Mary, did you know?

I'm tired. Really tired. And maybe that's why I am about to be all sentimental and mushy but if you're still reading, at least you've been warned.

At this time of year, as a Christian, I celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. I believe that He was and is the Son of God, who came to the earth to be the Savior of the world. There are many carols and poems commemorating His birth and one person always stands out to me more than anyone.

Mary.

Being a mom. Of three boys. Having an eight month old. Knowing the trials, aches, joys, and amazingness that is being pregnant. And yes, I just made up that word ;) I think of Mary being pregnant for nine months. Of her being engaged to Joseph, becoming pregnant with the Son of God, and having to deal with all of those persecutions. I think of her riding a donkey, nine months pregnant, to Bethlehem and then being turned away from every inn because there was no room.

She gave birth in a stable, with animals as witnesses. If I may be so bold as to relate to her at all, I can imagine that she was scared but excited to be a mother. I imagine her holding her newborn son and marveling at his perfection. I imagine Mary counting all of his fingers and toes, tracing the curve of his ear, and gazing into his tiny blue eyes. I imagine she wept for joy and relief and because she just instantly fell in love with a little person that now had her heart.

Did Mary know what would happen to that baby? If she did, how, oh how, did she go on? Did she know of the trials he would face? Of the cruel things that would be said and done to him? Did she know, at that time, what horrible wickedness would influence men to crucify her son? I can't imagine how I would cope, go on, not fall into absolute despair if I knew on the day that my baby was born that he would suffer all of those things in the future.

So I pretend, because I can, that she didn't know. That she could just enjoy her child. That she could enjoy her future children and look forward to many more miracles of being pregnant and giving birth. I pretend, because we don't have any written documentation of her thoughts and feelings. I pretend because as a mother, I can't imagine knowing the fate of my baby, my heart and soul; I can't imagine knowing that.

Whether she knew or not, no one can say. I'm sure there could be speculation forever. But at Christmastime I remember Mary. I remember a young mother, like myself, who was chosen by God to be trusted with raising His son. I imagine a woman with the strength of character, the trust of God, and the love of a mother to be able to bear the joy and burden of being Christ's mother. I honor her. I remember her. And my heart aches for her.

I know her story on earth is over. She is probably not revisiting any pain as I ponder upon these thoughts. Would I be so brave as Mary?