Advent Calendar – 25 December
Nativity Stories: Mary
They grow up so fast. One day you’re delighted they can say Mama, and the next they’re heading out on a job with their own tools, sharpened the night before, ready to help their father. You want them to grow up and get less needy, and then when they turn around and say, all deep-voiced, Mum, I can manage on my own, you wish they were a child again, running in for a cuddle for a grazed knee, dipping their hand into the jar of sweets when your back’s turned. Jesus was just like that, growing up like any other kid in Nazareth. Weeks would go by and I never thought of how it all happened: there was too much to do with the growing family, putting food on the table, and taking care of my own parents as they started to fail, and trying to get Joseph to fix things round the house.
But it all came back to me that one time we went up to Jerusalem for Passover. Half of Nazareth travelled that year, lots of families with kids scampering about. Jesus was 12, nearly a man, so we barely noticed when he wasn’t with us as we walked back to Nazareth. He’d be with the other lads talking about the big city – or so we’d have said if we’d given it a thought. But as we camped that first night he didn’t show up though all the other boys were there. No-one had seen him. I couldn’t sleep that night, and words came back from so long ago – the stranger from the east who brought myrrh for a mortal, he said. Then that old man at death’s door in the Temple who said there was pain coming for me, sharp in my marrow. Joseph and I could barely speak to each other. What had happened to Jesus? We’d seen all sorts in Jerusalem’s streets, ragged people crying out, men who looked as if they’d steal your purse out of your hand. Jesus was too young to be on his own there – he wasn’t worldly wise, growing up in a small village.
We rushed back to Jerusalem at first light, asking everyone if they’d seen a lad about so high, dark hair, a bit serious. But it was hopeless – no-one had seen him, and anyway they all had their own problems, clearing up after the pilgrims had gone. I was sick with worry, I couldn’t eat, I hardly slept. Joseph kept telling me it would be okay, but I could tell he was scared. This time, there were no angels in his dreams telling him what to do. On the third day I’d almost given up hope and said to Joseph, “Let’s go to the Temple. Maybe prayers there will find their way to heaven.” But we hadn’t said a word to God when we saw him, sitting quite the thing with the old men, deep in conversation. I’m afraid I lost my temper with him, calling him every name under heaven for being so cruel to Joseph and me. But all he said was, “I had to be here. Why didn’t you know that?” It was only then the relief hit me – for three days I feared the worst, but he was alive.
We came back to Nazareth but part of him was elsewhere, his eyes on the horizon, as if he was waiting for the morning he’d pack his bag and go. I loved him, Jesus, my firstborn, and I treasured it all, the angel’s visit, staying with Elizabeth, the mad journey to Bethlehem, the shepherds, the callers from the east with their funny gifts, the fear of losing him, finding refuge in Egypt, then year by year in Nazareth. He was there for me when Joseph sickened and died, all grown up, overnight the man of the house.
I’d have loved to keep him, to forget again the myrrh, the sword. But he belonged to more than me and Nazareth, and so, one day, when he said it was time to go, I let him go. The angel said before anything else that God was with me. And I’ve had him with me all these years. It’s time to share him. But I’m going too. I told him I’d follow him, wherever he went. I’d follow him until the end, and beyond.
Giotto, The Boy Jesus in the Temple