what did Mary see?

every day, my baby nurses… and in those moments of quiet beauty i’m forced, amidst life’s noise, to stop and be, purely still.

i read, or pray for the flesh i hold, or… i study his face:

he has my mother’s eyes.

wide marble slates, pools of blue… knowing me, knowing more than i ever will, fresh from the arms of heaven…

my mother, reborn, through his sight… seeing life with full-mind, full-comprehension… she lives on through new pupils…

he has my husband’s olive skin.

stretched tight over cheeks and muscle-arms he flails bare feet and i cringe, remembering the kicks from within, yet loving his soccer-legs…

he has my jaw.

wondering: will he wait four years to speak, as i did? will words march boldly, or tremble at the edge of tongue, not quite ready to fall into wide-open world? will he write better than he speaks? will he stammer or state? journalist or lawyer? or _____?

Jesus too, nursed at Mary’s breast, eyes squeezed shut, hands conducting invisible orchestra as milk dribbled from his holy mouth…

as Mary looked down upon baby-boy, who did she see? which qualities of Christ’s were hers? did he have her chin? her eyes? her skin?

and which were the Father-God’s?

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1 Comment

  1. Linda said,

    December 13, 2009 at 2:56 am

    Precious thoughts Emily. I can’t help but think about Mary these days too. I think it natural that we mothers identify with her. It is miraculous that they are partly us and wholly their own. I take great comfort in knowing the Father has already written the story of our children, and grandchildren’s, lives. They are good stories.


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