This has always been one of my favorite verses, and mental images, from the Bible. I envision a very young Mary, made comfortable in fresh straw, with her newborn quietly suckling at her breast. She’s tired after the night’s events, but that wonderful, satisfied kind of tired, borne of something long-awaited that has finally, and successfully, come to pass. If it wasn’t enough that she’d given birth to the Messiah, and everything that the angel had told her nine months ago had actually happened, shepherds, visited by the entire heavenly host, had come, having been guided by a star.

So, there, in the quiet, save for the sweet sounds of a brand new baby, and the hushed snores of her husband, she remembered. She tucked each incredible moment, since she’d pledged obedience, into her heart, first turning them this way, and that, like a prism in the sun, considering every facet, and imprinting their light on her mind.

In this small way, I am like Mary. I’m a ponderer, a treasurer, a keeper of moments, which is probably why this verse so resonates with me. “Treasure,” in the Greek is συντηρέω (syntēréō), meaning to observe, keep and preserve from ruin. I love the order of that, because you can’t keep and preserve what you don’t observe. Since the first visit from the angel, it had not been all wine and roses for Mary. Quite the opposite, as she dealt with likely judgement and ridicule. But, like her, we need to live with open eyes, for everything – every moment – is worth preserving from ruin, even the painful, because they are often the moments that shape us most.

Whatever is happening around you, this Christmas, whether it’s all joy, all sorrow, or the more likely mixture of both, find a corner of quiet and observe. Gather up the moments and hold them up to the Son, marveling at the light of each beautiful facet, and, with thanks, tuck them in for safe-keeping, for every single one is a gift to treasure. Every single one.

Just ask Mary.