Open the Doors and See All the Messy

If you haven’t been hurt by people in a church yet, you’re probably a new believer. Congratulations! And don’t let that last statement scare you. But beware! People are messy. They are just as messy IN the church as they are in the carpool line, Walmart, the bar, and every other place. Walking through a church’s doors doesn’t suddenly, magically cure people of their messiness. But hopefully, their being there is a sign that they are trying to clean it up!

So in these crazy times especially, why go to church?? There’s no commandment that says we HAVE to. So there. (End of argument, right?)

True, there is no direct commandment from God or Jesus directing us to go to church. However, in the New Testament, after Jesus ascended to Heaven, the Church began. So, as we are living in the ‘New Testament Times,’ those directions given us in the Bible are for us today. Sooo…. there is a direction of why we should attend this church with all the multitudes of messy sinners!

The Bible tells us “not to forsake the gathering together with other believers.” (Hebrews 10:25) The book of Hebrews is not about coffee (da dum dah!). It was written to the Jews who believed in Jesus as the Messiah during a time of Roman dominion and persecution. They were NOT a popular group of people. They stood on the Old Testament that the Jewish religion revolved around, while also accepting Jesus as their savior. They did this during a time in which crucifixion, death in boiling vats of oil, and human torches were the way to deal with anyone who opposed the Roman government. Surely if these new believers could face near-certain death to meet together, today’s Christians can take the opportunity to do so in a country where it’s not outlawed?

Stick with me.

Paul and the disciples started the Church. The Church was gatherings of multitudes who believed Jesus as the son of God and the Messiah- both Jews and Gentiles. They sought out and attending these meetings as an opportunity to learn, to worship, to pray together. Why?

So that they could glorify in multitudes. That is what the church is. Throughout the Bible, we see multitudes worshipping God.

-Would one angel’s song have sufficed to announce the birth of Jesus? (Luke 2)

-Did only one person follow Jesus while he was in the flesh? (John 6)

-Had Jesus been alone, would not Herod have certainly killed him sooner? (Matthew 14)

-Does John see but a few in worship in Revelation? (Revelation 7)

Nope! In each of these, the multitudes had a purpose!

Glorify God! One person’s song is great. The Lord is worthy of our own personal worship. But how much more powerful of a message is it when there are many voices?! We come together to glorify the King of Kings, our Father, savior, our Rock of Ages! Because one worshipful voice is powerful; but many voices join together brings delight to the Lord. (Psalm 147) Probably why there was a ‘heavenly host’ in Luke 2 rather than a solo angel.

People were amazed at the miracles of Jesus and because there were so many followers, they shared the good news! (Psalm 9, Exodus 9, I John) These multitudes followed, witness miracles, then spread the information.

The crowds offered Jesus protection from the evil intent in the world. You can go into battle alone, but you will lose against the enemy that outnumbers you. (I Peter 5) And if Jesus stayed within the multitudes to help him win against His enemy, we should probably follow suit… just sayin’. Sounds like a GOOD plan.

Throughout the book of Revelation, multitudes are in worship together giving God glory and praise. So, knowing that God’s ultimate plan is for us to spend eternity in united glorification of Him, why are we not practicing that here on Earth?

So, my point is… we Believers attend church not because someone asks us to, because we feel bad if we don’t, because we have nothing else to do, because our mamas drag us there…

We attend church because our Lord finds joy in our united praises, because we are strengthened in being with like-hearted believers, because we are stronger together, and because we know that our eternity in Him is one of united worship.

So, yeah, church can be messy because we are messy. But we don’t go to church for the people. We go to church because the Lord delights IN His people. (Psalm 149, Proverbs 8) And He is worthy, far beyond worthy, of our praises.

Keep It Simple… seriously.

Today’s world is messed up. But you know what, so were the yesterdays of yesterday. The world has been messed up for a LONG time. Read your Bible. Read a history book. Read ANY book for goodness’ sake! People are messed up, so the world is messed up.

The recent death of George Floyd has thrown open the flood gates for stupidity, ignorance, and hate to run rampant. That, combined with The Corona (yes, I call it THE Corona) and its results, makes our world seem nonsensical.

But keep it simple. Love God. Love people.

