The Secret Life of God as Man Read online

The Secret Life of God as Man

  by

  Mary Quijano

  Copyright 2014 Mary Quijano

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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  First Edition License Notes

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  Infancy

  I'm not sure when I first become aware that I am different, that I have some special gifts; that I know some things that no one else seems to be aware of, can do some things that no one else can do.

  At first my body is a heavy thing, its demands so meaty and organic, so constant, they obliterate all knowledge of anything beyond fulfilling their immediate needs. As a baby I think of little else beyond eating and pooping. My world is all about taking care of the craving in my belly, and the elimination of its by-products...and perhaps some internal innate hunger for security, a need for being held close, for feeling the warmth and safety of my mother's arms. When my body sleeps, which is often at first, I am back to pure spirit again, pure joy and freedom, a flight without thought or care: But that state does not translate well to the false waking.

  Gradually, as I become more aware of the world outside my own body, it begins to dawn on me - literally dawn, like the first hint of light lifting up from the horizon and chasing away the darkness, like a giant eraser sweeping clean the blackboard of night that is my dull-wittedness, replacing the tiny stars that blink amidst the vast cloud of my forgetfulness, one by one from left to right across the canopy of sky, with the growing light of self-awareness; awakening the voices in my head like the sun awakens the slumbering birds to twitter in burgeoning joy that they have survived the night and to sing in expectation of yet another day that they might enjoy the wondrous gift of life - gradually it begins to dawn on me that I am not just human, not just meat and appetite, but more. Much more. And I before long I discover that I can do things others cannot do, and soon after that perhaps I shouldn't do them.

  My earliest occasion of this is from the crib when I am still toothless and unable to control the muscles of my arms and legs as yet. I am watching a single fat fly as it circles in noisy buzzing flight overhead, zipping back and forth in an angry blur. And I want to see it more clearly, I want to understand what it looks like and how it makes that strange noise and what magical ability allows it to move through the invisible space above my eyes. At once the fat fly slows to nearly motionless, hovering just above my head, so that I can clearly see its tiny transparent wings move up and down in slow motion, the little drums beside each wing vibrating in opposition to the wings. I can see its funny alien face, the huge eyes of many parts, like the glass in the windows of the church we visit each Sabbath; its long mouth like the stick mother uses to beat the rugs, but with a bath sponge on the end. I draw it closer, closer still. I reach for it with my spastic hands waving foolishly.

  Just then mother comes into the room: She stops and stares at the fly suspended just above my head and lets out a sharp little cry: "Yeshua!"

  Startled, I release the fly, which immediately darts from the room, and I begin to cry in that funny baby voice of mine.

  Mother picks me up to soothe me.

  "I'm sorry little one," she coos. "I didn't mean to scare you. But you mustn't do such things, okay?"

  Of course I still do such things every chance I get, but after that I am more careful to curtail my adventures whenever I hear the sound of anyone approaching. In any case, there isn't a lot of opportunity for mischief when you can neither walk nor talk as yet.

  When I am finally able to do both, I am allowed out into the yard whenever mother is gardening or washing our garments, and the whole wondrous world begins to open to me, and with it my mind and awareness blooms like a flower in the sun.

  One day I discover a dead bird lying on its side in the garden. It is stiff, cold and still, with ants crawling over its dull clouded eyes, and that bothers me as an enormous wrong and mystery. I carry it to my mother and hold it up to her in my two chubby hands.

  "Bird?" I enquire.

  "Oh dear, drop that thing Yeshua; it's dead!" She tries to take it from me, but I turn quickly away and won't let her have it."

  "What means dead?" I persist.

  "It means the breath of life has gone out of it," she explains patiently, still reaching for the little thing in my hands.

  "Then I put back," I say, and putting my lips to its beak I blow a puff of air into it.

  Immediately the little creature shudders, twitches, fluffs up its feathers as if affronted, then lifts its wings and flies up into the sky.

