I bet the Virgin Mary started out with a birth plan. It may have been simply:
1). Send for midwife when it’s time.
2). Survive.
3). Name the baby Jesus.
I'm sure she would have liked to add a few details. If I were Mary, I probably would have tried to finagle some reduced labor pains out of God. “I am carrying Your kid. Is taking the edge off too much to ask?” But she knew she could do it because, well, either you did it or you died. She’d watched her mom do it, along with sisters and aunts. Her cousin Elizabeth had just had Baby John. It was scary, but God had chosen her, so surely the path ahead was prepared for her, right? He would provide?
Then, eight months along and feeling like her tiny teenage torso was about to pop, Joe tells her they have to go on a 70-mile (one way!) trip on foot for some stupid government census. Seriously??? I mean, it was a long trip to begin with, but she’d far rather deal with the hemorrhoids, back pain, and frequent peeing at home, thank you very much! And those false contractions would certainly turn into the real thing with all the walking. How awful would it be to give birth at a campsite in the middle of a caravan--including her future in-laws? And she’d have to hope some of their travel companions were kind and compassionate women with good experience in helping girls in her condition. Especially girls who appeared knocked-up out of wedlock...
Maybe she could make it to a clean, modest hotel before popping. There were worse places to have a baby. And being away from the judging eyes of her neighbors held a certain appeal. They'd glared disapprovingly at her growing stomach. If she had to, she could manage childbirth alone. Joe would go for help if something went wrong ("which it had better not, God...") or if she needed a clean sandal lace for the umbilical cord.
But, alas, there was no room in the inn, not even for a young girl very obviously in active labor and her frazzled-looking fiancé. The manager at the desk looked apologetic, but what was he supposed to do? Displace his own family for Teen Mom Nazareth? He offered use of the cave across the way where he kept his animals. A generous concession, he thought. What a great guy!
So Mary bore down in sweat and tears, laboring like every woman since that accursed Eve. Lonely despite the assistance of a local woman or two who, thankfully, didn't know the baby was, in the eyes of the world, a bastard. Breathing deeply in an animal-scented cave. Shutting out the street noise of the crowded city to give herself the false comfort of privacy and control over her situation.
God must have ignored the pain-relief memo, or maybe this ungodly agony was part of His cockamamie plan for bringing His Son into the world. Along with the blistered feet, swollen ankles, travel-weary body, and less-than-ideal birthing conditions. What would be next? A baby shower given by foreign astrologers? A visit from grungy shepherds? Wouldn’t surprise her at this point.
God had selected her to carry this baby. To raise him. To bleed for him, all the while knowing that he would be violently ripped from her arms to bleed for her. And despite that tall order, He hadn’t even provided a decent place to put this baby down to sleep while his mother recovered from her ordeal. Good grief. Had God impregnated her and then forgotten? Moved on like it had been a one night stand? Just expected her to figure it out on her own?
But with a final push came sweet relief. The squishy face peeking out of the bundle the lady handed to her overtook her world. Mary hardly noticed the woman finishing things up down below. This screaming, slimy accomplishment enchanted her. He felt so real.
Joe came in awkwardly and with a worried look on his face. He smiled when he saw she was okay and holding a squawking blanket. He offered the local woman some compensation for her work, but she hesitated. “Keep it,” she said, not entirely knowing why.
The squawking died down and the baby found his food source. He settled in and fell asleep against his mama, under his adoptive daddy’s wondering gaze.
Mary saw, as she looked at her son’s fuzzy little head, the provision of God. The absurdity of it all was as it should have been. The feeding trough Joe was making up as a makeshift crib was just the bed God wanted for Himself.
God hadn’t forgotten to provide. He was the only provision that mattered. In the chaos and changed plans and out-of-control happenings and drama and unpredictability, this baby was all that mattered. He was all. If they lost everything or starved or were imprisoned or chased out of the country, they would still be able to say God had provided. This provision trumped all other provisions.
And so Mary pondered the strange perfection of the messy moment. She treasured the peace in the bustling mayhem and the holiness on the grimy stable floor. Because it had all gone according to His birth plan, written before the creation of the world.
