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I have been with the Master for some time now, following Him to various towns, listening to His teachings, ministering to His needs and those of His disciples. Some weeks I stay with one of my new friends, sharing work and talk with these women who also love Jesus. I wonder why Jesus isn’t making any moves to set up a kingdom and exert authority to put down the Romans. He appears content to gather the common, poor people about Him and tell stories. Not that I don’t enjoy such, I am enthralled by His every sermon, drawn by His compassionate ways.
I reach the well and await my turn to draw a pitcher of water. Although this is not my hometown I’ve come to know many of the women, exchanging greetings at the well almost daily. This morning I notice a new face. Walking over to where the woman stands with her pitcher I ask, “Are you new in town?”
“Guess you could say I am.”
“What brings you here?” I inquire further.
“Have you heard of the Man Jesus?” it is her turn to ask a question.
“Oh yes, I’m one of His followers,” I hurry on, my words tumbling over each other in my eagerness to share what I know about Jesus.
When I pause for breath she quietly states, “He’s my Son.”
For a moment I can’t think of anything to say. She steps up to the well, lets down the rope and hauls up the dripping vessel. “Then you’re Mary. I’ve heard Jesus mention His mother, and always with tenderness in His voice. What is it like to be His mother?”
Mary looked at me, sighed, and then smiling said, “I need to carry this water to my cousin’s house and help her prepare the morning meal. If you can come later we’ll talk.” Agreeing, I draw my pitcher full of water, knowing I too have morning duties.
After the noon meal I pick up my sewing basket and briskly walk through town, eager to hear Mary’s story. After seating ourselves in the garden, blue domed sky overhead, flowers blooming at our feet, I look at Mary expectantly. She seems lost in thought. Pulling a garment from my basket onto my lap I begin sewing pieces together, waiting for Mary to begin.
“Have you ever anticipated your wedding day, looked forward to living with a man you love, desired to carry his and your child in your womb, and following birth, in your arms?” Startled by Mary’s question I glance up at her earnest face. How could I answer? No man has ever asked for my hand in marriage, yet I have dreamed and longed for a family of my own. Before I can answer, Mary continues.
“I was promised to a wonderful man named Joseph, a widower. He was a carpenter. He made me a beautiful wooden box as an engagement present. I looked forward to our wedding day. One afternoon I was sitting in my mother’s flower garden doing the family mending and thinking about what my future might hold, my heart remembering Joseph’s whispered words of love. Suddenly I felt someone’s presence. Startled, I looked up to see a glorious angelic being standing in the garden. I was even more troubled by his words than by his sudden appearance. “You are greatly favored of God, and He is with you,” were the angel’s words. He went on to tell me I would conceive a son, not with Joseph, but by the power of the Most High when the holy Spirit would come upon me, before my marriage. This baby would be great, the Son of God, and would rule Israel forever. Impossible as this seemed, I humbly accepted the angel’s message and God’s will for my life. Mending forgotten, I sat in the garden trying to understand the implications of such a pregnancy. To fathom what being the mother of the promised baby would be like. It would be a weighty responsibility to care for a child who could claim no other father than God.
“So, what was it like?” I asked the same question I’d asked at the well.
“That’s what I wondered all during my pregnancy. I sewed little garments and blankets, prepared cloth for diapers, and Joseph made a special crib—only I never got to use it.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because just before little Jesus’ birth we had to make a hasty journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem and the crib got left at home. In Bethlehem so many people had gathered in response to Caesar’s order for a censes that all the available lodging was taken. I was so tired from the journey in my condition; my lower back was hurting me unbearably. All I wanted to do was lie down, and there were no vacant rooms anywhere. In tears I asked God why. Why aren’t You taking care of us? This baby, Your Son, is about to be born. Why did we have to come on this journey now?
Joseph took me in his arms there in the busy street and wiped my sweaty, teary face with his robe sleeve. I knew he was tired too, and worried about me. “There is a place we can rest tonight,” he huskily whispered. Taking my hand Joseph led me down a side street, stopping in front of an animal stable.
“Here?” I asked in amazement.
I gave birth that night, awhile before dawn, in a smelly stable. And instead of the lovely crib Joseph had made for this special baby’s bed we used a manger. Wearily I fell asleep on a pile of hay, one ear tuned to my infant should he cry. It seemed I had scarcely dosed off when I heard the sound of men’s voices outside. It was some shepherds talking about an angel bringing them a message about a king born that night, and they’d come to see Him. Wondering, I listened as they talked with my husband about an angel choir and celestial light. I watched as these grown men ‘ooed’ and ‘awed’ over my baby, then reverently knelt by the manger in worship, as to a king. As the sun peaked over the tree tops they left, shouting out praises to God. Jesus was crying, so I picked Him up, put Him to my breast, and exhausted, lay down to sleep.”
“But you still haven’t told me what it was like raising Jesus?” I persisted. “Was He different from other children?”
“Yes, and no.” Mary pondered a moment in silence. “He was a good baby, a precious tot, a sunny dispositioned boy. Seemed to me that He had a stubborn attitude at times, not defiant, but persistent. He definitely had His own ideas, especially about the traditions and customs of our church. He was obedient, but sometimes. . .” Mary paused, hunting for the right words. “Jesus was different somehow. I saw it more as He became older. He was always a joy to have around, kind and helpful, eager to learn. I taught Him how to read the Scriptures. Joseph taught Him how to work with wood, to fashion and build with His hands. Nearly every day Jesus would slip away in the predawn hours. He said He went up on the hill to pray. He loved being alone in nature. Often He would tell me about things He’d found, make up stories about birds and flowers—you know, spiritual lessons.”
“Yes, I know. Jesus still does that while speaking to the crowds of people who come to hear Him,” I interject.
Looking at me Mary continues. “What concerned me most about Jesus is how the other boys treated Him. Jesus has a very tender, sensitive heart. Many times He’d come crying to my arms for a hug. When I asked what was wrong all He’d say was, “It’s okay now. They didn’t mean to hurt me. They just don’t understand me.” Once Jesus expressed to me how lonesome He felt. Even I didn’t always understand Him. Another day He mentioned to me that the lonely places in His heart got filled while He talked with His Father out in His quiet place on the hill behind our house. Jesus knew at a young age who His Father is. Everyone in Nazareth knew it wasn’t Joseph. Jesus got ridiculed for being illegitimate. No one could accept my explanation. After all, who can explain such a mystery or God’s power?”
Mary stood and stretched. “My, time has slipped away while I’ve talked. The reason I’m here is to see my Son. I’m going to find Him now. Try to persuade Him to come home for a few weeks and rest.”
Stuffing the fabric, which I had left untouched in my lap while listening to Mary’s story, into the basket I jumped up. “Do you mind if I accompany you?” I asked. “I heard that Jesus plans to speak at Lemuel’s house this evening. I’ve been planning to go. I love to hear Jesus talk.”
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