He was my son
He was my teacher
I watched him grow. I heard his first word. I taught him to be a man.
I watched how he treated people. I listened to him teach. I learned from Him that real men value women.
In looking at Him, I saw the promises made to me before He was born, coming to life.
In looking at Him, I saw the promises of a life better than the one I was living.
He made me feel honored, by being my son.
He made me feel valued, by being my friend.
He made me feel safe.
And now, He was dying.
It was getting cold, and his friends were starting to whisper about me, wanting to take care of me and bring me home. To a place that wasn't damp. To a place that wasn't cold. To a place where I couldn't look up and see my son. Dead. On a cross. I didn't want to go. What kind of a mother watches her son die, and doesn't DO something? And now, how could I leave him here? Alone. Cold.
I closed my eyes and saw him as a little boy. Cold from playing outside at night, coming in and allowing me to pull him onto my lap, wrapping him in my cloak to warm him back up. He'd drop his big boy persona, let his head rest on my shoulder, and I'd feel him sigh. Comforted. As he outgrew my lap, he'd still come and sit at my feet, putting his head on my lap, allowing himself to relax.
Just last week he'd come to see me, and my maternal instinct knew that the weight of His calling was getting heavy. Too heavy. To the point of exhaustion. We talked. And then he quietly moved from his chair to the ground next to mine, and leaned his head against my side. This time though, he couldn't relax. He didn't sigh. Not until 20 minutes ago when I heard His loud cry. Followed by a sigh. In death.
I opened my eyes as I heard Mary's anguished screams. And watched her run down the hill, hitting anyone who tried to touch her. I felt John's hand on my arm, pulling me gently, but firmly away. "It's time to go home... mother," he whispered.
I was vaguely aware that it was night and then day. And then another night followed by some sun. I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I just walked. It wasn't the romantic strolling that I was used to with men I'd entertained, or the quiet walking through the streets to clear my head. It was a frantic, can't catch my breath pacing, pausing periodically to vomit as I remembered the scene that had recently played out before me. My body shaking violently. Sweat mixed with tears, pouring down my face as I thought of the only man who had ever loved me for just me, not my body, being beaten, torn and dying as I watched.
I ended up in a garden. Couldn't even say how I got there, but I desperately needed quiet. I needed to be surrounded by something other than the chaos in the streets. There was enough of that in my own head. Suddenly, I was too tired to continue walking. I couldn't even stand up any more. My legs collapsed, but I didn't feel pain as I fell. I was beyond feeling anything. My face was flat on the ground, and I let the sobs take over my body. I could feel the tears forming mud in the dirt under my cheek. After a few minutes, I lifted my head and saw that I was in the garden where His tomb was. But something was wrong. The stone wasn't blocking the opening. Too exhausted to even stand, I began a slow crawl toward the grave. As I got to the entrance I pulled myself up and looked in, bracing for the gut-wrenching reality that seeing his body would be to my psyche. But instead of one body, I saw two. And they weren't lying down, they were sitting up. I blinked, frustrated that my mind had begun betraying me, just like my tired body had. But then they spoke. They had the audacity to ask my why I was crying. "WHY DO YOU THINK? The only man who has ever loved me is dead. And this is where his body is supposed to be, and it's not. Where is HE?" I could feel the panic racing through my veins, and the familiar bile rising in my throat as I turned to run. There was someone in my way. My eyes were so full of tears I didn't even look to see a face. I just saw a man blocking my way of escape. I heard him ask me "Why are you crying?" Hadn't he heard me screaming at the other men? I started into the same answer that I had given just seconds before, when He quietly said, "Mary." That voice. I rubbed frantically at my eyes and made myself focus on His face. That face. "Rabonni? RABONNI!" I sobbed, running toward Him.
A pounding on the door woke me with a start. Not that my sleep had been peaceful. Nothing was peaceful since walking down that hill, leaving my son behind.
The others in the house were awake as well, and a quick discussion was going on as to whether the door should be opened.
Then we heard a familiar voice. It was Mary. Shouting in between the pounding. Not the desperate wailing that she had done as she rushed away from watching Jesus die. This noise sounded different.
Lifting the latch, I opened the door, steeling myself for whatever emotion she would bring in with her. I was the mother figure. I needed to be strong.
HE'S ALIVE! I'VE SEEN HIM! He said my name.
How can that much sorrow be replaced by that much joy? Two words changed my life.
Changed history.
He's ALIVE!
