There was a wedding in Cana, and the mother of Jesus was there… And when the wine gave out the mother of Jesus said to Him, “They have no wine.” – John 2:1-3 New American Standard
Thirty-three years after
my miracle of his birth
we see his big debut:
catering.
My son turns
water into wine
like any bartender.
For this, my son is
an overnight sensation.
Thirty-three years of hiding
secrets and miracles in my heart.
Thirty-three years of a mother’s
essential nudges.
Giving any explanation but the real one.
The dirty-faced child
with the something-hidden smile.
Women clucking condescending clichés:
“Isn’t he special?”
I’d match his smile, just say:
“Yes, he is.”
And they’d never know
the revelation they’d just heard
from me.
After all the ordinary years,
fussing at Joseph for wasting
my son’s time with carpentry.
But the two of them loved making
something beautiful from ordinary wood,
so my silence stretched on for years.
Through all the whispers:
When will Mary’s boy grow up?
Move out of the house,
make something
of his life – like the others.
I’d try to match his smile
and not say
things that couldn’t be believed.
Remember: Rocks in the desert
have waited ten thousand years
for my son.
This will happen
in his time.
And now he’s taken his place,
finally.
And they’re amazed
at a cheap parlor trick.
And I, like any mother,
think, “Can’t he do more
with his talent?”
I look across the room,
catch his eye.
A flickering little boy smile.
This wine is sweeter
for the aging.
Michael Guillebeau stares out at the sea in Panama City Beach, Florida, and rides his bike in Portland, Oregon.