Guest Blog: Paula Parker and the Carpenter and His Bride *Autographed copy of the book to Random Commenter!

Dear Readers,

I have been super busy--and hope life slows down soon! How about you? God bless you and keep you--and bring you peace.

Now, let's introduce a new-to-me author, Paula Parker, who lives in one of my favorite cities!

Introduce yourself—name, where you’re from, and something people notice when they meet you?

Hi. I am Paula Parker. I am a native-born Texan living in the Nashville, Tennessee area. I wasn’t sure how to answer the question about something people notice when they meet me, so I asked my husband. He said, “It’s your countenance.”

Tell us about your book—title and back cover blurb.

The Carpenter and His Bride: The Birth of Hope is about Mary and Joseph and the Birth of Jesus. It begins from their betrothal until the time they leave for Egypt.

From the Back Cover:

Simeon ben Anaiah, a revered elder of his people who awaited the consolation of Israel, was famed for proclaiming that "every baby's birth is the birth of hope." But when a young couple from Nazareth present their newborn son at the temple, Simeon realizes his prophecy has been more than fulfilled, for the birth of this child truly is the birth of hope for the whole world.

Yet this tale begins before the birth of the child named Jesus. The Carpenter and his Bride offers a beautiful, stirring—at times surprising—account of the love story between Joseph and Mary as they walk the journey of complete obedience to God’s plan of salvation for humanity through His Son.

Joseph is a carpenter, but more than that, he is an artisan who is called upon to work on the construction in nearby Zippori, one of Herod’s capital cities. Mary is a demure young woman with a quiet spirit and a yearning toward all things beautiful and artistic. Each is drawn to the other's servant heart, until they both realize that their gentle friendship has grown beyond simple affection into full-fledged love.

Award-winning biblical novelist Paula K. Parker weaved an exciting, inviting tale of young love, romance, political intrigue, and potential disaster as she brings fresh insight into a very familiar story.

Share one thing that you found difficult or challenging about writing this book?

For this novel, the hardest part to write about was the Slaughter of the Innocents found in Matthew 2:16-18. A dear friend asked how I was going to write that scene. I told her I didn’t know how to write about that terrible event and was thinking about not mentioning it.

She said, “Paula, you have to write it.”

I knew she was right and began praying about it. One day, a thought came to mind about a way I could describe it without going into horrible descriptions. It turned out well; my friend, my husband, and my publisher all loved it.

Share an excerpt?

This scene takes place on the afternoon of the Feast of Trumpets. After breaking the fast, each person is encouraged to spend the afternoon resting or doing something peaceful. Joseph is working on the room on top of his family home that will be where he brings Mary after their marriage.

*****

The golden sun warmed the afternoon sky, the fluffy clouds casting shadows over Nazareth and Joseph’s home.

Joseph had chosen a spot on the rooftop near the room he had built for Mary and himself—our bed chamber, he smiled—where he could look across the ravine to the olive grove outside Nazareth.

He sat on a small stool behind a wooden chest. On a small table nearby were his tools, a skin filled with oil, several rags, along with a jar filled with water, a cup, and a small basket. Yesterday, the women of his family—like all the women in Nazareth—had not only prepared the food for today’s feast and tonight’s family gathering, but had also made extra food for their family. Each person in his household had baskets filled with bread and cheese. After the meal, when Grandfather Matthan released the family with, “Gemar chatimah tovah,” he encouraged everyone to spend the day resting. For most of Joseph’s family, that meant napping in their bed chambers. Sarah had mentioned wanting to spend time sewing decorative trim on one of her tunics. Sarah is becoming quite a young woman, he smiled, imagining his sister quietly sewing, compared to several years ago, when his sister considered needlework something to be avoided.

Joseph lifted a hand to shield his eyes as he squinted at the olive grove. He thought he saw movement and waved. When he had spoken to Mary after the synagogue assembly that morning, she told him she planned to spend time in the olive grove. He had confided spending the afternoon carving something special. He remembered her smile when he explained that carving was as restful to him as drawing was to her.

That something special was the wooden chest in front of him. There had been a small amount of olive wood left after he had built their bed frame. He decided to use the wood to build a decorative chest for Mary. It was too small to store garments, but perhaps Mary would want to use it to store her comb and ties for her hair, or maybe her tablet and stylus for drawing. It was simple in shape and design. However, knowing his betrothed bride’s love for beautiful things, he had decided to carve roses on the corners of the lid. He was almost finished with the last rose. His plan was to leave the chest in their bed chamber and give it to Mary during their wedding celebration.

“Thank You, Yahweh, for Mary. For a betrothed wife who loves You, who wants to serve You, and to be blessing to those around her. I know that one day, should You bless us with children,” he smiled, “she will be a wonderful mother.”

Setting aside the small chisel, he tiled his chin upward, stretched his neck, and rubbed his eyes. As he lowered his face, movement caught his attention.

Looking closer, he saw someone running—almost stumbling—down the slope from the olive grove, waving their arms.

Mary!

