An Even Deeper Joy

Suggested Reading: Luke 2

“But Mary treasured up these things, pondering them in her heart” (Luke 2:19).

This has always been my favorite sentence in the Christmas story. A beautiful, quiet moment in the midst of the flurry of activity surrounding the birth of a Savior. As he tells the story, Luke starts ten sentences with “And.” The angels are singing, the shepherds are worshipping — Luke’s narration can barely keep up — “And…And…And.”

Only this verse starts with “But.” Only Mary pauses, a lull in the storm.

I love the phrase “treasured up.” The verb shows the priceless value of the experience, but the preposition makes it truly special. The “up” indicates motion, shows intention. This isn’t passive observation, this is mindful presence, active stillness.

My very favorite part is “pondering them in her heart.” Pondering usually exists the in the domain of the mind, but Mary ponders in her heart, a fusion of thought and emotion, of wisdom and feeling. Young, innocent Mary becomes a symbol of deep joy.

On Christmas Eve, 2009, I was nine months pregnant. As I heard this verse in the dimly lit sanctuary, I felt my baby move inside me, and I started to understand what it really means: the concentrated effort to hold on to the ephemeral.

Two weeks later, my son was born. There were many things to treasure up — his comforting warmth on my chest, his sweet milky smell, seeing my husband become a father. In the hospital we watched him sleep: Only his chest moved, rising and falling gently, and yet he kept us transfixed.

How incredible to love in this way. But it is always bittersweet. We can never treasure up enough. The moment passes, and we mourn it even as we ponder some new joy.

I watch my son grow and wonder how long it will be before he no longer reaches for my hand or rests his head against my side. I anticipate the loss before it comes.

The moments pass.

The years pass.

When her son is twelve, Mary loses him and finds him teaching grown men in the temple. He calls it his Father’s house. Yet, he still comes back to her. And Mary treasures up all these things in her heart.

When her son is thirty, he heals and preaches. He performs miracles. He makes disciples. He makes enemies.

When her son is killed among criminals, Mary stands at the cross. She prepares the spices for his burial. We imagine the Pieta: Beautiful in despair, she cradles her son across her lap. He used to fit so neatly there.

The symbol of joy becomes a symbol of grief. We must not forget this when we imagine the young mother, wide-eyed with wonder, holding her infant son because the bitterness makes the joy even sweeter.

Loss is the human condition. It is why we treasure up, why we long, why we wait.

But.

The story doesn’t end with loss. It is only a pause.

Because we wait for Mary’s son, whose condition is more than human. Who, once lost, returned. Who, in his return, vanquished loss. Who, treasuring us up, will return again, bringing an even deeper, never ending, joy.