The Mother in the Manger

The stories have the bright star shining overhead, Baby Jesus gargling happily, and Mary royally beaming at the reverent wise men, angels, shepherds, and coalition of animals.

I wonder what Mary really felt.

Was she simply overwhelmed with emotion for her son, her first?

Did she watch closely, for the miraculous rise and fall of life in each inhalation, and unconsciously check under His nose with her finger when the next breath came a little late?

Did she know how to bathe Him? How to swaddle Him with her blanket by tucking one ear over His right arm and then gently closing the other over His left?

Was she exhausted because she had to entertain wise men and shepherds while waking up every three hours to feed her baby?

Did she feel the wonderful weight of Him in her arms and smell the earthy milk scent that bound Him to her? Was she nervous at His newborn fragility, especially in the large hands of the adoring masses?

Did she laugh when His eyes rolled around, with difficulty focusing on the light, and His lids twitched rapidly in his dreams?

Did she cry just a little bit because He was hers, but also because He was God's - and the world's - and for that there would be wondrous and painful responsibilities for them?

Did she marvel that somehow she had done something so right to be called the chosen vessel? Did she doubt herself at all because she was also aware of her own weaknesses?

Did she feel the full power of her femininity because of her essential role in the Plan, not only as a mother, but also as a role model, a nurturer, a protector, a teacher, and a supporter of the Christ child?

Whenever I watch Chelsea tenderly stroke the mop of black hair on newborn Liana's head, I am sure that Mary must have felt the similar emotional tug of motherhood.

And because of that, Christ was one lucky baby.

From the Mouths of Teenagers

Mom: "So who wants to say the prayer?"

I bent down gingerly and sank to my knees, cradling my sleeping niece on my chest, to join the rest of the family around the futon.

Dad: "Can't wait for it to be your turn."

Me: "You want me to say the prayer?"

Dad: "No, get married and have your own kids. You're a natural."

I shifted my weight slightly.

Cody: "Yeah, how about Jeff?"

Jody: "Who's Jeff?"

Mom: "Oh! Jeff!"

Cody: "You know, the guy who came over for dinner. Sisi never met him. But he could fart the I am a Child of God song with his hands pretty good."

Jody: "Oh! Jeff!"

It's only been a week and my family is already scheming. Their tastes are so . . . reassuring.

This cute, wrinkly little thing.

----

Cody: Do you know what "Falsetto" means?

Jody: . . .

Cody: You don't even know this word? Man. It means embracing the creation of nature. It's like being an environmentalist. So when somebody says that you have a falsetto voice, he really means that you should become an environmentalist.

Jody: I knew that.

Cody: And do you know what Sacramento means?

Jody: How do you spell it? {While discreetly pulling it up in her online dictionary}

Cody: Sacre. Mento. It's the bridge between good and evil. The Sacrament. Get it?

Props to Great Propaganda

I woke up yesterday and decided that I should spend the weekend in Hong Kong. So I picked the earliest flight the next day and now I find myself sitting at the gate, fiddling with my boarding pass.

The Shanghai Pudong airport is a glass castle, with streaming sunlight and curvy modernist wooden ceilings. The free wifi is fast and free (absolutey worth mentioning it twice in the same sentence). The customs officers are young, thin, and above average looking in their flattering black canvas suits and laced up combat boots. But the most endearing part of it all are the flat screen TVs playing propagandistic vids while unsuspecting travelers with wandering minds line up for customs.

My favorite one is the rousing clip about the pride that overseas Chinese feel in their worn, red Chinese passports. No matter where they are, they pull out their well-loved passports and dream of home. The little book is a constant badge of honor, pushing them onwards so they can come back to the motherland one day and contribute their all.

I've always wondered why they got a passport to leave in the first place if they love home so much.

But then again, propaganda requires a suspension of disbelief, and this one makes me come pretty close.