  "There goes," I say, satisfied.

  Mother looks at me and shakes her head.

  "What have I got myself into," she says.

  Mary

  "What have I got myself into?" I say aloud.

  I remember when the angel first came to me and told me I had been chosen to be the mother of God's only son, the one destined to fulfill the prophecies. I was excited, scared, proud...a fifteen year old idiot is what I was. I didn't even imagine, didn't think for a minute, about what that meant, what kind of burden it would be to be God's mother, the terrible responsibility. Not that I had a choice in the matter, but I didn't even have the common sense to be scared.

  Soon enough, though, I found out how much this would cost me, serving God.

  Joseph, already a thirty year old widower when I'd been promised to him, had to be convinced that the growing bump in my belly came from God and not my own indiscretion. Even when the angels confirmed this with him in a dream, I still was forced to prove my innocence before the priests in the temple by the ordeal of bitter water, and even after I passed that test they made me lie down before a midwife and that awful Pharisee to be inspected down there before they would finally believe me. I was so embarrassed and humiliated, forced to open my legs and have them poke around in places that were not for them to see, that it was hard to forgive Joseph for putting me through this. But at least they confirmed that my maidenhead was still intact, and that I was indeed still a virgin. That satisfied Joseph, at least enough to go through with the marriage without further complaints.

  Even so, he apparently still has his doubts - which he throws up at me from time to time when he's aggravated with my cooking or cleaning or personality - questioning whether the pregnancy was truly a divine act and not just some quirk of nature.... Or worse.

  What happened during the birth of the baby gave the story of His divine origins more credence, however; even Joseph had to admit that. I still recall the look of awe on his face when the mysterious Magi from the Far East arrived to bring gi
fts worth enough to sustain us throughout our subsequent unplanned exile in Egypt. Then there were the shepherds who came to worship our newborn son, saying they had been visited by an Angel who told them God lay in a manger nearby: I remember looking over at Joseph and raising my brow at that one. And what of the huge star that hung over our hideaway until the Magi came, then just as quickly vanished, how to explain that? Joseph had to admit there was definitely something going on, only he still wondered aloud why God would chose to be born in a barn with animals, and to humble people like us. It was all so confusing.

  As the weeks and months passed after the baby's birth, my own doubts had begun to arise as well - or perhaps it was just that my awe had slowly lessened as the memories of all that angelic intervention faded. Baby Yeshua seemed so normal, nursing at my breasts, burping, shitting and pissing and fussing just like any baby would, that I'd begun to wonder if it had indeed all been a dream, if my virgin pregnancy was simply - as Joseph called it - a quirk of nature. His infancy was so routine, his daily care so uneventful and mundane, that I'd begun to think that Yeshua was just an ordinary child after all, not really the "Son of God."

  Of course there were those incidents from time to time, like when he was but three months old...What was that fly doing, held perfectly still in the air like that? I knew, just knew down deep, that my baby was holding it there with his mind. But could I prove it? No, not even to myself.

  Then there were all the things misplaced, not there where I'd left them one minute, and back again the next; enough to drive a mother mad. I'd look over at baby Yeshua suspiciously, but he would just coo and chortle in sweet innocence, and Joseph would never believe me that any of it was the baby's doing. He'd tell me that I was simply a careless and forgetful child, that I needed to keep better care of things, and soon I'd doubt myself.

  However since our return to Nazareth this spring, after the angel told Joseph it was safe to come back home, little Yeshua has begun to do more and more strange things, say strange things. Now, with today's reanimation of the bird, the reality has come rushing back, collapsing on me like a wall of mud in a rainstorm, crushing me under the recognition of the terrible burden that I face. This is real, this is true: I am the mother of the living God. And with that realization comes the question of what am I, a seventeen year old girl, supposed to do with Him? How does one raise God?

  I need to pray, but I also need to talk to Joseph.

