Of Mary and the Stable

I've been thinking a lot of Mary lately.  I'm sure the snow-clad wreaths and the shimmer of lights from neighboring houses has been somewhat influential.  Regardless, I keep wondering about that night in the stable-forget that animals that were or weren't there breathing on the baby and giving him their wool for clothes, forget the sweet-smelling hay, forget all the sentimental things that make us sigh and forget that a woman just gave birth, and possibly alone.

Anyone who's been through labor, or seen labor, has to know it's not pretty.  Not in the least. I'm certain Mary's was no different.  Though her child was not conceived in the traditional way, it came into this world as any other (or so I think).

What really gets me, though, is that she was miles from home- miles from the women who would have attended her at the birth, who would have supported and encouraged her.

I can't help but think that some woman in the crowded town heard and rushed to her side.  Or that Joseph went to find some help.  I can't bear to think of her having to do that all alone.

Nor can I imagine being visited by a bunch of strange men with their cute little lambs shortly after giving birth.  I suppose it's a good thing God asked Mary do the Mother-of-God job.  I would have botched it.

Needs vs. Wants

Sometimes I have a hard time figuring out the difference between needs and wants.  Some examples:

Son crying in the middle of the night: Does he need me, or want me?
Shopping for clothes: Does he need more pajamas, or do I just want to do laundry less often?
Shopping for groceries: Do I need more flour, or do I just want to bake more cookies?
Watching Cars:  Do I need peace and quiet, or do I just want a moment to myself?

So last week, while at the mall buying a pair of shoes to replace the one the dog chewed (a definite need), I glanced at the boots on the rack.  I thought to myself  "Gee, I bet boots would be something I would need, seeing as we're living in a state that tends to get a lot of snow."  Then I glanced at the prices.  "Nah, it's probably just a want.  I can deal with regular old flats.  I've walked through lots of snow before and dealt with wet feet just fine."

And then it snowed. 

A week later, it snowed again. 

Two days later, it snowed again.

And now the wind's blowing, and the drifts are upwards of 3-4 feet.

I think the boots were a need.

 

Happy hour, anyone?

God, in his infinite mercy, created young children with a need for naps.  I heartily believe it is so we can continue to like our children, especially the ones who have spent their mornings screaming at us.  Therefore, when one of these screaming children refuses to take a nap, or only sleeps for 10 minutes, it's understandable that his mother wishes to run out the front door screaming. Right?

Trust me, the feeling's mutual.

Let this be a sign unto you

I'm certain it's a sign that, while doing a general decluttering of the kitchen, my heart rate picked up and my breaths came a little more often.  But a sign of what, I wonder.  That I need to start running again, or that my son can terrorize my kitchen faster than I could lose on Minute to Win It?  Either way, I rewarded my hard work with a cookie.

The cook, the baker, the candlestick-maker

Leah graciously referred me to another Chesterton quote from his book, What's Wrong With the World, which I found worthwhile:

"Women were not kept in the home in order to keep them narrow;  on the contrary, they were kept at home in order to keep them broad . . . A woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute.  I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task;  I will never pity her for its smallness."

Traditionally, the woman's task in the home was broad.  She was expected to have a variety of skills necessary for the proper running and upkeep of a home.  She could mend a garment, and sew a new one; strip old shirts and piece a blanket's top, then quilt that top for the bed.  She knew how to read a recipe and cook a meal.  She could nurse an infant, and tend the garden.  She kept the laundry caught up, and knew which combination of household goods would be best to get the stains out of her husband's clothing.  She baked bread, and put up cans of homegrown corn for the winter.  She enlisted her children to help make butter and candles and soap, and still invited friends over for dinner. I could continue, but you get the point.

The interesting part of this, however, is that each of these tasks once expected of all women, have now become hobbies, and women only do those of interest.

We now divide ourselves according to our likes and carefully honed skills- we are quilters, or stitchers; knitters, or bakers; soap makers, canners, gardeners, day care providers.  Anything we dislike doing that has to be done, we outsource.  We order in, or eat out.  We hire a nanny and a maid.  We drop off laundry at the cleaners, and pick up cans of peaches from the grocery store. 

Or, if we can't outsource, we convince ourselves that our husbands should be helping out more, and we push our duties off on them..  After all, with both parties working a full-time job, it's unfair that the woman would have to do all housework and child-rearing by herself.  So we assign our husbands jobs, and keep track of their completion on our mental chore charts.

When neither of these options work-they are too expensive, or jobs aren't done to our level of expectation, we'll pull on the rubber gloves and do them ourselves, but with a scowl.

Now certainly, not every woman in the past enjoyed every part of her jobs.  Every mother rejoices when a child is potty-trained, for that marks the end of rinsing that child's dirty diapers day after day.  And certainly, not every woman was equally skilled at every task.  If that were the case, county fair judges would have a difficult time placing blue ribbons on the winning quilts and pies.  Rather, women realized that they had work to do-whether they were experts or not, and whether they enjoyed it or not.  Families had a square meal on the table, even if they had to douse it with ketchup.  Children had clothes, even if they were all made from the same simple pattern.  They knew their duties, and they had the range of skills they needed to make sure their house was in order.  And now, in our modern age women have few of the same skills our mother and grandmothers were taught.  And we are the ones claiming to be "advanced," and "progressive."  Seems a contradiction to me.

It's worth sharing....

Anonymous said...

"It is highly typical of the rabid plagiarism which now passes everywhere for emancipation, that a little while ago it was common for an "advanced" woman to claim the right to wear trousers; a right about as grotesque as the right to wear a false nose. Whether female liberty is much advanced by the act of wearing a skirt on each leg I do not know; perhaps Turkish women might offer some information on the point. But if the western woman walks about (as it were) trailing the curtains of the harem with her, it is quite certain that the woven mansion is meant for a perambulating palace, not for a perambulating prison. It is quite certain that the skirt means female dignity, not female submission; it can be proved by the simplest of all tests. No ruler would deliberately dress up in the recognized fetters of a slave; no judge would appear covered with broad arrows. But when men wish to be safely impressive, as judges, priests or kings, they do wear skirts, the long trailing robes of female dignity. The whole world is under petticoat government; for even men wear petticoats when they wish to govern." -G.K. Chesterton "What's Wrong with the World"

Winning isn't everything

Seems no matter how I go about my day, I can't win any of the wars in this life. I checkout a book from the library I'm sure my son will like, only to hide it under the couch after the thirteenth consecutive read.  I get him to sleep for three hours in the afternoon, but then lose two hours fighting with him to go to sleep that night.  I purchase a mop to make floor cleaning easier on my back and knees, and fail to buy one that is self-wringing. I set out to wash the dishes, only to slice open my thumb with a knife and spend the next twenty minutes applying pressure to stop the bleeding.

Rooms I clean are immediately cluttered.  Floors I scrub are instantly sullied.  Clothes, blankets, towels, and diapers I wash, fold, and put away are promptly soiled.  Newton's third law of motion seems to apply to the forces of helpfulness and destruction as well.  "No rest for the weary," my grandmother would say.

I suppose if winning these battles of life was my only aim, I would give up.  I'd get a job, send my kid to the sitter, and hire a maid.  Then I could cling to the illusions of victory- a pay check, a socialized child, a clean house. But even these offer nothing but weariness.  I'm not working to win any earthly prize.  Rather, I'm doing the tasks God has given me to do while I'm here.  Frustrating as it may be, I rejoice in my toiling and take my defeat in stride.  For there is nothing better than to be joyful and take pleasure in all my toil, knowing that my reward is in heaven, where juice does not stain, and syrup does not stick.