What I Have Learned from Mary

When the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary, she was a young girl living in a tiny village, probably around 12 or 13 years old. She had no reason to believe her life would differ from that of any other girl living in Nazareth at that time. She expected to marry, have children, and care for a modest home. Some 33 years later she was sitting in a upper room in Jerusalem, participating with Peter and the other apostles in the organization of a new church based on the divinity of her own son, on his teachings, miracles, death, and resurrection. 

The message of the angel and her reaction to it would change her life and the world forever. In lesser but in some respects just as important ways, our reactions to the circumstances, the missions given to us, will also change lives. As I study Mary and the way she faced her challenges, I have learned much to help me face mine.

Mary was likely by herself, perhaps watching the family goats, or fetching water from the well, when the strange person appeared and hailed her as “highly favored” and “blessed among women” (Luke 1:28). Remember, she was about 13 years old[1]and had probably seldom met a stranger, let alone one that would single her out as someone special. She is understandably “troubled” or startled, and wonders about such a greeting.[2]Then the angel explains she will have a child who will be the “son of the Highest,” who will “reign over the house of Jacob” and whose “kingdom [shall have] no end” (Luke 1:31-33).

Pretty overwhelming stuff this, for a young village girl. But she doesn’t question these prophecies at all. Perhaps she remembers her own heritage of David’s line, and the yearning of her people for a Messiah who will save her people from being ruled by idol worshipping foreigners. Perhaps the prophecy makes perfect sense to her. Some woman will certainly bear this promised savior.

But her mind goes immediately to the practical. She is in fact in some respects “married,” her family and Joseph’s family have signed the paperwork which connects the two young people as a married couple. However, the second part of the marriage has not been completed. When she is a little older, her husband Joseph will take her into his household and into his bed for the first time. [3]Mary has not ever “known” a man, not even her husband Joseph, so she very practically asks, “How shall this be?” (Luke 1:35). 

When the angel explains that it just will be, through the miraculous power of the Holy Ghost, Mary does not ask any other questions. She does not, as she rightly could have, inquire how her life and her reputation will be salvaged in a culture that may punish adultery by stoning and certainly by ostracism. She does not ask whether her family will continue to care for her, whether Joseph will still protect her as his wife. Mary may be young, but she know what happens to girls who have babies without the protection of a husband.

But Mary does not ask the angel any of these questions. She simply says, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” She believes. She trusts the Lord. She recognizes the importance of the mission given to her and she believes the Lord will help her to accomplish it. She knows it won’t be easy, but she knows she will do it. She knows, as the angel told her, “with God nothing shall be impossible.”

This is the first thing I learn from Mary. Though angels have not visited me, and I am certainly not the pure and holy woman Mary was and is, I do have jobs to do here on this earth. I have missions that God is asking me to fulfill. I am to be a wife, mother, teacher, friend. I have some talents and some abilities that God wants me to consecrate to His service and to those of others. Yet often, when I feel the call, when the Holy Ghost says, “Go visit her.” Or “write about that,” I respond with, “Oh, not today. I’m tired.’ Or “What if I’m not good enough?” or “She doesn’t even like me, how can I help?” 

Instead I want to be like Mary, and meekly follow the call. To say “Be it unto me according to thy word” (Luke 1:38). And if I do, who knows what miracles may follow?

The next lesson I learn is within the story of the marvelous birth. Of course, God watches over the young mother, and Joseph does take Mary under his protection, and even takes her to Bethlehem to give birth, far from the gossiping tongues of Nazareth who may have been counting months. The Child is born, and then the shepherds come, worshipping young Mary’s newborn son. They say that angels came to them as they watched the sheep, angels proclaiming, “a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.” They say the angels gave them directions leading them to the manger holding Mary’s baby, and the angels sang, “Glory to God in the highest!”

Young Mary listens quietly to the shepherds. Though the shepherds return home, loudly “glorifying and praising God,” Mary quietly considers their words; she “ponder[s] them in her heart.” She is thinking through the implications of these angelic messengers. She is remembering the message of Gabriel and adding this testimony to his.

Twelve years later, Mary again is described as thoughtful. The family has journeyed to Jerusalem to worship at the Temple at the feast, probably of Passover. As Mary and Joseph start the return journey, they realize the young boy Jesus is not with their party and return to search for him. They find him in the temple, conversing with and even teaching the learned men. When asked why he stayed behind, Jesus answers, “Wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?” (Luke 2:49). Then, he does come home with Mary and Joseph and continue to be a dutiful son, but Mary adds this experience and her Son’s confidence in His mission to the other evidences of his divinity. She ponders them all;  she “kept all these sayings in her heart” (Luke 2:51).

I want to be more like Mary. I want to ponder in my heart the miraculous events of my life, the times that God has shown his power in my behalf--the small tender mercies and the larger miracles. They are many and they are significant. I need to consider their meaning in my life and in my particular mission.

