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I was so pleased on that crisp December day to host my family and to show off my newborn son, Nathanael—the first grandchild of the Murray clan.

I welcomed my parents' offers to take Nathanael, burp him, change him, whatever. Toward less-experienced aunts and uncles, however, I possessed a bit more reticence. Did they know to support his head? He doesn't like to be held over the shoulder—he cries. And, nothing—nothing—passes through his delicate digestive tract except sweet, unadulterated mother's milk.

Which explains my horror at seeing his uncle spoon-feed my cherub chocolate frosting right off the cake.

So I can imagine what Mary must have felt as she brought her six-week-old first-born to Jerusalem "to present him to the Lord" (Luke 2:22). All that dirt, the strangers, animals. Then, at the temple, Joseph and Mary were confronted by a strange old man—who "took the baby in his arms"! (Did he have his head? Were his hands clean?) He babbled, of all things, a prophecy: "My eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all people, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel" (Luke 2:30-32, NIV).

How would he know such things? But old Simeon was not finished. He turned to Mary and, looking her straight in the eye, said, "And a sword will pierce your own soul, too."

Many have assumed that Mary's pierced soul refers to her anguish over her son's passion and death. But I am convinced that the "sword" pierced Mary's soul long before that moment.

A MOTHER'S HEART

All mothers can tell of proud moments related to their kids. I had such a moment with one of my sons a year and a half ago. We were missionaries living in Honduras, and Jon was playing right field for the Little League baseball team, the Promesas (Spanish for "Promises"). The Promesas, in a word, stunk. They had not won a game all season. During one particular game, we were losing 12 to 7 in the bottom of the eighth inning when my youngest son, Jon, stepped to the plate. The opposing team had just brought in a new pitcher, who struck out the first two Promesa batters without breaking a sweat. But then he became overconfident, and before we knew it, the bases were loaded with walked batters. That's when my son came up to bat. The team was down by five runs, and Jon could erase four of those and make it, for once, a real game.

Frantic instructions from his coaches and the crowd—"Choquela, Juan! Cuidala!"—is all my boy could hear. He was tentative, nervous. I knew—as he stood there in the batter's circle, slicing the bat around with only a half-effort—that he needed his mother.

I made my way down the bleachers until I was pressed up against the chainlink fence behind the batter's box. I knew better than to try to get him to look at me. He just needed to hear my voice.

"Don't back off this guy, Jon," I told him. "He's getting tired; he's wild. Meet the pitch." He scraped home plate and crouched into the batting position. "Juan! Juan! Juan!" roared the crowd. "You can do it, Jon," I yelled.

Don't you know that boy made contact the very first pitch—a blooper right between second and third—scoring two runs and losing his batting helmet as he pedaled around the bases.

I couldn't even yell "That's my boy!" for the huge lump that had settled in my throat. Tears filled my eyes when I saw my son—fully ensconced at second base—throw a glance my way in that glorious, crowd-pleasing moment.

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December 11 1995, Vol. 39, No. 14