Mary Did You Know--Cause I Didn't

I'm writing what I don't want to write for two reasons--okay maybe three. First, I read this this morning. "Feelings of pain and loss clarified, named, spoken aloud and lamented over have never had more of a role to play in our life of faith, corporately and individually, than right now." -Br. Keith Nelson Second, I listened to Brene Brown's podcast talking about the emotion cycle and the need to complete it, and third, it's like having to go to the potty and not being able to think about anything else--until I write, I'm a mess. So here goes...

Last Christmas I heard over and over an interpretation of the song "Mary Did You Know" that I didn't see. Well after it was explained to me I could see how someone might interpret it as mansplaining. But that's not how I hear the song. I hear a person reflecting back on Jesus's life and all the goodness. I hear a person reminding Mary of the goodness of her son not because she doesn't know but because sometimes a mama's heart needs to be reminded that others know too. And I also don't believe when Jesus was born Mary did know all the things Jesus would do. I don't believe Mary knew how much strength it would require for her to walk to the cross and watch her son die. I don't know how she would have lived day by day if she knew what was to come.  

Even after Jesus rose from the dead there were people who hated him. There were people who despite all the good he had done, all the people he had healed, all the love he had showered on others, had nothing kind to say about him. I get that--boy do I get that. In this song, I hear someone taking the time to remind Mary not because she doesn't know but so she doesn't feel so alone.

Yesterday we went to clean out our son's apartment. Well, finish cleaning it out. Chris had already removed most of the furniture. I had only been there twice before--neither time pleasant. Chris prepared me--actually, Chris offered to do it himself, but I knew that we needed to do this together as we have done most things throughout our married and parenting life. 

We opened the door to the building and were immediately greeted with, or rather punched in the face with the smell of pot. That's how it felt to me--like a punch in the face or the gut--choose your body part. Upstairs there was a loud angry argument happening. I took a deep breath (not too deep) and kept walking.

We took load after load out to the dumpster, and I tried to feel something. I was sure I would either be shaking with rage or tears would be streaming down my face. Neither happened. Instead, I just felt numb and eager to be rid of everything.
We didn't speak much except for the few times Chris asked, "Should we save this?" Each time I responded, "I want it all gone. All of it." Into the dumpster went food, mugs, utensils, blankets, and tons of trash. We scrubbed counters and floors. And then we were done. It was over.

As we pulled away and I glanced one final time at a now overflowing dumpster, I thought about parents who have to clean out their children's apartments because they have died and not because they have moved on to start life fresh. I wondered if I would have wanted to save something if that had been our case. And I thought about Mary.

She watched her son die. She watched with horror as they taunted and abused him. She saw them cast lots for his clothes. Did she want just one fragment of the cloth so that she had something to hold onto--something that had touched her baby's skin? Mary had the strength to stand there, and I believe it was because God was with her holding her up when she needed it most and not because she'd known all along.

Twenty-plus years ago I didn't know one day I would be cleaning out an apartment of one of my children. I didn't know I would have to watch him walk a journey and he would have to do it alone. I didn't know it would be one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I didn't know much when each of our children was born. What I did know, and continue to know, is God is with us, walking the journey, holding our hands, holding us up. 

And really, isn't that all we need to know?