We continue to divide each other by gender, race, socioeconomic status, age, and whatever differences we see in others in comparison to ourselves. Stop it. If you do that, you are part of the problem.

Each year, I lecture my students (in great wisdom, of course) to love one another. I do not see my kids as white, black, or brown… I see them as mine. Because they are God’s, and He has entrusted me to love them no matter what their differences.

When Larraine moved in with us, she made comments about ‘being black’ and whatnot. She told me she never felt “black enough to be considered black, but not white enough to be considered white.” How tragic that a child should feel that way. She is not white or black… she is mine. Because she is God’s, and He has entrusted me to love her no matter what.

So, she talked about ‘being black.’ Okay, that’s fine with me; whatever she wants to feel. BUT what I didn’t want is for my two boys to see her that way. They didn’t even know what a ‘black person’ was when she moved in. As far as they knew, people were brown or peach. How precious! Brown or peach. Like chocolate and fruit… both equally as sweet.

SJ was 8 years old when he came home and asked me, “Is (my friend’s name) black?”

I asked him what he thought.

“Well, I dunno. He looks brown to me, but he said he was black, so I guess so.”

PRE-SHUSH. My baby, who is so super white that he’s not even classifiable as peach, took 8 years to realize that one of his besties is considered ‘black.’

Wouldn’t the world be a better place if we could all be so precious… so innocent?

But we aren’t. And to dream of such seems like inviting an argument for ignorance. However, allow me to present an opportunity for us.

Stop with the classification.

Let us live in a world where character means more than color. The character of that officer is in question, no doubt. His actions are deplorable. But not because he killed a black man. But because he killed A MAN. Just as Cain slew Able and faced the consequences, so too should this man.

And just because he’s a policeman does not mean that all police are bad… nor that all police are racists. Senseless death is always senseless, no matter the color of skin.

Do NOT allow this one person’s actions to allow a foothold in your life for contention. We have come SO far in this country. We must continue forward in allowing our future generations to learn from our mistakes, but also rid themselves of the inequality of difference based on skin tones.

Keep it simple. Love God. Love people.

Duh. I love my kids.

“The clause that makes the Constitution the highest form of law is…”

Duh. Obviously. It’s Santa Claus. Option D on the test I gave just last week. (Dear Lord, I thought that was an obvious INCORRECT answer.) As it happens, not just ONE of my students chose D…. TWO of my students chose D. Santa Claus… as the answer… to the question. (Proof is below. It really happened. TWICE.)

It’s the Supremacy Clause, for those of you who are wondering the REAL answer.  

It’s moments like that which make me question every life choice that brought me here today. I am a teacher. Not just any teacher, mind you. I am a junior high American history teacher, and THAT, my friend, is my superpower. Until Thanos snaps his fingers and turns me into a pile of dust with the answer to such a question and reminds that I am just a mere mortal. Sigh. 

But, you know what? Despite wanting to slap myself in the face or even crying when my students think that the Declaration of Independence was signed on January 1st, I take great joy in my job. Truly. 

Teaching was not my first choice of career. My 18-year-old self was convinced I was going to be a high school counselor and save all the kids I could from lives of terrible choices. I spent thousands of dollars on an education in counseling psychology so that I could just that. Four short years later, as I finished up my student practicum, I realized that I did not, in fact, want to be a counselor. The counselor gets stuck with testing, and IEPs, and state-mandated reports, and all the icky administrative ‘stuff.’ I wanted to change the trajectory of kids’ lives for goodness’ sake!

So, while I had a great job in banking making more money than I do even today with a Masters Degree, I pursued alternative certification to become a history teacher. Gasp! Alternatively certified!?! Yes! 

To some that translates as: “Does not have a degree in education and is therefore unqualified.” Yet, in truth, it translates as: “Yes, I have a degree in something else, but that something else isn’t my passion, and I want to be a teacher despite the fact that I could do something else.*” 

*And make more money DOING something else, but tttbbbtttt, I don’t wanna!

I like being a teacher. Sure, there are days that a glass of merlot and a nap sounds like a lifesaver at 1:35 p.m., but then in walks some kid whose smile is a ray of sunshine and asks with a genuine heart, “Hi, Mrs. Dyson! How are you?” The truth to her sweet question is, “I’m losing my mind!” but instead, I smile back and tell her, “Good! But how are YOU doing?” 

