— Luke 2:52 (NKJV)
I was thinking…
What it must have been like for Jesus to grow into the realisation of who He was. To wake each morning a little more aware, not in pride or sudden revelation, but in quiet remembrance, as if something once fully known was returning gently, piece by piece.
He learned the Scriptures as every Jewish boy did, yet I wonder how it felt when familiar passages began to move inside Him, not as lessons to memorise but as memories awakening. I imagine Him in the synagogue as a boy, tracing His finger along the scrolls, sensing a warmth He could not yet explain. Words others recited as history, He heard as heartbeat. Perhaps He didn’t know why, only that something in them felt like home.
As the years passed, that sense deepened. When He read of the Servant who would bear rejection, He felt it in His bones. When He prayed the psalms of anguish and trust, they echoed a truth He somehow already lived. And one day, standing to read from Isaiah, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me”, He realised the page before Him was not simply prophecy but autobiography.
The weight of that must have been immense. To see that the story He was reading was the story He Himself would live, to feel the cross not just as destiny but as memory rediscovered. And yet He did not shrink from it. He grew in wisdom, in stature, and in favour, not by stepping around the human condition but by entering it fully. He walked each day with the patience of One who knew where the road led, yet still chose to take every step with us, feeling hunger and weariness, laughter and friendship, grief and joy.
Sometimes I wonder whether, in those hidden years at Nazareth, there were moments when He paused mid-task, a carpenter’s hand resting on the wood, sensing the shadow of the tree that would one day bear Him. Not in dread, but in quiet acceptance.
He knew the story. He had written it. But He chose, day by day, to live it. And maybe that is part of what it means for us to follow Him, to live the story He has written for each of us, not as characters trapped by fate but as souls learning to trust the Author who stepped into His own creation so He could walk with us from within it.
He did not rewrite the story from above. He entered it, remembered it, fulfilled it, and redeemed every line. And when I think of that, I find peace. Because if the Author was willing to walk His own pages in flesh and tears, then I can trust that every page of my story, too, is known, remembered, and being rewritten by His love.
“Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith…”
— Hebrews 12:2 (NKJV)
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