  I put little Yeshua to bed for a nap, even though he fusses at me that he isn't tired, and refuses to close his eyes until I sing to him several songs. Finally he falls asleep, and right there beside his bed I fall to my knees and pray long and hard and earnestly to the God that fathered him.

  Please God, tell me what to do to raise your Son, for he is truly filled with power beyond all I can imagine. If this is what you have endowed him with, these gifts, I know it is not for me to take them away or curtail their use, but how do I teach him to be human as well when he has such divine nature and abilities? I am but a child myself, Father God: Teach me how to teach Him our ways, or if I even should.

  God answers me with one word: "Faith."

  "Great," I sigh

  So when he comes home from his labors, I ask Joseph instead.

  Joseph

  She's a lovely girl, my little bride, still a child really: Imaginative, grace-filled, touched by angels I suppose. But it is hard to accept what she is telling me now, that we are parents of the living God. Even though the angel spoke to me of this, I still reject the idea, am overwhelmed by it if I were to speak true. How can we be parents to God made flesh? I may be a direct descendant of the line of David, but that doesn't prepare me for this. I don't even have time to keep up repairs on my own dilapidated little cottage, I'm so busy trying to make a living: How can I possibly be a good father to God's only Son?

  A part of me hopes she is just delusional, my Mary. A part of me would rather have her locked away than to have to face the truth of what she is telling me. I tell her I have to see for myself these miracles my boy is accused of doing before I can fully believe them.

  Then I tell her to wake the boy, so I can speak with him.

  "Boy," I tell him, as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. "You mother tells me you found a dead bird in the garden today."

  "Yes father." He affirms.

  "And what happened to the bird?" I ask him.

  "He woke up. Fly."

  "Did you do anything to make him wake up son?"

  "I blew."

  "Blew? Blew what?" I ask.

  He looks over at his mother for assistance. I scowl at her to remain silent. If there is something for him to say he needs to find the words himself, not be fed them by an imaginative woman.

  "Well," I persist. "What did you blow?"

  "Bread of Life?" he responds. His expression is a mixture of emotions, part fear that he has done something to displease me, part pride in his accomplishment. Not everyone can bring the dead back to life.

  I look over at Mary, who shrugs. I told you so.

  "We've got problems," I tell her.

  I kneel down beside my small child, who is looking up at me with trust.

  "Son, you can't be doing things like that," I tell him. "People won't understand."

  "Why?" He frowns.

  "They'll be afraid of you, of us. They might not hire me for work anymore."

  "Why?"

  I sigh, trying to think of words a small child can understand. But this small child is God, who understands everything. I falter, at a loss; I shake my head.

  "Because, just because. So don't do it anymore, okay?"

  He looks at me, purses his lips, and shakes his head in perfect mimicry.

  "Okay," he says, but he and I both know he doesn't really mean it.

  Later Mary asks if we can make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Shavu'ot this year, having missed Passover and all the other required religious pilgrimages during the two years of our exile in Egypt.

  "Is your desire to uphold our religious traditions and laws, Mary, or is it just that you want to see your Aunt Elizabeth again?" I ask her, but not unkindly.

  I know she is anxious to see her elderly aunt who lives in that holy city, more than she is concerned about attending the religious festival there, for Mary and Elizabeth have a spiritual bond that transcends all else, and it has been more than two and one half years since they have spoken.

  Mary lowers her gaze, nodding. "I do wish to see her and the child she bore, for during those three months I spent with her after my conception, I felt he had a special connection with Yeshua even in the womb. My hope is that Elizabeth and Zechariah can advise us on what to do about our son's divine nature, since their son is also special in the eyes of the Lord."

  I look at her a long time without speaking. I too would like advice from the old priest and his wife, knowing their son was the product of divine intervention as well' but though I'm tempted to say yes, I'm still fearful of going to the temple while Herod's son reigns over Judea.

  "Not this year," I tell her, and she knows not to argue further.

  My Early Childhood