Mother of God

What must it be like to hold God in your arms?

I wonder that every year during Advent, especially now that I am a mother myself. I have always admired Mary, wondered what she must have been like to receive such favor from God. To bear His Son. To take that flesh-clad holiness into her own home, to let Him live among her messes and failures and weariness and dirt, to feed Him and change Him and to know He often saw her at her worst.

Yet she accepted the angel's pronouncement with quiet faith. She endured the months of gossip and slander and questioning, mocking looks. There is no evidence of her complaining at giving birth in a stable far from home. Her only recorded words are words of trust and ardent praise. When those around her chattered giddy with wonder and joy, she quietly tucked the moments away in her heart, treasures to ponder in her own quiet way.

Would I want to be Mary, if I could? Would I want to look at the baby in my arms and know He was God? Would I be able to live with those eyes on me, those little hands reaching out, the same hands that made the world? How would it feel to explode in a sudden burst of anger and then remember that God was in the room? What would it be like to impatiently snap at Him with harsh words, only to be reminded of His divinity?

I heave a sigh of relief to know that my own children are only ordinary sinners like myself. And yet. Sinners they may be, but they were created in His image. They bear His stamp, just as Jesus did. And when I hold them in my arms, I may not be holding God Himself, but I am holding holiness. His breath breathed into them. His fingerprints covering every inch. His song of delight hovering over them, just as it did over His Firstborn.

When I speak to them in anger, when I treat them harshly, when I withhold my time or attention or love, I hurt God as much as I hurt them. Why would I not be as careful and gentle with their hearts as I would with the very heart of Christ?

I am convinced only Mary's humility allowed her to live day after day with God under her roof. She surely knew the meaning of grace more than anyone and was able to accept it fully, aware of her inadequacy. But the knowledge of who Jesus was must have made her more thoughtful, more careful, more purposeful.

I have neither the humility nor the thoughtfulness. But maybe, by His grace, I can begin to see my children as God sees them. And maybe, by the same grace, they will see me the same way.