Is there more to life than this?

 

 Mary's Story

I had always been fortunate in the past.

I was a quiet girl and I kept to myself. The sharp-tongued gossips in town had always left me alone. My life was not interesting enough for a discussion in line at the market or over a cool drink in a shady café. I studied, worked hard and spent time with the other girls my age.

It was hot where I grew up, especially in the summer. We girls could usually be found down by the stream when our time was our own. The cool, swift-moving water was a welcome relief. We waded in the water and played games. We talked about the future–the things we planned to do and the places we wanted to see. We talked about boys and getting married.

I was considered lucky by my girlfriends. I had already met someone, and he was the handsomest man in town.

I knew I was not the prettiest girl. My eyes were plain brown, but he told me they twinkled when I smiled. My hair was dark, and had been streaked by the sun. I always wanted it to curl and I thought it lacked the drama of shiny, black hair or blonde waves. He seemed to think otherwise. I was a little shorter than the other girls, and very slight. I would always be small, as my own mother was. Just a bit of a thing. Not much at all.

But the first time we met, he smiled at me. Not just a "Yes, I know you're there" smile, the kind I should expect from someone who had come to do business with my parents. He looked right into my eyes, as though he could see all of the secret thoughts and feelings that I had never voiced out loud. He was actually interested in me. I liked him right away.

He was from a good family and people liked him. My parents were very happy with my choice. He did not take me away from my work in our family business. He treated me with respect and he made me laugh. I deserved a nice man, they said, because I had always been such a nice girl.

All in all, I had never given anyone a moment's concern. Until that amazing day.

I was scared, at first–even a little shocked. Yet part of me was secretly delighted when I found out . It was a big responsibility and I knew I was ready. But no one else would understand, and I couldn't hide the truth forever.

I was going to have a baby.

Under ordinary circumstances, this news would be cause for celebration. I felt almost guilty as I considered the couples I knew, still longing to have a child after many years of marriage. But I wasn't married, and I was just fifteen.

I knew I had to face my boyfriend and I was prepared for the worst. I couldn't really blame him. We had planned to get married and he had big dreams for our future. Now everything would change because of this baby. A baby that was not his.

He blamed me, of course. He was shocked and hurt and demanded to know the name of the baby's father. I told him, but he wouldn't believe me. He accused me of faithlessness. He believed I had cheated on him, yet something stopped him from telling everyone. He didn't want to hurt me. He knew I was determined to keep my child. He sighed then. It was a heavy, pained sound.

In spite of it all, he still loved me. He told me he wouldn't tell anyone about the baby and he wouldn't break up with me in our small, small town. I could start over. We both could. I could never have imagined then how my life would change.

I gave birth to my first son in poverty. No women were there to help me–not my mother, my sister, or even my favourite cousin, Beth. There were no clean sheets and I did not have a comfortable bed. It was cold and I was a stranger in a strange city. Fortunately, I was not alone.

For reasons he didn't explain at the time, my boyfriend had decided to marry me. Together, we brought a new life into the world and promised to raise him together. We moved several times, for many reasons. It was difficult to live without any other family around to help us, to see us through the tough times. Our lives were never easy, for it had become very obvious from the beginning that our first precious boy was different.

He looked like other children, but I knew that he was unique, and I knew why. My husband loved the boy, but I knew that he could never forget that the child was not his own. As our son grew, his unusual qualities became clear. He knew things that no child of his age could know. He had a grace, a wisdom and a will that we could hardly understand, but I knew with a mother's heart that he would suffer for it. The purpose that had set me apart to be his mother would set him apart and cause him great pain. In my husband's eyes, I saw this same understanding.

Thirty years later, I stood in the middle of a large crowd watching my son. My heart ached with the need to hold him one last time. He had been taken from me in every way, and I had given him what freedom was in my power to give. He had to do what he had been born to do, and it cost him his life.

I had loved him with all my strength, and I mourned his death.

And I would rejoice in his resurrection.

I was an unwed, teen-aged mother. The mother of an exceptional, gifted child. A mother who lost her beloved, first son. I survived the trials of a difficult life and the emotional pain of my unusual family through faith. I knew with certainty that God had called me to my life and that He would sustain me in it. My mother's heart had a guardian.

My name was Mary. My son's name is Jesus. The Son of God. The Messiah.

His birth that first Christmas changed the world. His love changed my life. He can change your life, too. Click here

 

 

Click here to email this to a friend