Did I mention my son?…

The story behind our song, Christmas Lady. Click here to listen to Christmas Lady:

I’m a mother like many mothers, and it would probably be fair to say that I am disproportionately delighted with my child. You’ve probably met one like me at parties; we’re tiresomely obsessed with our little darlings to the exclusion of most other more interesting conversation.

To quote a rather more well known and less overstated parent… ‘In him I am well pleased’; in fact, let’s not beat about the bush, apart from the odd spell of high blood pressure at about the time we’re trying to get off on the school run, he is the veritable apple of my eye.

However, as has been said many times before… you worry. From the moment they arrive, until the moment (I suspect) that I’ll shuffle off this mortal coil, I dare say I will continue to worry over one thing or another, some undeniably scary, some absurdly trivial.

I’ve had my nights sitting by a hospital bed while machines went ’beep-beep’, praying to a seemingly absent God; I’ve had my moments of astounded delight at my son’s charms and achievements… and I’ve had my moments of longing to protect him from every fall, every knock in confidence and every unkind friend.

I battle with those issues that go with parenthood… when to hold tight, when to let go; when to encourage, when to rein in. I am so mortal, so inept, so unqualified.

And my son is, in most people’s eyes, just an ordinary boy.

So what must it have been like for Mary? A teenage parent, wholly innocent. Her son was anything but ordinary. The birth in a stable, a hasty flight from the plans of Herod, and then watching him grow into… well… God. How did she feel as she watched him grow up, walking, talking, running, his early signs of exceptional wisdom and understanding, the events surrounding his baptism by John and then that first and numerous subsequent miracles? His teaching, his purity of spirit, his insight and his kindness. Had she been able to comprehend what was to come?

I can’t zip my mouth at important moments with my own son (I called him ”poppet” when cheering for him at a football match once; that caused amusement among the other mums and dads.) I can just hear myself if I was in her place…”Jesus, please keep away from the Pharisees”; “Jesus, please stop winding up the Sanhedrin”, “Jesus, please don’t do miracles on the Sabbath, you know how angry they get…”

And here we are, over two thousand years later. Has motherhood changed so much? Are we able to comprehend what she must have gone through?

Did Mary the mother tickle the tummy of Baby Jesus? Did she kiss his tiny feet? And as he grew up, was she crippled with anxiety when she became aware of those who longed to hurt him? We are rightly horrified by the loss of a child… I shudder to think of the pain she must have experienced…

And then… he rose again. My imagination sputters, flickers and goes blank.

I’m hoping to meet Mary in heaven, and when I do, I’ve got a lot of questions for her.

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