The Invitations of Mary Series
©MS 2026

Not the sleepy little reflex she had already seen. This time, his eyes found hers—and then his whole face changed.

Mary had seen Jesus smile before.

At least, she thought she had.

Little newborn smiles came and went like secrets.

He would be asleep against her chest, his face completely relaxed, and suddenly one corner of his mouth would lift.

Mary would freeze.

“Joseph.”

Joseph would look over.

“What?”

“He smiled.”

By the time Joseph arrived, Jesus would once again look profoundly serious.

Joseph stared at him.

“He isn’t smiling.”

“He was.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

They waited.

Nothing.

Joseph eventually returned to whatever he had been doing.

Then—

there.

Another tiny smile.

“Joseph!”

“What?”

“He did it again.”

Joseph looked.

Gone.

Perhaps after the third occurrence Joseph became suspicious.

“I think you’re imagining it.”

Mary looked personally offended.

“I am not imagining my own baby’s face.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You did.”

“I said perhaps—”

“He smiled.”

Joseph nodded.

“He smiled.”

Good answer.

But those weren’t really smiles for Mary.

Not yet.

Newborns make all sorts of expressions while their nervous systems are developing. The first intentional social smiles generally emerge later, often somewhere around the second month of life, although babies vary.

Which means there may have come a day when Mary saw something entirely different.

Jesus didn’t merely smile.

Jesus smiled at her.

Perhaps she wasn’t expecting it.

That’s how I imagine it.

No extraordinary moment.

No prayer.

No beautiful morning carefully arranged by Providence.

Mary was probably doing something incredibly ordinary.

Changing him.

Feeding him.

Trying to convince him that clothing was not an act of persecution.

Maybe Jesus had just awakened.

Mary leaned over him.

“Good morning.”

His eyes wandered.

By now they were beginning to focus better than they had during those first strange newborn weeks.

Mary had noticed that too.

Sometimes he seemed to actually look at things now.

Light.

Movement.

Joseph crossing the room.

Her face.

Especially her face.

So Mary leaned closer.

“There you are.”

Jesus looked at her.

Actually looked.

Mary smiled.

And then—

Jesus smiled back.

Maybe Mary stopped moving.

Completely.

Because this was different.

Not the little twitch in his sleep.

Not gas.

Not some mysterious newborn expression she could interpret however she liked.

His eyes were on her.

His face changed in response to hers.

Mary’s smile disappeared for a second simply from surprise.

Jesus watched.

Then perhaps she smiled again.

Slowly.

Jesus’ mouth opened.

His cheeks lifted.

Maybe his entire body moved with the effort of it.

And there it was.

A real smile.

For her.

Mary’s heart probably did something ridiculous.

“Oh.”

That may have been all she could say.

“Oh.”

Jesus kicked.

Mary leaned closer.

“Was that for me?”

Jesus smiled again.

And Mary was finished.

Absolutely finished.

“Joseph.”

Perhaps he was nearby.

No response.

“Joseph.”

Something in her voice made him look immediately.

“What?”

“Come here.”

Joseph came.

Mary was staring down at Jesus.

“What happened?”

“He smiled.”

Joseph waited.

Mary looked at him.

“No. Really.”

“I believed you the other times.”

“You did not.”

“I mostly believed you.”

Mary ignored that.

“He looked at me and smiled.”

Joseph crouched beside them.

Jesus stared solemnly at the ceiling.

Mary pointed.

“He was just doing it.”

Joseph nodded.

“Of course.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a face.”

“I have a face.”

Mary turned back to Jesus.

“Do it again.”

Nothing.

Joseph’s mouth twitched.

Mary saw it.

“Go away.”

Maybe Joseph stood.

Then Jesus looked at Mary.

She smiled.

And—

there.

Again.

Mary gasped.

“Joseph!”

“I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“Look!”

Joseph leaned down.

This time perhaps he caught it.

Jesus’ eyes on Mary.

That enormous, gummy little smile.

Joseph’s expression changed too.

“Oh.”

Mary looked up triumphantly.

“See?”

Joseph smiled.

“He knows you.”

And maybe those three words went straight through her.

He knows you.

Of course Jesus knew her.

He had known her longer than anyone.

Before he knew light, he knew Mary’s body.

Before he knew the sensation of air against his skin, he knew her warmth.

Before he heard the voices of shepherds, he knew hers.

Before Joseph ever held him, Jesus had spent months listening to Joseph through Mary’s body.

Mary had been his entire environment.

Her heartbeat.

Her breathing.

Her movement.

Her voice.

Then birth happened.

Everything changed.

But Mary remained.

The familiar thing in an unfamiliar world.

Still—

this was different.

Now Jesus could tell her.

In the tiny language available to him:

I know you.

I like you.

You make me happy.

Imagine what that did to her.

Maybe Mary cried.

Not dramatically.

She had probably become rather familiar with crying since Jesus was born.

Exhaustion could do it.

A difficult night.

A beautiful morning.

A particularly tiny yawn.

The fact that his fingernails needed trimming.