1). Send for midwife when it’s time.
2). Survive.
3). Name the baby Jesus.
I'm sure she would have liked to add a few details. If I were Mary, I probably would have tried to finagle some reduced labor pains out of God. “I am carrying Your kid. Is taking the edge off too much to ask?” But she knew she could do it because, well, either you did it or you died. She’d watched her mom do it, along with sisters and aunts. Her cousin Elizabeth had just had Baby John. It was scary, but God had chosen her, so surely the path ahead was prepared for her, right? He would provide?
Then, eight months along and feeling like her tiny teenage torso was about to pop, Joe tells her they have to go on a 70-mile (one way!) trip on foot for some stupid government census. Seriously??? I mean, it was a long trip to begin with, but she’d far rather deal with the hemorrhoids, back pain, and frequent peeing at home, thank you very much! And those false contractions would certainly turn into the real thing with all the walking. How awful would it be to give birth at a campsite in the middle of a caravan--including her future in-laws? And she’d have to hope some of their travel companions were kind and compassionate women with good experience in helping girls in her condition. Especially girls who appeared knocked-up out of wedlock...
Maybe she could make it to a clean, modest hotel before popping. There were worse places to have a baby. And being away from the judging eyes of her neighbors held a certain appeal. They'd glared disapprovingly at her growing stomach. If she had to, she could manage childbirth alone. Joe would go for help if something went wrong ("which it had better not, God...") or if she needed a clean sandal lace for the umbilical cord.
But, alas, there was no room in the inn, not even for a young girl very obviously in active labor and her frazzled-looking fiancé. The manager at the desk looked apologetic, but what was he supposed to do? Displace his own family for Teen Mom Nazareth? He offered use of the cave across the way where he kept his animals. A generous concession, he thought. What a great guy!
So Mary bore down in sweat and tears, laboring like every woman since that accursed Eve. Lonely despite the assistance of a local woman or two who, thankfully, didn't know the baby was, in the eyes of the world, a bastard. Breathing deeply in an animal-scented cave. Shutting out the street noise of the crowded city to give herself the false comfort of privacy and control over her situation.
God must have ignored the pain-relief memo, or maybe this ungodly agony was part of His cockamamie plan for bringing His Son into the world. Along with the blistered feet, swollen ankles, travel-weary body, and less-than-ideal birthing conditions. What would be next? A baby shower given by foreign astrologers? A visit from grungy shepherds? Wouldn’t surprise her at this point.
God had selected her to carry this baby. To raise him. To bleed for him, all the while knowing that he would be violently ripped from her arms to bleed for her. And despite that tall order, He hadn’t even provided a decent place to put this baby down to sleep while his mother recovered from her ordeal. Good grief. Had God impregnated her and then forgotten? Moved on like it had been a one night stand? Just expected her to figure it out on her own?
But with a final push came sweet relief. The squishy face peeking out of the bundle the lady handed to her overtook her world. Mary hardly noticed the woman finishing things up down below. This screaming, slimy accomplishment enchanted her. He felt so real.
Joe came in awkwardly and with a worried look on his face. He smiled when he saw she was okay and holding a squawking blanket. He offered the local woman some compensation for her work, but she hesitated. “Keep it,” she said, not entirely knowing why.
The squawking died down and the baby found his food source. He settled in and fell asleep against his mama, under his adoptive daddy’s wondering gaze.
Mary saw, as she looked at her son’s fuzzy little head, the provision of God. The absurdity of it all was as it should have been. The feeding trough Joe was making up as a makeshift crib was just the bed God wanted for Himself.
God hadn’t forgotten to provide. He was the only provision that mattered. In the chaos and changed plans and out-of-control happenings and drama and unpredictability, this baby was all that mattered. He was all. If they lost everything or starved or were imprisoned or chased out of the country, they would still be able to say God had provided. This provision trumped all other provisions.
And so Mary pondered the strange perfection of the messy moment. She treasured the peace in the bustling mayhem and the holiness on the grimy stable floor. Because it had all gone according to His birth plan, written before the creation of the world.
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