Finally, I think of Mary standing at the cross, at the feet of her son as he goes through the most agonizing of deaths. She could have been like other disciples, hiding in a room somewhere, frightened of being captured and killed as well. She could have watched from a nearby hill, perhaps with other disciples. But no. Mary stands steadfast, with her son in death as she was at his birth. She is there to offer what support she can.

No doubt she wondered how this agonizing death could come to the one the angel Gabriel promised would be king of kings, the son of Highest, who should rule over the house of Jacob without end. She couldn’t understand this end to the child whom angels proclaimed a Savior, Christ the Lord. This man who had clearly “been about His Father’s business,” how could the Father let him die in this way? The son, who turned water to wine at her request, whom she knew could heal the sick and raise the dead, was he really born to die such an ignominious death? I can understand how faith could waver at this point, how a mother might be angry with God for letting this happen.

But Mary did not lose faith. She had pondered in her heart all the witnesses of her Son’s divinity. She knew if God was letting this happen it was probably part of His Plan. So she stayed by her Son, comforting him with her faith and her presence, attending to what needs she could.

And because of Mary’s faith, she was there, to know of her Son’s resurrection, to see the unfolding of His glorious gospel to fill the earth

I want to be like Mary. Even when things do not seem to be going according to my plan, the plan that seemed to be the right one to me, I want to be steadfast in faith, and wait bravely for God’s plan to unfold.

So this is what I have learned from studying Mary. I want to respond willingly and completely to follow God’s commandments. I want to ponder in my heart the evidences of God’s love and grow in knowledge and faith. I want to be steadfast, standing with God, even when things do not seem to be going well. I want to have the faith that will allow me to grow and learn so I can know my Lord, and His glorious plan for me. 

---

[1]Camille Fronk Olson, Women of the New Testament

[2]Olson, Women of the New Testament

[3]Olson, Women of the New Testament, p. 

Scary Newsflashes, The Iraq Invasion, and Chagall’s Peace Window

It seems like every 10 minutes I get “news flashes” on my phone. Government scandals, opioid epidemics, shootings, plane crashes, famines. Each time I pick up to see the flash, my heart does a little skip. What craziness is happening now? And what are we going to do about it? What can I do?

Lately I’ve been thinking about an especially frightening time, mainly because a colleague reminded of an approaching anniversary. In March 2003, just a little over a year after the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center, I attended a professional conference for college writing teachers in New York City, not far from the scene of the attack. The terrifying images were still fresh in everyone’s minds:  of terrorist-flown planes crashing into the towering skyscrapers, of desperate people jumping, of rubble-strewn city streets and bewildered New Yorkers in heels and suits trying to walk home. America felt vulnerable in a way it never had before. As the country moved toward war in Iraq, New York City seemed to be a prime target for terrorists once again.  But the conference had been planned for years, the location could not be changed, so we carried on. 

Or at least some of us did. Many chose not to attend the annual conference that year, including some of my colleagues at my university. “My husband won’t let me go. Too dangerous!” one said. Another said, “I don’t know if it really is dangerous, but I feel nervous about it. I’ll just skip this year.

I decided to go. I’m optimistic by nature and figured everything would be OK, I guess. Also, this was New York City! I love to visit New York—I love the bustle and the excitement, the museums, the theater, and the sense of being at the center of the world. I didn’t want to pass up the chance to go.

So I went. Between conference sessions, I walked the streets, ate cheesecake, shopped on Fifth Avenue, danced in the aisle at Mama Mia, and ogled Raphael’s Madonna at the Metropolitan Museum. Everywhere I went,  on every corner, I passed soldiers dressed in camo, vigilantly watching, holding M-16s.  

Then, on March 20, right in the midst of our three-day conference, the US invaded Iraq with a “shock and awe” campaign of aerial bombardment. The televisions in the hotel elevators were tuned to the coverage of the war. We mild-mannered writing teachers on our way to sessions on how to encourage more specific thesis statements--we stood shoulder to shoulder in silence, watching bombs and blood and mayhem on the screen above our heads.

In the halls, conference-goers debated the war. Was the war at all justified? Was it a terrible mistake? What is our responsibility for action? They were good people whom I admired.  They were intensely concerned with doing what was right. 

I listened and tried to understand. I felt woefully inadequate to make a judgement. 

So, as my colleagues co-opted writing sessions to denounce the war and plan protest marches, I wondered-- what can I do?

This is what I did.

I walked through the streets of New York toward the United Nations Building, a vague effort at supporting peaceful solutions to world problems. I threaded my way through the ring of media vans surrounding the building: NBC, CNN, BBC, AP, Reuters. Passing through a series of tents, I stood in line to pass through the many security check points. 

