I KNOW my grandbaby, no matter how beautiful he may be to me, should not be lightly compared to baby Jesus. Landon's here for a 24 hour visit, the first of what we hope will be many. We've had moments, some a bit stressful, some chuckle-out-loud fun, and some precious to my heart. I'll come back later to tell you about the chuckle-out-loud, but since I am going to tell you about a "baby Jesus" experience I had, I'll save those for a more appropriate post. The post where he and I talked about which sports he'd play, which mostly discouraged ever wearing one of those funky wrestling uniforms.



Last night, as I held him close and gave him a bottle, he slurped, burped, while he was sort of awake, sort of dozing. In the shadows of the nightlight, I gazed on his sweet, sweet face. Soft puckery lips, furrowed brow, fuzzy baby hair. Eyelashes so pale they are barely visible to my post-50 year old eyes. We repeated the scene this morning before the sun was completely up. I was struck by how helpless he is, completely trusting. Not a thought for one minute from now. He's sometimes frightened by sudden movements or noises, but easily assured all is well. He gets lonely, sometimes wants to "talk", and is fascinated to watch my face close to his talking baby nonsense.

In the late, then early light feedings, my thoughts turn to Mary. There has never been ANYONE else who knew for SURE, was completely certain with no doubt, that this child was the son of God. Even Joseph, his earthly father, had to choose to believe. Mary knew. Gazing on Jesus' face, knowing, in the early morning hours as she held him closely, what she must have thought? God's son, and yet her sweet baby boy. Wondering if God literally knit him in her womb, what purpose must he have for him? Surely not just a normal boy. Yet he was her son. Fully God. Fully man. Fully God-breathed infant, fully her tiny baby.

I imagine she played her version of patty-cake with Jesus, soaked in the smell of his sweet skin after a bath. Arranged his curls, gazed into his eyes and looked to the future when he was a man. I believe she probably blew raspberries on his baby belly, counted his toes, marveled at the smallness of his fingers as they wrapped around her one held out to him. Watched his tiny chest rise and fall as he slept, lips pursed, funny baby faces he made while sleeping. Fully God-breathed infant, fully her tiny baby.

Luke 2:18 tells us of visits from shepherds, and "all who heard it wondered at the things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart." Mary didn't know all that was in store for her infant, but she knew he was truly the Son of God. She knew.

As I sat in my living room chair early yesterday, it occured to me it was December 1, the beginning of the month we set aside to celebrate The Gift. I decided to make a concentrated effort to recognize the gifts of my life. Big and small, trivial and life-sustaining. Yesterday, December 1, I thanked God for the gift of his Son, who died for me, for us.

This morning, in the pale-before-morning hours, as I held this precious baby boy in my arms, I thanked him that while Jesus was fully God, he was also someone's baby boy. Just a baby to be held close, a little one with a head begging to be kissed, cheeks to be stroked as she soaked in the softness. I believe. Mary knew. No wonder she pondered those things in her heart. I want to behold the Savior. I don't want to miss the fact that he started as a fragile infant, held by a mother who knew.