My mother was a prolific writer. We haven’t even begun to work through her journals and notebooks, but a few months ago I came across a little folder of theological reflections from her time at Smith College, where she studied literature and theology, and I tucked it away to bring home before putting it back for the others to read.
When I wrote The Disciple I focused on the idea from John 1:12-13 that God has given us the ‘right’ to become children of God. I’ve been struck by that phrase and some of the implications of being given a ‘right’ to be a child of God for many years.
I do know that I’m grateful to have studied theology to find wider and richer traditions, and I know that every Christmas I think of Mary in a particular way, in a way that only another mother can think.
We could just ignore it, which I think many husbands and wives in practice, just do. It’s basically what my husband and I have done for nearly 26 years now.
There are some things only a mother knows – childbirth is one of them. It is raw, powerful, emotional, potentially frightening, and awesome. It is exhausting and elating at the same time – and it is kind of icky – but in a way that you just don’t care.