Once inside I wandered past closed rooms where peace and war and life and death were discussed. I had no real direction, I just wandered through the public spaces.

Then I happened to stop before Marc Chagall’s Peace Window, created in 1964. It is a striking sight: 15 feet wide and 12 feet high, with small figures floating in a vast sea of blue. On the left of a central tree, humans and animals drift aimlessly. On the right side of the tree, a group of people holding a lighted menorah move from a walled city in the distance to gather at the base of Christ on the cross. A snake nestles in the root of the central tree, but a bunch of red roses blooms from the top. Above the tree an angel reaches out the tablets of the Ten Commandments. 

To the right of the tree, a woman, larger than the other figures, is bowed in grief. Below the tree a small naked baby waves at me cheerfully.

Marc Chagall, the creator of the Peace Window, knew much of crisis and war and violence. A Russian Jew, he suffered through violent pogroms as a child. During the Russian revolution he knew the hunger and danger that followed. He was living in Germany as Hitler waged war again Europe and the Jews, but was able to escape to the United States through occupied France. Chagall’s beloved wife Bella died during the war years, and he grieved greatly over her loss, the near complete annihilation of his home town in Russia, and the unthinkable destruction of his people. 

And yet, this beautiful Peace Window, expressing faith and hope in the midst of grief. And yet, that little baby at the bottom of the window, waving out joyfully.

I looked at that baby--at all the images floating in the sea of blue, the grieving woman, the menorah of light, the Christ on the cross—I stood there thinking of this troubled world and the crisis we now faced and, silently, I prayed.

I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Some people call us Mormons. As a devout Christian, I believe that we were sent to this mortal world to experience both joy and sorrow. I believe that sorrow is sometimes the natural consequence of living in mortality, such as illness and pain and death. And I believe that often sorrow comes about through bad choices: our own and those of others—and that is where bullying and murder and war come in. 

I believe that God will not intervene in the choices we make. He will not force His people to do what is right. But He did atone for all the sins of the world, and He will help us through every terrible thing that we face, if we come to him, like Chagall’s masses on the right of the window. 

So I stood there and I prayed. I prayed for the leaders of the world, I prayed for those who would fight and those who would suffer. I prayed for peace, if not the peace that is the absence of war, then the peace we can feel in our hearts.

When I walked back through the streets of New York, past the armed soldiers, back to the contentious debates and the blaring TVs in the elevators-- I was still worried, still wondering what was the right response. But, there in the UN, in front of Chagall’s Peace Window, I had found a kind of peace.

And today, when I pick up my phone to see that latest news flash, I hope to hold that peace within me.

Why I am Glad I am Just the Age I am: Birthday Reflections

When my mother was in her mid 80s, I remember her sitting in her chair in the TV room, knitting while my Dad lay on the couch, watching a basketball game. As I sat with them on an evening visit, she said unexpectedly, “I wish I were 70 again!” My Dad’s interest left the game and turned to her, “Why do you say that, Leah? If you are going to wish to be a different age, why not 30, or 40, or even 25, when you were young and strong?”

Mama went on with her knitting steadily, maybe stopping a minute to count stitches. Then she continued. “No, 70. That was just about the perfect age. The children were raised and well settled in life, I didn’t need to go to work, and I was still healthy enough to do pretty much whatever I wanted to.” 

At the time, I thought this was pretty funny, that my mom would see 70 as the ideal age. In my early 50s at the time, I thought 70 was very advanced in age, and certainly not much better than 80. 

But now, at 68, I see it. My sister, 10 years older than I, reminded me of how our mother would say this. And now she repeated it: “Remember what mama said. You are approaching the perfect age.”

So here are reasons why I am glad I am just the age I am:

1.    As Mama pointed out, I’m old enough not to have to go to work. I get to spend my time doing pretty much whatever I want to do. And if the weather is bad, I can just stay home until the roads are cleared.

2.    At the same time, I am young enough that I’m still healthy. I can walk and hike and clean my house and garden. I can travel and I can play with my grandchildren. I can go to the gym every day and lift weights. Pretty much, I feel as active as ever.

3.    But I appreciate my health more, knowing that it may not last. As I run up the stairs I’m thankful for my knees because I know they won’t always work this well. As I race to catch a bus I rejoice that I can. 

4.    I am even more thankful for my husband. Someone once told me that in midlife everyone gets a little frustrated with their spouses, but if you wait a few years they begin to look better. It’s true: foibles and shortcomings have become endearing. Strengths and kindnesses are even better appreciated, especially when I look around at so many of my friends who have lost their husbands already.

5.    My children are adults, well settled in life. I don’t feel responsible for them, so I can enjoy them as friends. We can chat on the phone and laugh over funny stories. They even give me advice which makes my life better. It’s also kind of nice to be old enough they are beginning to feel like they need to look after me a little. It’s a nice payback, when they give me a new electronic device and say, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll set it up for you!”