Or the kid who walks in crying because someone at home doesn’t love her enough, and she knows just where to find a hug and some encouragement that someone cares. 

Because these kids are the best part of my job. Even the Santa Claus kid. I mean, kidS because there were two. I tried to forget. 

And I’m tired of the on-going conversation about how teachers aren’t paid enough, and we deal with hard things in life. You know what? Life is hard. We all know that we don’t get paid enough because there’s no amount of money in the world to pay someone to be an 

educator/ nurse/ parent/ secretary/ life-coach/ entertainer/ therapist/

cook/ janitor/ assistant/ mentor/ incessant tie-er of shoes 

all in one to THAT many kids, none of whom we birthed. Yet we choose every day to come in here and do it again. And again. And again.

If the most exciting thing about being a teacher is waiting for whenever the next break from school is, then you probably don’t need to be a teacher. Yup. I said it. Maybe it sounds judgy or whatever. But before you get your panties all tied up, maybe, just maybe, if it strikes a nerve with you (the teacher who just wants the bell to ring more quickly at 3:15 p.m. every single day) I encourage you to go work somewhere else. 

You have a degree. Maybe it’s even in education, lah dee dah. But just as my degree isn’t in my field of contentment, that won’t stop you from finding yours either. Get out there. It’s a big world. And kids already have enough of people who don’t want to be around them. Don’t just be another in the stack of them. 

Okay- stepping off that soapbox.  

Choose something else to do with it that makes you happy. Life is far too short to look forward to the end of the workday…. EVERY day. Don’t get me wrong; we all have THOSE days when it doesn’t end soon enough. (Ask any teacher who survived last Friday after Halloween.) But if it’s EVERY DAY, then you need to reevaluate. 

And I say this as someone who after spending tens of thousands of dollars on the wrong thing, I too had to reevaluate. When I sat in front of those scary beings who are members of the State Department of Education that had the power to determine if my lack of an ‘appropriate degree’ would prevent my following my dream, they asked, “Why in this world where teachers are underpaid, underappreciated, and undervalued would you ever want to be a teacher?” 

Because I love teenagers, and I truly want to make a positive impact on their lives. 

And that is exactly why I come to school every day. I’m sure as heck not perfect at it, and of course, there are those kids who make it tougher than others, but at the beginning of my day, they are who I come to see. 

Even if Santa Claus signed the Declaration of Independence on January 1st, I love my kids.

 

And there’s this too. Sadly.

You’ve Got a Booger

“You gotta bat in the cave.” I internally debated telling her that for a minute. But after watching that booger sway back and forth with every breath, it was time.

“Oh my gosh.” She wiped furiously at her nose with the back of her hand, ringing her finger just around her nostril for good measure.

“And now it’s on your hand!” My eyes widened in mock horror as I sorted through my purse for a tissue. “Eww…. you’re gross!” I crinkled my nose, offering her the help she needed.

“Thanks,” she paused wiping her nose AND her hand with the waded Kleenex. “Wonder how long it’s been in there for the world to see?” She then squirted Bath & Body Works hand sanitizer all over her fingers. (Another reason we are friends.)

“I dunno, but you’re not the first to have it happen. Least I told you before you had some stranger tell you! So, anyway, back to your story…”

It’s so embarrassing to know that you’ve walked around with a booger chillin’ in your nostril… or your granny panties peeking through an unzipped fly (for FOUR hours!)… or pieces of your Mexican food screaming to be flossed out every time you smile.

But a true friend will tell you. They’ll make you uncomfortable for a minute so that you’re not later uncomfortable for an entire hour… or an entire day.

They’ll point out the ugly in a way that makes life better for you.

You know? It’s also uncomfortable for that friend. No one wants to be the bearer of news that will embarrass someone. Or at least, a true friend doesn’t want that for them. But ultimately, NOT telling them is worse. Because eventually, my friend would have found that booger. And realized that it had been there for a long time. And she’d also realized that I DIDN’T tell her, and my neglect in that would have caused her further embarrassment. Because later that day, she met a super cute guy who proposed to her six months later, and they married and had three adorable booger-free kids.

