What About Mary? Ruminations on the Postpartum Journey of the Mother of God

The Great Announciation by Bette Dickinson

My perspective on Christmas has changed dramatically after having a baby (or three). I still love it: the twinkle lights, the carols, the sense of hunkering down during the long, dark nights, the joy of Christmas morning gift giving. And of course, the reason for the season—the celebration of the miraculous incarnation of God in the form of a tiny, helpless human.

But having incubated, birthed, and cared for three tiny, helpless humans myself, I am acutely aware of Mary's experience in all this. The Christmas season, for me, has become intimately tied to the experience of late pregnancy (Advent), labor and delivery (Christmas Day), and postpartum motherhood (the other eleven days of the Christmas season leading up to Epiphany). And I can’t help but wonder: how did Mary fare in those weeks and months following the birth of her first baby?

I love how the Christmas story in the Bible begins with the introduction of a young woman receiving a most unexpected calling—Mary's visitation by the angel and her beautiful submission to that terrifying assignment. I love the moment of Mary and Elizabeth meeting during their pregnancies and their babies kicking in greeting. And then the grueling journey to Bethlehem, a 90-mile trek that would have taken over a week—all while Mary is 9 months pregnant, riding a donkey and sleeping on the ground at night. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. She is a warrior!

And then they finally arrive in Bethlehem, and her labor starts (or perhaps it had started during the last hours of their journey). But they cannot find a room in which for her to deliver. At this point, I imagine, she is well along in her labor, still riding on that donkey. Can you even imagine? This is her first baby too, so it would only be natural that she would be fairly terrified of what was happening and what was about to happen. There is no doctor, no midwife, no doula. Just her husband, who probably had even less idea of what a birth entailed than she did.

So they finally go into some kind of animal shelter, and then the baby is born and it's amazing and they lay him in a manger and the shepherds see a star and the wisemen come to bring gifts and this baby God is come. All creation rejoices.

But, wait . . . What about Mary? How the heck is this first-time mama doing after her incredible ordeal? In the images, she's standing or sitting beatifically next to the manger, seemingly unfazed, looking lovingly at her child and savior.

And I'm sure that she did feel an unbelievable, overwhelming love for that little baby—the miracle that had grown inside her and now lay before her, breathing and gurgling and waving his little arms spasmodically. But I'm pretty sure she would also have felt exhausted, sore, bewildered, and probably a bit anxious. Can you imagine the pressure of having to raise the Son of God? Caring for an infant who’s in your belly is much, much easier than caring for one outside it.

Let's assume that Mary's labor was one of the easiest labors in the history of labors and that Jesus was the easiest baby in the history of babies. That seems reasonable, right?*

But it's still labor: it still involves powerful uterine contractions that open a teeny tiny ring into a 10 cm hole and then force an 8-pound infant through that hole, stretching and often tearing as it goes. Given that Mary had presumably never even had sex, it's seems highly likely that some tearing would have occurred. But even if it didn't, it would still be an exhausting, painful process.

Then, she would have had to figure out breastfeeding, enduring the discomfort of chapping and chafing and engorgement that comes with that first week of nursing. Maybe Jesus had a near-perfect latch from the start at least, so maybe her nipple pain was minimal. But still.

Jesus may have been easy, but he was still a fully human newborn, and those creatures need to eat every couple of hours, all through the night, for a lot of nights in a row—like dozens. There is no way around the sleep deprivation this causes. And being fully human, the baby Jesus must have endured all the discomfort and confusion and need that any newborn does, and he would have cried with hunger and gas pain and fatigue and the terror of opening his eyes and not seeing his mother immediately.

Then, she has these important strangers visiting her each day. When the wisemen bring their presents for Jesus, I find myself thinking, and what about something for his mother? Did they at least bring them a meal in addition to the gold, frankincense, and myrrh? Probably not. Instead, Mary probably had to cook for all their guests to fulfill the hospitality requirements of their culture.

Meanwhile, Mary is for sure bleeding constantly as her uterus continues to contract and rid itself of the lining. Her blood levels are changing dramatically, and her hormones are going bonkers. Plus, there's that little added pressure of knowing that this tiny baby is THE SAVIOR OF THE ENTIRE WORLD. No big deal, right?

The song "Mary, Did You Know?" (definitely worth a listen if you've not heard it) wonders if she realized then that her baby boy would one day walk on water, calm a storm with his hand, raise the dead, and eventually, be the perfect sacrificial lamb to redeem humanity. It explores the awe and confusion and immensity of her experience, having delivered a baby that would one day deliver us all. Adding that onto the intense emotions of a normal postpartum experience cannot have made for an easy time.

