Westhill Church - Auburn & Federal Way, WA

The WEekly Word

A Blog of Encouragement from our Pastors

weekly word – 12/25/2025

Through the eyes of Joseph

I never expected my life to unfold the way it did. I had planned a quiet, honorable life as a carpenter in Nazareth. I had planned to marry Mary—gentle, faithful Mary—whose eyes carried a depth of devotion that humbled me. I had plans. But God had a greater one.

I remember the day everything shifted. Mary had been visiting her cousin Elizabeth for several months. When she returned, she carried herself differently—still pure, still humble, still radiant—but with a secret she seemed hesitant to speak about. When she finally whispered the words, they struck me like a hammer against stone.

“I am with child.”

My heart sank. My mind raced. I searched her face for guilt, for deception, for anything that would make sense. But instead, I saw sincerity—deep, unwavering sincerity—as she continued, “The child is from the Holy Spirit.”

I wanted to believe her. Every part of me wanted to. But this—this was beyond anything I had ever heard of or imagined. That night, as I lay in my bed staring into the dark, I resolved to end our betrothal quietly. I could not publicly shame her. I loved her too deeply for that. But my heart was breaking.

Then the dream came.

A bright light filled my sleep, so vivid that even now I feel its warmth. A messenger of the Lord appeared, speaking with a voice that seemed to echo through every chamber of my soul: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to name Him Jesus, for He will save His people from their sins.”

I awoke trembling. The room felt charged with a holy fear. And in that moment, all doubts were dissolved. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob had spoken to me. The promised Messiah—the One foretold for generations—was to be born through Mary. Through our household. Through my care.

We exchanged vows under the canopy, and though many whispered and some judged, we walked forward under the covering of God’s command.

The months passed. Mary grew heavier with child, and every day I prayed for wisdom and strength. Then Caesar’s decree came—a census that required us to travel to Bethlehem, the city of my ancestor David. The timing could not have been worse. Mary was nearing her time, and the journey was long and unforgiving.

However, we had to go. The decree mandated that we go. So, we went.

I helped Mary onto the donkey. As we travelled, my heart tightened each time the road jolted her. The sun was relentless by day, and the cold crept in by night. At times she winced, and I held her hand, whispering, “We are close. The Lord is with us.” In truth, I was reassuring myself as much as her.

After several days, we reached Bethlehem. The streets were crowded beyond anything I had ever seen. Travelers filled every corner, every home, every inn. I knocked on doors until my knuckles bled. Each time the answer came: “No room.” I was weary, frustrated, and desperate.

Finally one innkeeper, seeing Mary’s condition, softened.

“There is no room inside,” he said, “but… there is a stable.”

A stable? Not what I wanted for the birth of the Messiah. Not what any man would want for his wife. But the pain in Mary’s eyes told me the time had come.

I settled her near the animals, laid fresh straw, and did what little I could to make her comfortable. The air was thick with the scent of hay and livestock, far from the purity I imagined for the King of kings. Yet Mary was calm—astonishingly calm. She gripped my hand, her voice steady as she breathed through the waves of pain.

Then the moment came.

Her cry broke through the night, echoed by the cry of the Child—God’s Child—entering the world.

My hands trembled as I held Him for the first time. I had crafted cradles, tables, beams—objects shaped by wood and skill. But nothing had prepared me for holding the One who shaped the heavens.

He was so small. So human. Yet as I looked into His face, I felt the weight of eternity.

“Jesus,” I whispered. “Yeshua… the Lord saves.”

Mary wrapped Him gently, her face glowing with exhaustion and awe. We laid Him in a manger—a feeding trough for animals—because we had nothing else. The Messiah deserved a palace, a throne, a world bowed before Him. But He came in humility, just as the prophets had spoken.

As we sat there, marveling, a sudden rustling came from outside. Moments later, shepherds—rugged, breathless shepherds—burst into the stable. Their eyes were wide, their faces alight.

“An angel!” one said.

“A host of them!” cried another.

“They told us—told us the Savior has been born!”

“They laid him in a manger!”

Mary and I exchanged astonished glances as they knelt before Jesus, worshiping with pure, unfiltered wonder. They spoke of glory lighting the sky, of heavenly voices proclaiming peace on earth. Peace—brought by this tiny Child resting in straw.

As the shepherds left, praising God with every step, I felt the truth settle deeper into my heart: this child had not come only for Israel, not only for the righteous, but for the lowly, the forgotten, the broken—shepherds and kings alike.

Later that night, long after Mary had drifted to sleep, I remained awake, watching the Child. My thoughts swirled with awe and fear. What kind of father could I be to Him? How could I—a simple carpenter—raise the Son of the Most High?

But as I looked at Him, His tiny fingers curling gently, peace washed over me. Not peace from understanding, but peace from Presence. Emmanuel—God with us—was here. And He had chosen to be here with us, in the lowliest of places, in the humblest of circumstances.

I leaned close, whispering the only prayer I could manage:

“Lord… help me lead Your Son. Help me protect Him, love Him, teach Him. I am not worthy. But You are faithful.”

The Child stirred, turning His face toward me. And in that moment, I sensed—deep in my spirit—that though I would guide Him for a short while, He had come to guide us forever.

The night grew still. The stars shone with unparalleled brilliance, as though Heaven itself watched in hushed adoration.

And there, in the quiet of that Bethlehem stable, I knew:

My life would never belong to my plans again.
It now belonged completely to the plan of God—
the plan wrapped in cloth, lying in a manger,
breathing softly in the dark.

The Messiah had come.

And I— Joseph, had been witness to His first breath.

Ed Johanson ©11/24/2025

12/18/2025 – Isaiah 9:6-7 – David

12/11/2025 – The Faithfulness of God – Bryan

12/04/2025 – The Storm in Grassy Creek – Ed

11/27/2025 – Isaiah 9:1-5 – David

11/20/2025 – God's Attributes: The Power of God – Bryan

11/13/2025 – The Broken Carpenter – Ed

11/06/2025 – Isaiah 8:19-22 – David

10/30/2025 – God's Attributes: The Holiness of God – Bryan

10/23/2025 – "A Light on Maple Street" – Ed