(Just kiddin’- I made that part up, but it woulda been a cool story!)

Wounds from a friend can be trusted. Does it wound a bit to have another human being see the weakness in you? You betcha. From the dark cave of your nostril to the deeper, darkest corners of your heart, a true friend is willing to shed the light on those things which will later bring you pain if left hanging there for too long.

“Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.” Prov. 27:6

Too often do we easily quote the first part of that verse but leave off the last part. Sure- telling my friend about her booger was a slight wound I caused her but that could be trusted. Even as much as the pain I caused in telling another friend that her emotional attachment to someone other than her spouse was hanging out for all to see- far nastier than bodily waste; it was a disgusting emotional waste that needed a life-sized Kleenex. And definitely a bunch of heart sanitizer.

Yet, “the kisses of an enemy are deceitful” is overlooked too often. In Hebrew culture, a kiss was a greeting used by most in various social circumstances.* Unlike today, kissing was not a passionate, outward, sloppy sign of PDA. It was a chaste touch of the lips upon another person’s brow, hand, cheek, or neck. The plural form of ‘kisses’ lets us know that there are many lavished upon the receiver of them.

So- basically, those who are always lavishing praise and worship upon you, praising you despite your flaws, are not to be trusted. They seek only self-interest in bolstering your opinion of them more than anything else. Those are the ones who have no interested in deepening a friendship. They are the ones who you see in WalMart, and they say, “We should do lunch sometime!” but never actually call to set it up. (SO annoying.) They are the ones who kiss you on the cheek while reaching an arm around you to stab you in the back.

Charles Spurgeon, a well-known pastor in the late nineteenth century, penned this excerpt on friendship.◊

Fidelity, as we now call it today, is loyalty. A loyal friend is one who will risk being liked for a time by you so that you can become a better version of you. Spurgeon said it so eloquently, so truthfully, as he did many truths in his sermons.

So in a world full of — kissers, know who your true friend is- one who sticks closer than a brother, one whose wounds are faithful, one who loves you as God does, one who would lay down his life for you.

And in turn, be a true friend.

 

 

 

 

* Manners and Customs of Bible Lands. By Fred H. Wight.

◊ The Spurgeon Series 1857 & 1858: Unabridged Sermons In Modern Language.

I Am Who You Say I Am

 

That’s My Dad

The little boys munch into their pbj’s slathering their chub cheeks with each bite. Through a mouthful, one declares, “My dad is the strongest man in the world!” flexing his scrawny arm in illustration.

His buddy shouts, “My dad is the strongest man in the universe!”

Still, another interjects, “Yeah, well,” he gulps his milk, “my dad can lift up a car. All. By. Himself.”

“Whoa!” the other two stare a moment before diving back into their sandwiches.

After a beat, one replies, “My dad’s muscles are bigger than The Hulk’s!”

They all laugh good-naturedly.

Then the quiet one pipes up. “Well, my dad can kill 200,000 of his enemies with just a word.”

Wait? What? Peanut butter drools from the corner of their mouths, and they stare unabashedly.

“Yep. That’s right. Poof! All dead. That’s my dad!” he smiles whole heartedly at his friends.

 

Sounds like someone needs therapy, right?

But let me tell you, my Dad has done that. My Father really is the strongest man in the universe. In Isaiah 37, God wipes out an entire army who comes against his people with just one angel. “Go,” He instructed the angel, “destroy those who wish to come against me and my people.”*

It’s an insane story. Truly crazy. You should definitely pause here to look it up.

So often, when we read these stories, we are horrified by a God who would strike dead armies in a single blow, who brings down fire and brimstone on a faithless people, who would flood an entire earth, or turn a woman into salt for turning around. We are frightened by what we see as One whose power exceeds that which we can even fathom.

Yet, we really ought to read them and think, “That’s my dad” with hearts swelling with pride.

Because my Father is a father who protects His children from their enemies. My Father disciplines those He loves in order to mold their characters into reflections of who He is. My Father sent His greatest treasure to pay a price that allows me to call him father. My Father causes flowers to grow simply because their beauty brings me happiness.

Yep, that’s my Dad.

 

 

 

*TDV- Tara Dyson Version

 

 

Bzz Bzz Thwack

Bzzzzz. BzzzzZZZzzzz. Thwack. Bzzzzz. BzzzzZZZzzzz. Thwack.

