It was one of those long 10-minute car rides that I've usually had with awful boyfriends. Living with a teenager can feel like having to live with an ex, or with a drug addict who has three days clean and sober. I tried to think about how nice it would be not to see Sam for 24 hours. We both sighed a lot. When I pulled up at his friend's house, he got out of the car, and then, without saying good-bye, he slammed the door and walked away. And I blew up. This is one tiny thing they forget to mention in most child-rearing books, that at times, you will just lose your mind. Period.

So I lost it, and I shouted for him to come back, and get in the car. He couldn't believe his ears. He gave me a withering look that turned to desperation. "No, no, please," he begged. "Get in the car," I snapped.

I made him get in the car and close the door, and then I drove away. He was furious, and then teary. He tried begging for mercy. I hate that.

I parked where the road dead-ends near Anthony's, and I got out. I said, "You will not treat me like shit. I'm going to go sit by that log. When you're ready to come apologize, with a contrite heart, you can get out of the car."

I went and sat against an ancient fallen log, and smoldered.

I did not look back at him, 30 feet away. I looked at the log instead. I caught my breath. I thought about what a piece of shit I am, and what a horrible, ruined child he is. I thought about grounding him all weekend, but of course, that meant I would have to spend time with him. I breathed, like it said on the pink card, and prayed, tried to be kind to my disastrous self, and wondered what it might mean in this situation to stop grabbing.

The log had a certain eminence, the majesty of age -- there was rot, and hairy sprouts, like in a grandfather's ears. It was furniture, a barrier, sculptural and grave, not the sort of thing you could argue with.

I could feel Sam's eyes drilling into my head. I felt wrong, and wronged. My head was sticking over the log, so he could shoot me.

There was a rock that looked like an altar, a few feet away, a huge mottled stone head, like a Happy Buddhist god with leprosy. It looked like a lumpy manhole cover, put there to keep whoever's inside from getting out. I tried to breathe beatifically. I thought of my friend Tom, and wanted to ask, "What on earth did Mary do, when Jesus was 13?"

Here's what I think: She occasionally started gathering rocks.

If we take the incarnation seriously, then even nice old Jesus was 13 once, a human 13-year-old. He learned by doing, like we have to. He had to go through adolescence. So it must have been awful sometimes. Do you know anyone for whom adolescence was consistently OK? But in his case, we don't know for sure. We see him earlier, in the Bible, at 12, when he's speaking to the elders in the Temple. He's great with the elders, like Sam is always fabulous with other grown-ups. They can't believe he's such an easygoing kid, with such good manners. In the Temple, Jesus says things so profound that the elders are amazed. They're wondering, "Who's this kid's teacher?" They don't know that Jesus' teacher was the Spirit.

But at the same time he's blowing the elders away, how is he treating his parents? I'll tell you -- he's making them crazy. He's ditched them. They can't find him for three days -- some of you know what it's like to not find your kid for three hours. You die. Mary and Joseph have looked everywhere, in the market, at the video arcade. Finally they find him in the last place they thought to look -- the temple. And immediately, he mouths off -- oh, sorry, sorry, I was busy doing all this other stuff -- my father's work. Like, Joseph, you're not my real father. I don't even have to listen to you.

And what is Mary doing this whole time?

Mary's got a rock in her hand.

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