Being Mary

It is believed that the most honored persons in the Bible were Joseph and Mary. They had the priviledge of raising and parenting Jesus. They were with him in the good times and the bad times. They changed his diapers, bathed him, fed him, taught Him everything He knew. They hugged him, kissed his cheeks, tickled him, tucked him in bed, told him stories, and listened to his stories.

Though both Mary and Joseph were with Jesus as He was growing up, Mary stayed with Him the longest. She was with Him from conception, to death, to resurrection, and the ascension. She took Him to the Temple to be dedicated, taught Him scripture, took Him to the Temple, took Him to a wedding, where He did His first miracle. She was with Him as He ministered, watched Him being crucified, and saw Him resurrect. She was all over Him, like a mother is all over her son.

At times I wonder what it felt like to be Mary. To carry the Son of God, God incarnate. To raise Him to be a God-fearing young man, with straight morals. To teach Him right from wrong, and discipline Him when He errs. To teach Him how to interact with others in society, telling Him which social gatherings He should attend, and which He can’t. To watch Him grow from the tiny baby, to a grown man. To listen to Him pout about a chore He doesn’t like, and rejoice over being given a treat. To see him morph from a toddler, to a boy, to a robust teenager, then to an adult.

I wonder whether all her hopes and dreams for Him were fulfilled. Every mother has a hope for her child. She has this predestined plan for her, that deep inside her heart, hopes against hope that it will be fulfilled. She always pictures her child growing into the perfect adult with a respectable job and a wow character. At times I wonder whether this could be said for her. As she raised Him, was she building on any hopes, dreams, ambitions and drives? Did she have a predetermined idea on who Jesus will be? Perhaps the most respected carpenter? Or most revered teacher of the law? Did she wish He would marry and give her some grandchildren? Did she picture Him dying old, and full of life and vigour?

As Mary and Joseph dedicated Jesus in the temple, Simeon predicted that a sword shall pierce her heart. Did it eventually? Was it interesting to watch Him associate with the outcasts – the tax collectors, prostitutes, lowest of the low with such ease and love? How did she react to the news that Jesus had been arrested and was to be crucified on Passover? How painful was it to watch Jesus being tortured and crucified for no tangible reason? How did it feel for her to watch people spite and hate her son, her baby boy?

How was it to have the priviledge of being Mary?

(Im)Perfect Me

The painful moment when everything peels off, and you get to see yourself for who you really are.

In many ways, I’ve always thought of myself as “perfect”. At least according to my standards. I prided myself in arriving to work early, always doing the best I could whenever I was given a task, being very hardworking and diligent, being extra keen as I work, and second-checking everything I do just to make sure it’s perfect.

I also had this habit of wanting to be the best. The best employee. The best girl. The best friend. The best student. The best everything. I felt like I needed to give my all. Being a model employee, student, friend, and whatever role that was placed in me was the best and only way I knew to be a productive member of society.

So, until recently, I went about being the perfect girl I was. But something happened that opened my eyes to my imperfection. I did something that was to undergo scrutiny. I was invited to write two articles for a magazine. Writing the articles was hard, but not as hard as watching it being edited. As I was writing them, I knew mine was the best, after all, my diligence, determination and hard work would amount for something. As I was handing in my finished work, the person I handed it to said, “Oh thanks. Now I’ll have to take it for editing.” Oh well, I thought to myself, the editor won’t have a hard time.

Whether the editor had a hard time or not is unknown to me, all I remember was seeing the article and almost tearing up. It had been rearranged and redone. Some sentences were plucked, others enhanced, to make it fit the editor’s tastes.

I had to eat humble pie and realize that I am not as perfect as I thought. My eyes were opened to discover that I was living in a bubble, and I needed someone to burst it so I could live in reality. I had to understand that I need people to help me polish up, and in spite of being the hardworking, diligent, girl I am, I still am not perfect, no matter how much how hard I work.

I now realize how imperfect I am, and I need others to help me achieve what I truly want to be.