Everything was apparently emotionally dangerous now.

But perhaps tears filled her eyes.

Jesus kept smiling.

Mary laughed.

Which made Jesus smile more.

That made Mary laugh harder.

And suddenly the two of them were caught in their first little feedback loop.

Mary smiled because Jesus smiled.

Jesus smiled because Mary smiled.

Neither could explain what was happening.

Neither needed to.

Joseph watched.

Perhaps something inside him hurt a little.

Not badly.

Not jealousy exactly.

Just awareness.

Jesus knew Mary differently.

Of course he did.

Joseph loved this child completely.

But Mary and Jesus had shared something he could never enter.

Her body had made room for him.

Her blood had sustained him.

She had felt every movement.

Now she fed him.

Her voice could sometimes settle him faster.

Her smell meant something Joseph’s did not.

And now Jesus looked at her—

and smiled.

Perhaps Joseph simply watched them.

Mary noticed.

“Come here.”

“I am here.”

“Closer.”

Joseph leaned in.

Mary shifted Jesus slightly.

“Look.”

Joseph smiled at him.

Jesus stared.

Nothing.

Joseph waited.

Mary tried not to laugh.

Joseph looked at her.

“This feels deliberate.”

“He’s a baby.”

“He has preferences.”

“We established that weeks ago.”

Joseph tried again.

“Jesus.”

Nothing.

Mary smiled at Jesus.

Immediate grin.

Joseph sat back.

“Unbelievable.”

Mary laughed.

But maybe a few days later Joseph got his own.

Perhaps Mary was across the room when she heard:

“Mary.”

Something about his voice.

She turned.

Joseph was holding Jesus.

And Joseph was smiling in a way she hadn’t seen before.

“He did it.”

Mary immediately knew.

“He smiled at you?”

Joseph looked almost absurdly pleased.

“Yes.”

Mary crossed the room.

“Let me see.”

Joseph looked at Jesus.

“Do it again.”

Jesus stared at him.

Mary raised an eyebrow.

Joseph looked over.

“Don’t.”

Now it was Mary’s turn.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a face.”

“I have a face.”

Ah.

Marriage.

But Mary’s first smile was hers.

And perhaps she carried it differently because of everything that had come before.

Gabriel had told her Jesus would be great.

Elizabeth had called her blessed.

Shepherds had repeated the words of angels.

People had already told Mary who her son was.

But none of those things were personal in quite this way.

The angel spoke about kingdoms.

Jesus smiled because he saw his mother.

Perhaps Mary needed that.

Because motherhood had been enormously one-sided so far.

Think about it.

Mary gave.

Her body.

Her sleep.

Her milk.

Her comfort.

Her time.

Jesus needed.

That was the relationship.

He cried; she answered.

He was hungry; she fed him.

He woke; she stood.

He became uncomfortable; she tried to understand why.

He needed holding; she held him.

There was love in Mary from the beginning.

But babies cannot initially communicate much in return.

Then one day—

something comes back.

A smile.

Tiny.

Fleeting.

But unmistakable.

I see you.

Perhaps that was the first time Mary experienced Jesus’ love not merely as something she believed existed, but as something he could begin to express.

Maybe it happened after a terrible night.

I almost hope it did.

Jesus had barely slept.

Mary had barely slept.

Joseph had stayed awake with them until exhaustion eventually won.

Morning came far too early.

Mary’s hair was everywhere.

Her clothing was rumpled.

She had not washed.

She had not prayed beautifully.

She had not pondered anything in her heart.

She was tired.

Jesus woke.

Mary looked down at him.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

Not enthusiastic.

Jesus stared.

Mary sighed.

“You and I need to discuss nighttime.”

Jesus blinked.

“I don’t know what you’re doing between midnight and dawn, but it needs to stop.”

His mouth twitched.

Mary stopped.

“No.”

A smile.

“You cannot smile your way out of this.”

Bigger smile.

Mary tried desperately not to respond.

“This is serious.”

Jesus kicked.

Smiled.

Mary’s mouth betrayed her.

“Oh, that’s unfair.”

Now she was smiling too.

Argument lost.

Jesus: one.

Mary: zero.

Maybe that’s when she learned one of the most dangerous things about children.

They can make you forgive them for keeping you awake all night simply by being delighted that you exist in the morning.

Completely unreasonable.

Extremely effective.

I wonder whether Mary immediately wanted to preserve it.

Perhaps she thought:

I need to remember this.

The exact shape of his face.

The way his eyes narrowed.

The little opening of his mouth.

The way his whole body seemed involved.

Maybe he made a tiny sound with it.

Not laughter yet.

That would come later.

But perhaps a breathy little noise.

Mary repeated it.

Jesus smiled again.

She did it again.

Again.

Again.

Joseph eventually looked over.

“What are you doing?”

“He likes it.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Mary made the ridiculous sound again.

Jesus smiled.

Joseph stared.

Mary looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Try it.”

“I will not.”

“Joseph.”

“No.”

Ten minutes later Mary walked past and heard Joseph quietly making exactly the same ridiculous sound at Jesus.

