My ability to learn Hebrew and the Torah was spurred on by my friendship with Joshua, for while the other boys would be playing a round of tease the sheep or kick the Canaanite, Joshua and I played at being rabbis, and he insisted that we stick to the authentic Hebrew for our ceremonies. It was more fun than it sounds, or at least it was until my mother caught us trying to circumcise my little brother Shem with a sharp rock. What a fit she threw. And my argument that Shem needed to renew his covenant with the Lord didn’t seem to convince her. She beat me to stripes with an olive switch and forbade me to play with Joshua for a month. Did I mention she was besought with demons?

Overall, I think it was good for little Shem. He was the only kid I ever knew who could pee around corners. You can make a pretty good living as a beggar with that kind of talent. And he never even thanked me.

Brothers.

Children see magic because they look for it.

When I first met Joshua, I didn’t know he was the Savior, and neither did he, for that matter. What I knew was that he wasn’t afraid. Amid a race of conquered warriors, a people who tried to find pride while cowering before God and Rome, he shone like a bloom in the desert. But maybe only I saw it, because I was looking for it. To everyone else he seemed like just another child: the same needs and the same chance to die before he was grown.

When I told my mother of Joshua’s trick with the lizard she checked me for fever and sent me to my sleeping mat with only a bowl of broth for supper.

“I’ve heard stories about that boy’s mother,” she said to my father. “She claims to have spoken to an angel of the Lord. She told Esther that she had borne the Son of God.”

“And what did you say to Esther?”

“That she should be careful that the Pharisees not hear her ravings or we’d be picking stones for her punishment.”