Panic shot through him as an arrow from a warrior’s bow. Knocking over his stool as he jumped up, he grabbed the largest chisel from the table. He had not seen anyone chasing Mary, but that did not mean she was not in danger. Lions could hide among the trees and rocks, and a viper’s bite could kill in moments. Whether creature or man, Joseph was prepared to defend Mary from whatever had sent her running toward him. Darting across the rooftop, he took the stairs two at a time, raced across the courtyard, and through the door of his home. Turning, he ran toward the ravine and his beloved.

Nazareth was less than a Sabbath’s day journey from end to end—and Joseph’s home was on the edge of the village—but Joseph felt as if he were running all the way to Zippori. His heart raced, blood pounding in his ears, his prayers spilling over his lips keeping cadence with his feet, “Yahweh protect her. Yahweh protect her. Yahweh protect her.” As he drew closer, he could see Mary holding the edge of her garments with one hand, while waving the other hand as she called,

“Joseph! Joseph!”

Joseph reached her in the bottom of the ravine. “Mary, Mary, do not worry. I am here.” In one swift movement, he grabbed her by the arms and shoved her behind him as he turned—chisel held before him as a weapon—to face whatever was following. He could not see anyone or anything. “Mary,” he asked over his shoulder, “where is it? What are you running from? A snake? A lion?”

“No.” She stepped away from him, bent over—placing her hands on her knees—and drew in deep, ragged breaths. “No,” she shook her head and straightened. “I wanted to tell you what he told me.”

“He?” He scanned the area of the ravine, the slope, to the edge of the tree line, but he could see no one. “Mary, I do not see anyone. Where is he?”

Mary filled her lungs and blew them out. “He is gone.”

“Gone? Where did he go?”

She lifted a hand to point upwards. “There.”

“There?” Joseph’s brows creased in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“He ascended,” Mary’s face took on a look of wonder, “into the sky.”

His brows crept upwards. “He did what?”

“The angel,” Mary looked upward, “ascended into the sky.”

He shook his head. “The…angel,” He spoke the words as if he pronounced them for the first time.

“Yes,” Mary lowered her head to meet his gaze. “An angel.”

“Mary,” he shoved the chisel behind the folds of his girdle and rubbed his eyes, “what are you saying?”

“Joseph,” she smiled, “the angel Gabriel appeared to me.”

Joseph caught his breath, his eyes widening, as Mary spoke of butterflies, the winged angel, and his message.

When she got to the end, she paused and waited.

He frowned, looking at Mary.

“Joseph?” she echoed his frown. “Say something.”

“What,” he shook his head again, “…should I say? What you tell me is beyond belief.”

“I agree it is hard to believe,” Mary laughed. “I was there, and I still have difficulty believing it, and not just his message about me.” She shook her head. “Even though Elizabeth and Zechariah are in their old age, they are to be blessed with a child.

“I spoke with the angel Gabriel. I am to be,” she extended her hands before her, palms up, “the mother of the Messiah. And we are to name Him…”

“No! Mary!” Joseph lifted a hand, stopping her words. “The only ones to name a child are his mother and father. From what you say the angel told you, I am to have nothing to do with your conceiving this child. If I am not to be His father, how can I name him?”

“The angel said that Yahweh—”

“Stop!” he clapped his hands in front of her face.

Mary blinked. “Joseph,” confusion covered her countenance, “do you not believe me?”

“Believe?” He frowned. “Believe? You tell me an angel appears to you, tells you that,” he swept his hand toward the village, “of all the women in Nazareth, you have been chosen to be the mother of the Messiah.”

            “Yes,” she nodded, “but—”

“And that is not all,” he cut her off. “Not only are you to be this child’s mother. Yahweh is to be His father.”

“Yes,” she spoke the word slowly, her gaze never leaving his face.

“The Messiah is not going to be the son of a man—He is not going to be the child of my body—but the Son of Yahweh?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“And the angel Gabriel told you this.”

“Yes. Joseph,” her brows slanted in a frown. “You believe me, do you not? You and Rabbi Boaz both said you believed either Adina or I could be the mother of the Messiah.”

“After I took you home as my bride,” he flung up his hands. “After! This,” he pointed toward the olive grove, “is a fantastical tale such as one would hear in Zippori. You are suggesting that Yahweh,” he pivoted, jabbing a finger toward the city set on the hill, “is like the pagan Roman gods who take the form of a man and impregnant human women.”

“No!” Mary gasped. “Joseph, how could you think I would suggest such…such…”

“Blasphemy?” Joseph frowned. “How could I think you would suggest such blasphemy? I will tell you how. You have gone mad!”

The word echoed between the slopes of the ravine.

 Ask the blog reader a quirky question or two?

When you think of past Christmases, what is one thing that stands out as your best Christmas memory?

For me, it was Christmas 1982. After seven years of infertility, I gave birth to my husband and my first child. Rachael Elizabeth was born December 24, 1982. She was—and always will be—our best Christmas present ever.

Share your social media and buy links!

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/PaulaKParkerAuthor/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/paula.k.parker.author/?hl=en

x.com: https://x.com/paulawordcrafts

Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/dbefp4yc

Thank you, Paula, for being a guest! Have a wonderful week, all! Christina