6.    I have friends I cherish—friends who have known me for decades and yet still like me. We have seen each other through hard times and good times. We care deeply for each other and help each other through whatever we face.

7.    I also have friends much younger than I. They probably see me as old, but I feel like I am just their age, maybe because I hold that age within me. Having younger friends makes me feel young.

8.    I’m thankful for a challenging career and for all I learned from that satisfying work. I’m especially thankful for former students and colleagues who have stayed friends. 

9.    I have the perspective of years. I know that hard things will pass.

10.  And I know the importance of savoring the good moments.

11.  I have tested the promises of the Savior and know He really does help us get through hard times.

12.  I know that, with the Savior’s help, the hard times are what made the best parts of me.

13.  At this point, I’m willing to recognize what I do well and understand my responsibility to foster and share those talents.

14.  I also don’t compare myself with others so much. I’ve lived long enough to know that we all have different strengths. I am glad for others’ strengths; I am blessed by them. I am glad for my own strengths; I can bless others with them. It’s a great system.

15.  I also see clearly where I need to improve, and I am grateful to have time to do that—all eternity in fact.

I am just the right age--and probably this is true at every age-- to flourish and learn, still young in the eternal sense, but growing. 

Keep Trying -- or Maybe Not

When my mom was about 9 years old in the early 1920s, she decided she would bake a cake while her grandma and mother were out of the house. The only problem was that at that time they still had a wood-burning stove, and she didn’t know quite how to maintain a proper baking temperature. When she opened the oven door after the right amount of time, she would tell me, her planned surprise cake was an ooey gooey mess. She was so embarrassed to have wasted all the precious ingredients that she hurriedly dug a hole in the back yard and buried all the evidence.

I always thought this was a cute story, but today I totally understand. 

First some background. 

One of my favorite things to do is to watch those baking videos on Facebook—you know the ones where the ingredients magically appear in the glass bowl, and then with a snap of the fingers they are mixed, and then a few seconds later the delicious concoction is on a plate and a fork full is held up to the camera looking absolutely irresistible.

Well, one video I have watched over and over is for Absolutely Amazing Chocolate Cake. It looked not only fabulous but totally doable. So last week when I was asked to bring a cake to a funeral lunch I thought this was the perfect moment to make the Absolutely Amazing Chocolate Cake. 

The layers baked up well and smelled divine, though they looked a tad lopsided. I waited the requisite 15 minutes and then tipped them out of the pans. That is, I tipped part of each layer out of the pan—part was loath to leave its comfy residence in the baking pan. 

No problem. I pieced the layers together, let them cool completely, and commenced assembly of the layers. Once stacked, the lopsidedness was even more pronounced. I’m not sure what I did to the frosting, but, rather than holding the layers together, it was more like a lubricant inducing a tectonic shift. 

In despair, I watched my beautiful layer cake slide slowly but surely toward the side. 

Then I called my son and asked him to pick up a cake from Costco for the funeral.

Our family ate my cake the next day, which actually did taste amazing. So this week, with a birthday dinner planned for Sunday, I decided I would perfect my Amazing Chocolate Cake. My amazing baker friend told me how to trim the layers and freeze them before assembly, so the structure would be more sturdy. I also learned to line the baking pans with parchment to ease getting them out.

This morning I carefully prepared my pans with parchment paper and mixed up the yummy batter. I measured out the batter into each of three pans. The recipe said to put about 3 cups of batter in each pan, but, hey, I had extra, so I just divvied it out equally among the pans. 

Midway through the baking time I smelled burning chocolate. I peeked in the oven to find all three pans were overflowing onto the racks and the bottom of the oven, bubbling over like three volcanoes of molten lava, flowing relentlessly toward the burners.

By the time I took the pans out, the house was filled with smoke so thick that vision was obscured.  Paul appeared, crying out, “What happened? Is the house on fire?” 

Then he rushed about opening windows and turning on fans. I stared at the remains of my totally amazing cake. The layers had totally collapsed, admittedly in a rather amazing way. 

Ever the optimist, I told Paul they could still be rescued with frosting. Then I tasted the cake. Amazing chocolate flavor,  with deep nuances of smoke. 

Wisely, Paul insisted we take the cake immediately out to the trash.

Looks like a Costco birthday cake after all. 

But you know, I think I’ll try again. I know how to fix this—just 3 cups of batter per pan! Parchment paper!  Trimming and freezing to avoid the lopsided layers!

As Abraham Lincoln said, “I’m doing the best I can, the best way I know how, and I will continue to do so.” I can just keep trying, and maybe my best will get better. 

Or maybe I should just admit that we all have different talents and leave the cake baking to Costco and my amazing neighbor.