I wonder what Mary had to say to God.
I think about her son. Reluctant to help out at a large family gathering, even with the smallest of miracles, distracted by his own purpose, like my boys.
Kelly Salasin, 2013, all rights reserved
“I can’t wait for Christmas!” my 15 year old says. “How about you, Mom?”
I pause to consider.
“I can wait,” I say. “Christmas is as much the preparations for me.”
Then I laugh at myself. If this is true, why do I agonize over the preparations, and take joy on Christmas Day?
Labor and birth come to mind, and pregnancy. Perhaps suffering the preparation, even if its treasured, isn’t so absurd.
How then might I be gentler with myself in this knowing? (And how about others, do they deserve less of my griping too?)
My mind flashes to a classic birth scene–a screaming woman, a tightly gripped hand, the accusation: “You did this to me!”
I wonder what Mary had to say to God.
I think about her son. Reluctant to help out at a large family gathering, even with the smallest of…
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The Empty Nest Diary 