“…but Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.”
I wash the pile of dishes that seemingly accumulated overnight. Can one breakfast really produce so many?
Sticky plates, stacked glasses, a crusty egg pan and a quarter-inch of coffee left in every mug. Cherry jam, scrambled eggs, toast crusts, orange peels, all signs of a meal eaten and enjoyed and then quickly left behind for whatever is next on the little people’s agenda.
My counter alone can create chaos in my mind and in my heart.
The water warms my hands. Children scramble up and down the big, wooden tower stool that is not just a stool, but in their minds, an airplane, a car, a drive-thru window. They are busy. I am busy.
I can feel busy all day, if I allow it. The needs are tyrannical, the wants desperate, the emotions all too sudden. I think they call this the trenches of motherhood. Three children, three and under.
She treasured all of these things.
I stop suddenly, quieted by this thought.
A journey to Bethlehem, no bed for her to give birth, a stable, labor, transition, pushing and bleeding and moaning, and then a baby. A star, angels, shepherds, this new baby to feed, to learn, to take care of. And all of this so far from home.
If anyone had reason to feel chaos and mess in her life and in her spaces, it was her.
My son comes in, eager to tell me about his project in the playroom. Almost every word that comes out of his mouth is double the necessary volume, and this morning is no exception. But I don’t notice the volume. I notice his chubby little toddler hands, more baby than child. I notice his eyes, bright and excited, and full of life. I notice his cheeks, his belly, the cute way he says words.
There is something to this treasuring and pondering. It quiets and slows down even the most chaotic and scattered of mornings.
I often wish we were given more glimpses of Mary’s motherhood. This is one of the few we have. When the angel came, she offered a perfect “yes,” a fiat of unreserved, open-handed willingness and receptivity to the Lord’s will. Whatever you ask, Lord. And here we have this image of Mary, quietly sitting back and observing, soaking in the scene, pondering the details.
Perhaps this treasuring is the symptom, or the result, of a heart and a soul given completely to God’s will. The peace and the quiet come in a resounding “yes” offered to God in the midst of all of these moments. Yes to the sticky fingers, yes to the bumped toe and the bruised forehead, yes to the moments of correction and discipline, yes to the request to read another book, yes to the interruptions to all of our to-do’s and all of our chores and all of our feelings of “I just need a minute.”
When we can look at these moments, and at these children, with a heart that says “yes” to God and to these little people, they become more than chaos, more than interruptions, more than the feeling that something is going to break and fall apart forever; they become treasure. They are a being, a moment, a chance to treasure and to ponder.
These babies, so full of life, so full of curiosity and delight, with little toes and fingers and with questions and curiosities and with the wonder of the world in their eyes, they are our own Christ-children. We all know the day-to-day chaos, the constant noise and interruptions, even the bigger stables and mangers in our lives, those places in our lives that are nothing like we planned or hoped. But in the midst of all of these, if we can only learn to say “yes,” we will see treasure.
I put down my sponge and follow my two year-old into the playroom. He shows me the eggs he is scrambling, and I sit on the floor, silently watching him break and pull apart the velcro egg halves, beating them in a bowl with a whisk.
And I treasure.