. At first, it sounded like a remake of the Home Alone movie. But in my buddy’s case, he spent his separated time in a temple mingling with some priests instead of setting traps for burglars. After anxious searching, his parents found him two days later and I believe that was the only time they were upset with him throughout his life.

After a few more years passed, the inevitable time came for him to make a living. My pal decided to follow his father’s profession and become a carpenter. He was the most respectable of workers and his passion for life showed vividly through his labor. But at the age of thirty, he decided to make a change. He put down the wood and began to teach.

. . .