Mom. You're embarrassing me.

She always tells this story.

Poet Jesus here. Blessed Me-mas Eve! I’m in the process of cleaning out several Dollar Trees to amass around 2,030 candles for the big day tomorrow. (Next year, I’ll just take a few and multiply them.) But first, I thought I’d give my ma a chance to speak.

Ama came up with this poem back when I was really little, and people have asked our kind scribe Tania to share it quite a bit over the years. A classic, if you will. I always roll my eyes, then give my mom a little squeeze. What can I say? We’ve been through a lot together. Love ya, ma.

Andrea Mantegna, Madonna and Child. Andy and I have had some good laughs about this one.

Mary at the Nativity

The angel said there would be no end
to his kingdom. So for three hundred days
I carried rivers and cedars and mountains.
Stars spilled in my belly when he turned.

Now I can’t stop touching his hands,
the pink pebbles of his knuckles,
the soft wrinkle of flesh
between his forefinger and thumb.
I rub his fingernails as we drift
in and out of sleep. They are small
and smooth, like almond petals.
Forever, I will need nothing but these.

But all night, the visitors crowd
around us. I press his palms to my lips
in silence. They look down in anticipation,
as if they expect him
to spill coins from his hands
or raise a gold scepter
and turn swine into angels.

Isn’t this wonder enough
that yesterday he was inside me,
and now he nuzzles next to my heart?
That he wraps his hand around
my finger and holds on?

-from A Thousand Vessels