The Prayer of Mary’s Mother

Lord, it’s me again.

Is she ready? I know You’ve chosen her, but she’s still so young. She doesn’t yet know the weight of what You’re asking her to carry.

Could You—just for me—assign a legion of angels to walk beside her? I know, maybe that’s too much. Too obvious? But how else will You keep the wolf from my sweet lamb as she births Your Lamb?

What about Gabriel? He started this—could he stay close?

Lord, that road is long and cruel. Joseph is a good man, but he’s just a man. What strength can he summon to stand between her and the world’s malice, the cold that steals breath, the evil that never sleeps?

You do know she’s about to give birth, don’t You?

I mean, I trust Your timing—I do—but this? This feels like the edge of the world. So I need to ask… You’ve got this, haven’t You, Lord? Please tell me You’ve got her.

I’ve packed the anointing oil, the cloths, the wraps—Savtah’s finest work, spun with prayer: linen for purity, leather for strength, indigo  for royalty. For her King. For our King. I’ve  tucked in Abba’s tallit and tzitzit, just in case the journey stretches longer than we hope. You are bringing her home, aren’t You?

Joseph has prepared a room in his parents’ house. We’ve sent Mary’s crib. The neighbours still whisper behind closed doors—as if they could understand what You’re doing.

Okay, okay, I know, You’re God!

But I’m her mother.

And I’m asking you, Lord—watch her.  Guard her. Hold her. Because she’s carrying Your promise—Your blood… but my flesh—and she’s still my baby.