We are often surprised when we catch sight of ourselves. He was that evening, he sitting at my side asking me to tell how he came to be made flesh. The luxury of my privacy was over; he was almost twelve, he needed to know. As I told all I knew I could sense my eyes were mirrors reflecting him back to himself causing an expression on his face of a recalled nightmare, his being flayed of divinity to become like us. Until that moment I’d not witnessed the depths of his emptying, his exile. He stood to turn away from me, me Mary. So my dreams are true then? I answered as any mother would: I am privileged to call you my son, and if asked I would do it all over again. You know I have to find my way back. I caught my breath at his wild upsurge, fearing he might then rush away from me as the stars do. But he returned to my side. Yes, I did know, yet in that moment it felt such a mysterious waste.