The women at Christmas

 It’s just a few days before Christmas as I write this. As I prepare my heart, I’m thinking about the women in the Christmas story. A few weeks ago, I reflected on two older women, Elizabeth and Anna. Now my heart comes closer to the center of the story and I think of Mary, the mother of Jesus.

Not old. A teenager. A quiet girl, someone who pondered life’s mysteries and respectfully followed the dictates of her faith. She was probably looking forward to marriage and a family, as did all Jewish young women. She would receive those gifts, although not in the way she might have imagined. Her encounter with the angel Gabriel and his strange message is one of the most moving passages in Scripture. The poet Robert Siegel has an interesting perspective of this event, one that gives insight into Mary’s character.

Annunciation

She didn’t notice at first the air had changed.
She didn’t, because she had no expectation
except the moment and what she was doing, absorbed
in it without the slightest reservation.

Things grew brighter, more distinct, themselves,
in a way beyond explaining. This was her home,
yet somehow things grew more homelike. Jars on the shelves
gleamed sharply: tomatoes, peaches, even the crumbs

on the table grew heavy with meaning and a sure repose
as if they were forever. When at last she saw
from the corner of her eye the gold fringe of his robe
she felt no fear, only a glad awe,

the Word already deep inside her as she replied
yes to that she’d chosen all her life.

(--Robert Siegel)

Eight days after the birth, we read that “The child’s father and mother marveled at what was said about him” (Luke 2:33). One of my favorite passages about Mary is a short one, coming a few years after the birth of her young son as she contemplated all that had been told her about him: “… and his mother treasured all these things in her heart” (Luke 2:51). Bringing together the angel’s annunciation, her miracle pregnancy, Elizabeth’s prophecy, the news from the excited shepherds, and now the prophecies in the temple of Simeon and Anna, Mary had a lot to ponder and marvel over. Poet Luci Shaw captures some of what might have been Mary’s ponderings.

Mary’s Song

Blue homespun and the bend of my breast
keep warm this small hot naked star
fallen to my arms. (Rest . . .
you who have had so far
to come.) Now nearness satisfies
the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies
whose vigor hurled
a universe. He sleeps
whose eyelids have not closed before.

His breath (so slight it seems
no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps
to sprout a world.
Charmed by dove’s voices, the whisper of straw,
he dreams,
hearing no music from his other spheres.
Breath, mouth, ears, eyes
he is curtailed
who overflowed all skies,
all years.
Older than eternity, now he
is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed
to my poor planet, caught that I might be free,
blind in my womb to know my darkness ended,
brought to this birth
for me to be new-born,
and for him to see me mended
I must see him torn.

(--Luci Shaw)

Today I’m thinking about Christmas and some of my women friends. I’m especially holding in the light four of my close friends who have become widows in the last few years. Some of the books on widowhood say that after a year, the pain lessens. I don’t know, not yet having experienced this, but my friends tell me that the sense of loss continues, as do the occasional tears. Grief is not easy and swiftly gone. A family-centered time like Christmas can trigger sorrow. 

I’m thinking of a friend who within this passing year has received a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. She and her husband are processing it with courage and faith, but not without sorrow as they face the future. Another friend is caring for her husband now in increasing stages of dementia. It’s a hard road to walk as she watches this once vital, creative, and highly intelligent man slowly become another person. Her Christmas will certainly be different than mine. 

I think of the mothers of Gaza, Sudan, and Ukraine, of those waiting at the Southern borders of our own country, desperate to care for their children. Many of these don’t celebrate Christmas, being of a different faith family, but humanly speaking, they are like all of us.

In prophesying the significance of the birth of Jesus, Isaiah foretold, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned” (Isaiah 9:2). As Mary pondered these things in her heart, she was beginning to understand this story that is really beyond all comprehension. Something larger and grander than the image of a baby in a feeding trough. 

Thank God for Mary who treasured the hope in her heart. Thank God for the faithfulness of Elizabeth and Anna. This Christmas season, may God’s mercy be near those who grieve, those who are ill, those who care for them, and all those who suffer the ravages of war, eviction, and homelessness. “On those living in deep darkness, a light has dawned.” 

Let it be so.