I Think of Mary on Christmas

A Christmas program and thinking of Mary

I was in fifth grade when a poem made me think of Mary. The poem I was assigned for our church Christmas program was titled “I Have Often Thought of Mary.” The Christmas program was an exciting time for us. We learned new songs and recitations to share on Christmas morning when the entire congregation came to the program. Learning new songs and new poems about Christmas was as common as winter snow in our Appalachia.

Mama made me practice and practice my poem until every word was ingrained in my mind. To make certain I enunciated properly, she went into her bedroom and shut the door. Mama instructed me to say my lines slowly and distinctly. I was to throw my voice from the kitchen, across the dining room, and past the closed door of her bedroom.  If, and only if, she could hear every word clearly, was practice over.  The next night after supper dishes were done, the process was repeated.

Helping the audience think of Mary

I could hardly wait until it was my turn to stand on the stage, looking out across the audience of grownups and little kids. I’d give my recitation and, hopefully, the eyes of my many stoic aunties in the audience would fill with tears. They’d furtively slide a finger on their cheeks to wipe away the “speck” in their eyes. One must never let a child know she touched their heart cords, for that might make her proud. I recognized that, but I also knew that when a voice and a recitation brought tears (without words of affirmation later), the job was more than well-done. For me, that was more than enough.

That morning, I put my all into that recitation. I spoke clearly, throwing my voice out across the audience so even the folks in the back sat up straight to listen. I noticed my aunties, marveled at the wonder stealing across their faces, and watched as tears dangling at the corner of eyes were furtively wiped away.

I’ve never forgotten that poem about Mary giving birth without the comforts of mother and home. Every Christmas season, I think of Mary.

I still think of Mary

Every Christmas since that one sixty years ago, that poem haunts me, for it is poignant in the truth of the story. A young maiden, a virgin, gives birth in possibly a stable somewhere in that little town of Bethlehem. She doesn’t have a midwife or a mother nearby, and her birthing suite is possibly a cattle stall. 

The birth of any baby is exciting. I remember the births of our six and can tell you details of each one – of our excitement and anticipation in learning is it a boy or a girl?!  I remember the wonder of birth, the delight in holding our newborn in my arms for that first time.

On the arrival of our third son, I reached for him as the nurses handed him to me.  I swaddled him in my arms, kissed the top of his wet head and said, “Oh, dear.” Our newborn turned his head and looked up at me.

The nurse at Martha Jefferson Hospital exclaimed, “Would you look at that! He’s heard that before!” 

Certainly he did hear that in utero. It was a term of endearment in our house, given with a hug. I knew my baby knew his mama’s voice.

Yet, the birth of this Child of Mary was beyond ordinary and beyond miraculous. Every child is a promise of tomorrow and a life yet to be lived. Every child is a promise with hopes to change the world. So it was with this Child.

This Child knew His mother’s voice – but He followed the voice of His Father. For, this Child was born to die.

Did Mary understand this? Who knows.

The promise of a sword

This we do know – at the visit to the temple with the Baby in their arms, Simeon confirmed what they themselves knew: this was the Messiah, the Son of God.

He also told Mary that one day, a sword would pierce through her very soul. Did she understand that her Baby was born to die?

I have come to understand that the possible fear of giving birth to this Holy Child in a place far from home was nothing compared to what was to come.  The throngs who disliked His message were nothing compared to the future.  The pain from the people’s choice of freeing Barabbas over Jesus was nothing compared to crucifixion. For this is when the sword pierced through her own soul.

Yet – after the crucifixion and the death – there was Resurrection. The sword was gone, and  victory achieved. Mary’s Child was born to die. He was also born to rise again. And He did.

God uses the piercing of the sword to unleash His Power, Grace, Salvation and Joy into the world!  We must shout this to the world, letting our voices hurl across the spans of continents, to a world so lost and weary. 

At this season, we should especially re-learn the story so we can tell it to those sitting way in the back. It’s a story of a Child born to die – and to live. This Christmas story takes those swaddled in pain to the promise of an empty tomb that signifies life.

This story continues to raise hands to hearts and to eyes, to wipe away the pain and turmoil as hope and Joy becomes alive again.  

Photo credits: www.LumoProject.com. (via freebibleimages.org). Used by permission.