This is what I think about now when I have a calm moment to contemplate the miracle of Christmas. I think about God come to earth, yes, but I also think about Mary and the incredible untold story of her suffering and strength. I wish I could go massage her shoulders, which must have ached from holding her baby and hunching over to breastfeed for hours each day. I wish I could draw her a warm bath and send all the visitors away. I wish I could hold her baby for her, not only because it would have absolutely amazing to be able to hold Jesus, but also to give her a break, a chance for a nap, or to brush her tangled hair, or to go for a walk, knowing that her baby was cared for.

It’s not surprising that her delivery and postpartum experience is absent from the Christmas story. At that time, those intimate workings of the female body were something that men certainly would not have spoken of, much less have written down. But what strikes me is that these aspects of the human experience are still rarely discussed today.

After the baby is born, in many ways the mother ceases to exist in the eyes of others. I’ve heard many women share how, when they went to the grocery store pregnant, people oohed and aahed over them, offering encouragement or help, but as soon as the baby was on the outside, people largely ignored them or maybe commented on the baby in passing. It can feel like you’re doing something wrong by being out in public in the first few weeks particularly, as people avert their eyes and silently judge you for exposing yourself in the unkempt state that’s the best you could manage on three hours’ sleep. And let’s not even start discussing how you’re treated if you dare to breastfeed your baby in public.

People don’t want to know about the messy details of recovering from birth and caring for a newborn—just post the adorable swaddled bundle of joy and stay hidden until you’ve “bounced back” and can present yourself like a normal human again. At its worst, the message can be that there’s something shameful about the postpartum stage, about this liminal state of motherhood, when women are no longer pregnant but have bodies and minds and hearts that still bear the not-yet-healed wounds of that beautiful yet brutal miracle.

For most women, the postpartum period is one of immense sacrifice—of time, of sleep, of comfort, of freedom, of self. There is a tiny death involved in becoming a mother, a death of your former self that makes way for your rebirth as this new creature whose life is tied so intimately to another’s that the incremental separation of the child growing to independence can be felt, at times, like a visceral tearing. In this sense, a mother is always postpartum, always healing and growing and learning anew how to hold close and simultaneously let go.

For Mary, the Christmas story included some version of this death and rebirth. It included physical and emotional depletion, the painful adjustment to the relentless demands of a newborn all while attempting to understand the new person she had become. It included, I suspect, the searing guilt of catching herself resenting the baby even as her heart exploded with love and awe for him, the terror and simultaneous joy of knowing she was responsible for this precious, tender life.

Mary’s Christmas story without doubt included sacrifice, foreshadowing the ultimate sacrifice that her sweet little baby would one day make on the cross.

Like Mary, in order to give life, we must die to ourselves, and in so doing, we join Christ in the great Story that is told each year, each day, each minute: the story of Love.

And this, too, is a miracle.

*Note: Catholics believe that Mary was born without original sin so as to be a fit vessel for a sinless baby, which entails, the doctrine goes, a painless labor; however, I just don’t buy that, for various reasons. First of all, the verse (Gen. 3:16) where God curses Eve and by extension all women as a result of original sin says that He will “greatly increase” or “sharply increase” her pains in childbirth, indicating that some pain already existed. Secondly, I firmly believe that pain will be part of heaven as it was, I believe, part of the garden before the fall. What was not and will not be present, in contrast, is suffering. Pain in and of itself is neither evil nor sinful. It is a sensation that provides information—valuable information. And some pain is good: think of the pain that comes when you’re pushing yourself physically, finishing the 5k or completing one last squat or press. This kind of pain leads to increased strength, to growth, and sometimes—as in childbirth—new life. All of that is to say that I am convinced that Mary would have enduring some level of pain during her labor.

If you’re interested in thinking more about this theological question of pain in childbirth, I highly recommend this article by Tammy Ditmore out of Pepperdine, available through the Digital Commons.

About the artist:

Bette Dickinson is a prophetic artist, writer, and speaker who invites audiences to connect with God through visual parables of the spiritual journey. Through creative communication, she helps her audience awaken to the beauty of God and see more clearly the eternal realm in the heart and in the world. Bette earned her Masters of Divinity with an emphasis in Pastoral Studies, is ordained in the Reformed Church in America, and serves with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship in Spiritual Formation. She can be found at www.bettedickinson.com and on Instagram @bette_dickinson.

the postpartum collection

This post is part of a series on the postpartum experience. Click here to see the rest of the collection.