The ICON

Whoo hoo, it’s my birthday week! I may be turning 46 years old, but there’s still a kid inside me who loves birthdays, whether it’s mine or somebody else’s. I hold a strong belief that for at least one day a year, everyone should have a day unto themselves: To be pampered, adored and showered with cards and gifts. In my opinion, the birthday boy or girl (regardless of age) should not to have to lift a finger. The day is supposed to be filled with pleasant surprises, thoughtful gestures and an overwhelment of love. Maybe even wear a crown or tiara.

This year, however, the University did not consult my calendar before printing the class schedule, so waaaaaah, I have to go to school. What? Usually, Groom and I reserve the week that includes my birthday and Valentine’s Day to sequester ourselves at the beach, renting the same house year after year.

We frolic on the beach, sit outside and read to our heart’s content when Oregon blesses us with our annual faux spring or stay indoors by the fire when the storms rage. Either way, it is one hundred and sixty-eight hours of heaven.

Speaking of heaven, since I’ll be otherwise engaged, I thought this week would be the perfect opportunity to share one of my short stories with you. God’s Minion once told me that I should write what I know and excavate my rich backyard for treasure. Taking her advice, I pulled on a thread of imagination.

My mind meandered one day and while drifting in the daydream, I asked myself, what might Jesus have been like as a child? Did he come with his superpowers intact or did he discover them one by one? What was it like for his mother, Mary, to raise one supernatural child while her other offspring were mere mortals? Did she sit around the playground comparing her eldest child’s development to that of other kids…?

“My son started speaking when he was three days old. He could walk by the time he was a week…” I mean, what did the other mom’s think? So I wrote a short story about a scene I could picture and it made me giggle. So without further ado, I present to you,

THE ICON

“Jesus, stop playing with your food.”

“But look mom, I’m parting the Red Sea.”

Sure enough, Mary watched as her son waved his hand over the bowl Joseph had carved, neatly dividing the contents into walls of lentil soup on both sides without spilling a drop.

In his six-year old voice, Jesus tried to sound dramatic as he quoted the Torah, “And the Lord drove the soup back with a strong east wind - ”

Joseph interrupted the display, “Son, that’s not what the Holy Scripture says, now mind your mother and quickly cover those Egyptians and their chariots back up.”

With a sigh Jesus ceremoniously withdrew his hand from hovering above the Lentil Sea and the soup returned to its normal level.

“I wanna try,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon, and they both started huffing and puffing, trying in vain to imitate their brother. The only thing they achieved was a mess.

“That’s enough of that boys, you all go outside and play.” Joseph kissed his wife on the cheek and headed out back to his shop.

The horseplay outside suddenly became quiet, too quiet. Investigating, Mary caught sight of a new game, one she hadn’t seen before. “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Jesus, put your brother down before someone gets hurt.”

“Jude’s alright,” Jesus reassured his mother, patting her gently on the arm. Jude was suspended in mid-air, his arms crossed solemnly over his chest, floating as if asleep.

“Now,” his mother said, trying to sound firm.

“Fine.” Scrunching up his face in serious concentration, Jesus slowly lowered Jude to the ground, soft as a feather landing. Jude stood up and took a bow. The other boys clapped.

“Do me,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon.

Mary shook her head and went back inside to clean up the lunch mess. That Angel Gabriel did not tell her everything, like how difficult it could be sometimes to raise a perfect son.

Scraping the plate of goat cheese baked with herbs, Mary glanced at her wrist and marveled at the memory. Born with a strange birthmark on the inside of her wrist, she’d been taken to a fortune-teller as a baby.

“She’s marked for unbearable heartache, this one is,” the old woman warned her mother. “Don’t let anyone see this sign or you’ll never marry her off.”

Growing up, her mother was adamant about keeping her wrist covered and made her promise she would never, ever show the omen to a living soul.

Covered wrist or no, Mary’s family almost didn’t marry her off anyway.

It was all so complicated.

That Night. Oh yes, that night. Mary still blushed whenever she thought of it. Women all over the world have a night of their own to remember, but hers…

It had happened almost seven years ago. That particular night while alone in her room, Mary began the ritual of unwrapping her wrist in the dark. She was so bored of keeping it hidden, unable to wear the noisy bangles like all the other girls or the fancy bracelet Joseph had given her at their betrothal ceremony.

Without warning, a blinding and terrifying apparition appeared in her room. This Angel, who said his name was Gabriel, told her all sorts of confusing things. What happened next, well, Mary never spoke of it, not even to her fiancé, Joseph.

Especially not to her fiancé.

In the aftermath of the scandal, Mary’s parents reminded her several times a day that a dowry had already been paid to Jacob’s son Joseph, from the House of David.

A reasonable explanation of “how she could have done this to them,” simply did not exist.

But for a fleeting moment, in between the terrifying part and all Sheol breaking loose, Mary felt entirely transformed. What an amazing dream, she thought, savoring the extraordinary feeling.

As that special night caved to the pressures of dawn, Mary started to rewrap her wrist as she’d done each morning, paranoid, lest anyone see her secret marking.

Hold on - Mary couldn’t believe her eyes. The scary birthmark on her wrist, the dark symbol that foretold her unbearable heartache was gone. She rubbed her wrist, yet the skin where the omen had been was perfectly smooth, there was no sign of it anywhere.

Nine months and an arduous camel ride to Bethlehem later, Mary began to suspect there was more to that night than a vivid dream.

Her beloved Joseph stayed true, if not silent, during those torturous months while her flat belly grew into a public bump. His eyes grew kind again after he’d had a visitation of his own. He whispered to her that an angel had revealed what to name the baby.

Whenever Mary felt overwhelmed, she’d think about their impromptu baby shower in the stable, with all those generous gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. They’d had such curious guests, from shell-shocked shepherds to wise kings. Oh, and that star as bright as the sun.

How could she ever forget the Prophetess Anna and that nice old man Simeon who had blessed her infant son in the Temple and said all those nice things about him after his Briss?

“Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.” Mary quietly treasured these things in her heart and thought about them often.

“Hey mom,” Jesus yelled. “Look what I can do!”

Mary turned her thoughts back to the moment, just in time to see her eldest child climb onto their rain barrel and stand directly on the water without sinking.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he said, his arms outstretched.

“Yes, you are, my son. You certainly are.” Mary looked down at her wrist and smiled.

She was so glad that her future of unbearable heartache was over…

“I want to try,” said James.

“Me too,” said Simon.