This Advent, I am beginning a personal study of Luke (which will likely take me all the way through Lent because my soul moves at a snail’s pace through such rich narratives). I’m only two days in, but my soul is the better for it already.

As I was reading commentaries on Luke 1, I read that many imagine the source from which Luke received such intimate knowledge around the birth narratives of both John the Baptist and Jesus was an aged Mary herself. My soul got stuck right there, and my eyes started pooling with tears.

I know a few mothers who have lost children, and their greatest joy is for someone to sit down and let them share about their children. Even something as simple as the chance to say their names or share a treasured story or two soothes their souls in ways that no amount of flowers or chocolates ever could (well-intentioned though they may be).

I imagined an interview between a gray-haired, well-on-in-years Mary and an enterprising, curious Luke.

The Interview

Luke {speaking nervously as people tend to do when in the presence of a revered person they’ve never met}: Shalom, beloved Mother. It is such an honor to meet with you. Thank you for being willing to share your story with me. As you know, I am a physician, but upon hearing about your son, my life changed drastically. I am devoting myself to gathering the evidence and writing his incredible story– and yours– in a chronological manner. Goodness, I think I am talking too much. Where should we begin? Are you comfortable?

Mary {Looking upon him with gentleness and a little glimmer in her eye; crows feet gathering as she smiles with a tamed tenacity}: There is no need to be nervous in my presence. There is nothing I would rather speak about than my Son, who happens to be the Savior of both of us. We share that as I begin to share with you.

Luke {beginning to settle in; taking out papyrus upon which to scratch notes}: Where shall we begin?

Mary {pondering, pausing; choking up at a bit as she begins}: Well, it’s hard to separate out the story of my beloved Son from the story of Elizabeth’s beloved son. Elizabeth and I lived through so many lifetimes together. It’s hard to go all the way back to those feelings of shock and joy at God’s promised children. The suffering, the sadness, the pain attached to the promises color everything –but then again, so does His Rising again.

Luke {slowing his pace to meet her tearful gaze}: We’ve time. There is no other story I’d rather give my life to telling. I never met your son. My mentor, Paul, met him, but not in a typical way. I’m sure you’ve heard that story…either way, it’s not mine to tell. Needless to say, I am a captive audience. I love your Son, but I imagine no one loves him as you do.

Mary {blotting her eyes; lifting her head}: I miss him so, but everyday I am closer to being with him again. We have so much to talk about. John and often giggle about all the tales he missed after he left in such dramatic fashion. The levity helps assuage the gravity of remembering those horrid days. But sharing the story helps, too. It takes me back to the wonder, the fear, the confusion. What a story! I still cannot believe it is mine. For a long time, I held it close to my chest, as if pondering it in my heart would protect him, protect us. But now there is nothing to protect. He did all of that. What a son, my Son. What a story. I’m ready now to share it with the world.