Again and again the little fly’s body tries desperately against the glass of the French door. I watch him eagerly trying to get back outdoors. His explorations had brought him into the confines of my room. He had buzzed around excitedly, flitting from one object to another looking to find something in this new place that he could devour. But the call back to the outdoors was too strong. So he buzzed past me toward the glass on the door only to be stopped in his tracks.

Bzzzzz. BzzzzZZZzzzz. Thwack.

Again and again he flies against the glass knocking it in hopes to get back to where he came from. Back where he was truly free before the temptation of my room brought him here.

Bzzzzz. BzzzzZZZzzzz. Thwack.

If only he would stop and take a look around, he might notice that the other door stands completely open to the outside world.

The air outside so enticing that I had swung one door open allowing the breeze to flow through the room. And there it stood still inviting the sounds of the jungle and the crash of the ocean into this space. Through it, the little fly had ventured. Yet he was lost.

Bzzzzz. BzzzzZZZzzzz. Thwack.

Though one door stands wide open, he feebly attempts to push through the other in his way, not stopping to realize that his way out is not but a few inches away from him. The illusion of the glass, so clear and clean, makes it hard for this little fly to see his real escape route.

Bzzzzz. BzzzzZZZzzzz. Thwack.

Aren’t we often like that? We venture into places that seem so enticing, exploring our options, flitting from place to place, not realizing that we have left the comfort of our true nature. We buzz around excitedly until we realize that this place is not our home. Then we try desperately to return, feeling trapped though we cannot see why.

We run into the glass time and time again in vain, not understanding why it’s so difficult.

It steals our peace, and we become frenzied. The things of this world collapse onto us, and we feel the pressure of it. Yet our souls long to be released back to a place where we belong. That place? In the arms of our Father. In the rest that comes in relationship with Christ. In the comfort and guidance of the Holy Spirit.

Bzzzzz. BzzzzZZZzzzz. Thwack.

Yet we try so hard to enter there, not even stopping to assess what’s around us. If we would only stop- take just a minute- we would see that the way to Him is wide open. There are no obstacles preventing us from returning other than our misperceptions.

Just like this little fly, we push against the unseen when we ought to be resting in knowing that the door to our Father stands open ready for us to enter.

Beauty from Pain

A petal floats to the hardwood table before me. The bright pink veins contrast against the cedar’s rusty brown. The smell permeates the air, a reminder that Spring is upon us and the world is okay.

Peonies are fragile. They bloom for but a few days before disappearing again, unappreciated until the next year’s time.

Those in front of me now are the ones that I chose to set on my table. Guilt pricked at my soul as I snipped them from their stalks. I immediately placed them into the water, hoping to keep them as long as possible. I know it’s selfish. I ought to leave them happily basking in the sun. Yet, on my table, I can enjoy them more. They’re so beautiful, yet fragile. They are a small slice of happiness. A simple reminder of God’s goodness.

Even as I cut them from their stalks, I know that their chances for survival are minimal. They usually last about a week before they smolder into dried nothingness.

Yet, as I sit here at my table, allowing their beauty and fragrance to overwhelm me, the thunder rumbles in the distance. Its fury grows as it growls through the heavens, making its disturbance known to the universe.

I sigh, noting the time, heading off to bed.

Throughout the night, the thunder echoes and lightning flashes through my dreams.

The next morning, I awake to debris scattered across the yard. The view from my window is chaos. I note that the trees in our yard have had their limbs rent from them, scattered carelessly across the yard. The neighbor’s roof shingles have spotted their grass, their porch chairs turned sideways.

Then I notice the peony bushes. Those that I had left alone only the day before have been pelted by the storm winds and hail. They’ve been demolished, utterly unrecognizable from the day before as I gathered their betters to adorn my table.

The guilt I felt at snipping them has changed. It’s now an understanding that I have saved them from that terrible storm.

That moment of pain as they were cut from their environment actually caused them to live on longer rather than if they’d been left in comfort, their beauty to live on beyond those that were left nestled in the comfort of the flower bed.

