by Cathy Song
We love them more than life, these children who are born to us.
How did Mary endure it? It was more than she bargained for, the white lily light, the passive acceptance of the sacred seed. For the daughter of the well at dusk, it was a moment of vanity. He had taken notice.
He was like the stranger who rides into town, who in his worldliness sees the gullible girl and sweeps her off her feet. He takes her by storm, there is nothing subtle about Him, the whirlwind courtship, the messengers trumpeting exotic flowers.
The night she opened the window, it was raining flowers, as she knew it would be, and it covered her, like a wedding dress, like snow.
But the child in her arms was real. The weight of him was real. And in her diligence-- the setting of the evening bread upon the table, the terror any mother feels in a crowded marketplace when for an instant she thinks her child is missing-- she thought He might relent, choose another, and she could live anonymously with her son among the dwellers of the earth, the carpenters, the fishermen, and the thieves.
Once she held him, she was lost. Her body turned against her, was made maternal so that she saw nothing else but the child who walked further each day into light. How could she have known this? That the son would resist her every attempt to bind him, that in his loneliness he would belong to everyone and to no one, forfeit what welled within her in order to save the nameless, the cripple, the unspeakable.
She was duped into thinking when the time came she could give the child up, and in exchange for the son, her sacrifice, she could receive the heavenly reward: immortality, candles and cathedrals, inexhaustible light-- the thousand statues of herself.
Who would want such eternal life? Better the grunt and toil, the hog's blissful sleep, a child who needed her. She prayed that He might forget the pact. And then the praying stopped. Why call attention to herself? Let silence be her accomplice and with the less devout she could slip unnoticed with her son toward a simpler destiny. Like fugitives, always under the cover of night.
In the son's greatest hour, he loved her not more, not less than he loved the soldier who wept at his feet. It was cruel to ask that of her, of any woman allowed to bear that weight.
"Jesus is condemned to death" by Anna Kocher. See the rest of her work here.
"The Binding" is from Cathy Song's Frameless Windows, Squares of Light, 1988, Penguin Books.