Third weekend of September. First speech tournament of the year. I'm reading "Mila 18" by Leon Uris, or maybe "Nightmare at Noon" by Stephen Vincent Benet, or maybe "The Bet" by Chekhov...whatever it is. I sit on the grass in front of New Braunfels High School alone and I am weeping a bit. I hear the flags flapping against the pole, I watch the Johnson grass bending to the wind and I wonder what kind of year it will be. It this my year to go to State? Will I like my teachers? Will I fall in love? Why can't I have normal parents? Why do I always feel so alone? Where are you God? Does any of this really matter?
A month of questions. Looking for something but not knowing what it is. I don't know why people call January the first month of the year. Clearly the first month of the year is September. I suppose it is connected to the birth of Christ, the beginning of something new, better, more perfect. The days begin to become more light. Yes, a beginning.
But the real beginning is in September. And the Church must have figured that out because today is called the birth of Mary. And frankly, without her, the Incarnation would never have happened.
For the birth to happen, the seed had to be planted. It had to go into fertile ground, a deep, dark place where it could be protected from the elements until it became strong enough to live in the world. It had to hide. To hide in the strongest creature on the planet, someone who was all about nurturing life, someone who was brave enough to love, to risk life so that another might live, and that can only happen one place: inside a woman. The world needed Mary first. To be human, God needed a mother.
And today, in the rain, I remember how that all works. I became fully female forty years ago in September. No matter what anyone says, that is one of the most holy, sacred days of a woman's life. In my usual fashion, never quite doing things as perhaps it is always done, I told my father first. He just held on to the steering wheel of the Plymouth, stared forward and said "Tell your mother." I really didn't get it. I was (and still am) that naive.
Growing up Catholic, being a woman in the likeness of Mary was always a part of our education. That being a woman part was big. It wasn't just human, it was holy and it was for God. And when we get there, we celebrate. Most of the time, it is a celebration among women. But I guarantee the young men's ears are never more sensitive when they know women are discussing life.
The most important things of our lives, we are so private about. So many of them need to stay private perhaps, and yet...they need to be shared with the people we love. I suspect in the old days, women talked with women about women things. We told each other what to expect, how to cope, what the rules were and maybe a little bit about what it means to be a woman of God. Then later, when the carrying of the the child, when the seed planted in the ground must at last flower, the women gather again to help a new mother bring life safely into the world. There were private rituals and prayers to protect both the life of the child and the life of the mother, for child-bearing is always a potentially life-threatening situation. That is why we women were created relational. We give and carry life at the risk of our own. The sacrifice is great. We have to stay connected to each other just to survive. A woman who walks the path of pregnancy alone is the most vulnerable human being in the world. If a woman chooses to kill her child, she does it because she feels alone.
We must love one another. All the time.
Where will I find food for my child, once it is here? How to I make a home for her? What will I teach him? How can I make sure she knows she is loved? How do I protect him from the world, which has an agenda all its own? Will the father stay around? How do I count on a future when I have no control over it? Will he grow well? Will she be happy? How do I hold on and let go at the same time? How do I teach her to love?
All this comes to mind when I think about Mary. I don't know why I'm writing it here. Then again, maybe I do. I'm not telling the whole story. Not yet. This feels vulnerable enough for now.
When I was teaching at CCCC, I had a Tanner print on the glass of the window in my door. It was Mary, sitting a bed, holding a scroll, while perhaps a 9-year-old Jesus is standing next to her and leaning into her. They are reading together.
My daughter leans against me in her bed and reads to me before she falls asleep. She is surrounded by Strawberry Shortcake everything: sheets, pillows, curtains, pink walls and few dolls...and Kitty...Kitty is always there. The first toy I made for her before she was born. And she is the most beautiful creature in the world. She is the most perfect creature in the world. She is the reason I came into the world.
Many years later, I sit with my son at the dining room table. He's perhaps 12 years old. He opens the Bible and begins to read to me. The passage is from Daniel. "What do you think, Mom?" and I shake inside. My child, my son, wants to discuss the Bible with me...and Daniel at that. Even though the forces around us have told us not to bring God here, God nevertheless has arrived. Perhaps He never left.
All because Mary said yes to the impossible.
September is perfect. The winds change. The weather gets cooler. I can bury my nose in new books and new notebooks. Seven new teachers, seven new classes. Tabular rasa. New clothes, new friends...old friends: Sam, Fred, Bill, Chris, John, David...and a few girls who weren't too girly. I suppose Stacy is on the top of the list, Cindi, Lisa, Lisa, Marti, Jackie, Kim, Charlie, Patty...wow, I had forgotten there were so many! But all the connections and reconnections were fresh and filled with hope. And Friday night football when I wasn't at tournaments.
September was perfect in every way. A new year.
All because she said yes. Happy Birthday, Mary. I wrote this for you.
Love, Cindy
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