 

Isn’t that the way of life? So often, Life causes us pain, which at the time seems unbearable. Yet, when we look back, we can see that they temporary pain of a separation or of something taken from us is far less than that which we may have suffered otherwise. Those fragile peonies were actually made stronger than their counterparts by having suffered a moment of separation from their comfortable environment. Yet, that moment of pain created for them a longevity which the others would never know. For theirs was a storm that pulverized them rather than a simple snip of the sheers.

So, in those moments of pain, remember that there is One who finds you so beautiful and cherishes you so much, that He is sometimes willing to allow that pain in order to draw you to Him… that in that drawing you to Him, He might shield you from greater pain which is yet unknown.

Failure

I sit on my stairs head between my palms. Maybe if I squeeze hard enough, it will make my heart hurt less. His defiant voice still echoes down the stairwell. Little protests against the regulations and discipline.

“If you aren’t quiet, I will spank you again,” I promised as I closed the door to his room just minutes before.

He got a spanking for disobeying. But only after my pleading and cajoling him into failed attempts of acquiescence. Like a flip, our Bible stories and devotions ended, and the disobedience began. It’s as though he searches for the opportune moment to defy me, ruin the peaceful moments of bedtime.

He knows the expectations. He knows the routine. He knows the consequences. He knows all of it. And still…. STILL, he persists in defying it all. He is his own worst enemy at times.

“Why are you getting a spanking?” I had asked him.

“Because I didn’t obey.”

“That’s right. What were you told to do?”

“Stop talking and be quiet.” (Or any of the other fifteen things he’d been told but NOT done.)

“Yes. Now, I told you I was going to spank you if you kept talking, and you chose to keep talking.”

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

It overwhelms me, crushing my heart. It would be SO much easier to just ignore it- to threaten a spanking and hope that the threat works but knowing it won’t. It would be so much easier to just walk down the stairs and wait for big brother to yell at him to be quiet- to let them work it out themselves.

But that’s not fair. That’s not what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to train my children- even when it’s hard.

And so I sit on the stairs. I wait and pray that he will just be quiet so that I don’t have to go again.

Not all nights are as hard as this one. Sometimes, I can get him to just do as I ask. Sometimes, the threat of a spanking and reminder of spankings past works. Sometimes, I walk all the way down the stairs without looking back.

But it’s time like tonight when instead, I feel like a failure. Like tonight as I sit squeezing my eyes tight against the tears pushing forward. Tonight as I mentally beg my child to just do what he’s been told.

I do go back in because he is still not quiet. I flip on the light so he can see me, and I can see him. I look into those big blue eyes and try to transcend the words, hoping that he can read the emotions in my face. SO many emotions… love, exasperation, desperation, anxiety, longing, and even more love. I want this little human that has been entrusted to me to become the greatest he can be. I want him to be a man of strong character, of strong will, but one who is respectful of those in authority over him. I want him to grow in maturity knowing that he is loved despite his short-comings. I want the best for this child in every possible facet of life.

Holding his face in my hands, I say, “Mommy does not want to give you another spanking. I do not like it. I have told you to be quiet, and if you keep talking, you will get another spanking because that’s what I said I would do. Neither of us wants that. Can you be quiet now?”

A sob. A head nod.

“Okay. Thank you. I love you very much.”

“I love you too.”

“Goodnight, Love.”

“Goodnight, Mommy.”

I close the door again. Finally. It is quiet.

Momming is hard. It would be SO much easier to be lazy about it all. To set forth rules and regulations, but allow my kids to bend them so I didn’t have to enforce it. But what kind of parenting is that?

Certainly not the kind God has given us. Repeatedly, God has shown us how to parent. Time and time again in the Bible, both Old and New Testaments, there are reminders of his love and discipline for His children. He asks multiple times and is quick to extend grace. However, He sets forth rules that He expects to be followed. And when not followed, there are consequences.

How exasperated is God that He must continually tell us what to and not do to?

And how often do we, just as my child, push against those rules simply because we can?

I know it hurts His heart to punish us far more than it hurts mine to punish my three kids. Yet, I am thankful He loves us enough to do so. It shows that He cares enough to take the time to mold us, make us into the best versions of ourselves that we can be. For what purpose?

To become more like Him, and in becoming more like Him, we become a light to the world that is necessary. We show the world a grace and love that extinguishes the hurts and anguish of this world. Our character becomes a reflection of His in this world.