She kept walking.

She would allow him his dignity.

Maybe Jesus’ first smile changed his face in a way Mary hadn’t expected.

Until then she knew his resting face.

His crying face.

His hungry face.

His sleeping face.

His suspicious I may wake up if you stop moving face.

Now there was another Jesus.

Happy Jesus.

And suddenly Mary could glimpse the little boy hidden inside the newborn.

Maybe she wondered:

What will your laugh sound like?

She didn’t know yet.

What would delight him?

What would make him giggle uncontrollably?

Would he be ticklish?

Would Joseph make ridiculous faces just to hear him laugh?

Would Jesus someday run toward her smiling?

Would he call for her?

Would he tell jokes?

Would he grin when caught doing something he knew perfectly well he wasn’t supposed to do?

A smile opened an entire future.

And perhaps Mary saw herself in it.

Maybe Jesus had her smile.

Imagine discovering that.

She had spent weeks searching his features.

Whose nose?

Whose eyes?

Whose chin?

There was no human father whose resemblance could be traced.

But then Jesus smiled.

And Mary suddenly knew.

“Oh.”

Joseph looked over.

“What?”

“He smiles like me.”

Joseph studied them.

Mary smiled.

Jesus smiled.

Perhaps Joseph’s face softened.

“He does.”

That might have undone her all over again.

Because there it was.

Something unmistakably hers.

Not ownership.

Inheritance.

The eternal Word had taken human flesh—

and perhaps he had his mother’s smile.

That thought moves me more than I expected.

Christian theology speaks beautifully and correctly about what Jesus received from Mary:

his humanity.

His flesh.

His human nature.

But human inheritance is experienced in such ordinary ways.

Maybe Jesus had Mary’s eyes.

Maybe her hands.

Maybe some tiny facial mannerism.

Perhaps when he laughed years later, someone who had known Mary since childhood heard something familiar.

“You laugh like your mother.”

What would Jesus have done with that?

Perhaps smiled again.

And Mary would see that smile thousands of times.

First teeth appearing inside it.

Toddler smile.

Little-boy smile.

The mischievous smile that told her something had happened and she was about to discover what.

The smile he gave Joseph when the two of them shared some joke she had missed.

The adolescent smile.

The adult one.

Perhaps the smile Jesus gave her when returning home after being away.

Maybe crowds knew that smile too.

His disciples certainly must have.

People healed by him.

Children who approached him.

Friends at Bethany.

But Mary knew it first.

Before anyone else knew what Jesus looked like when joy transformed his face—

Mary did.

And maybe, years later, she searched for it.

At Cana, perhaps.

When she told him the wine had run out.

When he answered her.

Did she see something in his expression that told her she could still say confidently to the servants:

“Do whatever he tells you.”

Maybe she knew his face too well to be discouraged by words alone.

Mothers notice things.

Perhaps there was the tiniest hint.

I know you.

You know me.

The same relationship, grown infinitely more complicated.

Then Jerusalem.

The Cross.

We don’t need to stay there long.

But I cannot write about Mary’s first sight of Jesus smiling without thinking about the last ones she remembered afterward.

At Calvary, his face would be transformed by suffering.

Mary would stand there unable to fix what was happening.

No rocking.

No feeding.

No walking three steps and turning.

No gathering him against her chest until the crying stopped.

And perhaps somewhere inside the unbearable reality of his face in pain lived the memory of another face.

A tiny one.

Looking up at her.

Smiling for the first time.

Maybe memory protected something that violence could not touch.

I know your face.

Rome did not define it.

Pain did not define it.

Death did not define it.

Mary had known his face before the world did.

And she knew what it looked like in joy.

But again—

that’s later.

Today Jesus is only weeks old.

Mary is tired.

Joseph is nearby.

Morning light enters the room.

Jesus has just awakened after another questionable night of sleep.

Mary leans over him.

“Hello.”

His eyes find her.

Not perfectly.

Not with adult understanding.

But enough.

Mary smiles.

Jesus watches.

Then his mouth opens.

His cheeks lift.

His whole tiny face becomes something Mary has never seen before.

And perhaps there is one second when she simply stares.

Then:

“Oh.”

Jesus kicks.

Mary laughs.

“You smiled at me.”

Another smile.

“You did.”

Her eyes fill.

She scoops him up.

Jesus disappears against her shoulder.

Mary kisses his hair.

Perhaps too many times.

He tolerates it because he has very few options.

Joseph looks over.

“What happened?”

Mary turns.

Her face is radiant now too.

“He knows me.”

Joseph smiles.

“Of course he knows you.”

Mary looks back down at Jesus.

Of course.

Maybe intellectually she had always known.

But now she had seen it.

For weeks she had poured herself toward this child without expecting anything in return.

And then one ordinary morning, Jesus looked at Mary and gave her the first thing he knew how to give.

Not a word.

Not a miracle.

Not a teaching.

Just recognition.

Joy.

A smile.

And before the world ever knew what it was like to see the face of Christ turn toward them with love—

Mary did.