Does it hurt? Yes, it hurts. But that hurt is a reminder that our actions have consequences. And that hurt is a reminder that our Father loves us enough to take time to mold us into who He created us to be- the best versions of ourselves.

 

His Story Teller

A tear winds its way through the crevices that line the corners of her eyes. Using gnarled fingers, she wipes it away, blinking as the past fades before her to reveal the present. She smiles wistfully at her interviewer.

Her smile is still kind, though framed with lines. Lines of laughter; lines of worry.

“But I know he will come again. He promised that he would. And he never broke a promise.” She bobs her head, an outward show of her inward certainty.

The interviewer sets his stylus and papyrus down and peers at the woman a moment.

He looks down that words on his paper. Her words. Her story. His story. Intertwined.

But this was no ordinary story. This was the true story of the Messiah; told by the one person who knew him best.

Her words flutter across his brain…..

“I could hardly believe it! The child in her womb kicked as though he knew already that his cousin was special.”

“Ah, yes. Dearest Joseph. He loved this child just as fiercely as any of our others.”

“My soul magnifies the Lord…”

He looks up at her as she watches him.

“I’ve only one last question, if I may,” he asks though he will not write the answer. This is purely for his own interest.

She nods at him, so he continues. “Knowing now what ‘the sword that would pierce your own soul is’, would you still have been his mother?”

*** Her Story***

I remember Simeon’s words over Yeshua. They were so happy and full of promise, yet filled me with an unearthly dread. “Behold, this Child is destined for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign which will be spoken against- yes, a sword will pierce through your own soul also- that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.” Fear pulsed through me in that moment. I stole Yeshua back from Simeon, holding him tighter than was required. And I knew in my heart then that this child would bring me more joy and sorrow than I’d ever felt.

Yeshua grew strong. He was much like other children though there was a seriousness to his eyes others would never possess. His brothers and sisters teased at him. Perhaps they sensed even at a young age that he was different. He grew tall and learned quickly. Joseph taught him, as he did the other boys, the skills required from a carpenter. By age 13, Yeshua joined the other boys in the temple, though he was a teacher just as much, if not more, than a pupil. It was then that I saw a distinct change in him. No longer was he just a boy; he became a man.

I felt the first scrape of that sword then.

 At age 30, he began his travels. All those years leading to them, however, he studied carpentry, even taking over the business after Joseph’s death, taking care of our family. At that point, his brothers and sisters were grown with families of their own. I found myself alone.

And so I followed. I followed as he healed, taught, and stood firm. I followed the crowds that circled around him day in and day out. 

I watched the people ascend on him like bees to a honeycomb. And I watched as years later, they fled from persecution. 

The sword flashed even then. 

And I listened. I listened as they spoke words of awe, worship, and adoration. I listened to him speak to crowds and reveal the most marvelous, wonderous truths I have ever heard. And I listened when unbelievers spoke harshly, spreading lies about him. 

The sword pricked at my heart. 

And I saw him die. My beautiful son, created within me by Yahweh, beaten beyond recognition. Defiled by the very creation that he loved. His body, once small enough for me to hold in my arms, now grown and defined by the work of his father was broken beyond repair. His words, which once brought healing, now reverberated across the skies in anguish.   

The sword rent my soul in two. Simeon’s words echoed in my ears as Yeshua called out to Yahweh. Though he had said he’d live again, the broken pieces of me were too weak to find the hope required. My heart shattered, pieces fluttering in the wind with his last breath.

Yet I followed them to the tomb. I watched as they lay him in it. I listened for him to live again. And I saw the empty tomb.

***

“Yes, I would have been his mother again- a million times over. While my soul was pierced, my life is changed. For Simeon also said, ‘For my eyes have seen Your salvation, which You have prepared before the face of all peoples, a light to bring revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of Your people Israel.’ And as his mother, mine was the first face of all people’s that he saw.

For that, I would change nothing.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

Author’s note:

I can only imagine what it must have been like for Luke to interview Mary. She was one of his greatest resources in telling the story of the life of Christ. What I would have given to be a fly on the wall while the two of them talked.

See Luke 2:25-35 as a reference.