Mary's Story

I’m thinking of my baby boy. He had the sweetest little face I have ever seen on a baby. His eyes sparkled and his little laugh lit up the room. As I held him close and sang to him I could hear the cooing sounds he made right before he dropped off to sleep. I would come to the side of his bed when he called out in the night. I rocked him and sang lullabies to him, and taught him to read. He would look up at me and say, “I love you, momma,” and my heart would melt. I love him so much.

I knew he was going to be special. Of course, what parent doesn’t think that? No mother I have ever spoken to said, “Here is my newborn child. They are destined to be just a middle of the pack nobody…” No, we all think our babies are special, but I knew he was. I love him so much.

He was smarter than all the rest of the boys. He knew how to have fun, but behind his little freckled face you could see, I don’t know, a regal look, a sense of nobility. I love him so much.

And now they have murdered my son. They tortured him, abused him, spat on him and ridiculed him. My heart broke with each lash of the whip. Each drop of blood came from my heart, too. I love him so much.

As I look up at his sweet face, covered in blood, thorns around his brow, all I can think of is a small baby. A small baby destined for greatness, destined to rule, destined to be a king. No, destined to be the King of Kings. He warned me this day would come, but I couldn’t allow myself to believe it. I couldn’t grasp what he was talking about. Surely death on a cross wouldn’t be right for someone as special as him. I love him so much.

Now he is calling to me, his voice ragged from pain. He points out John and tells me, “Woman, behold your son.” He then looks deep into John’s eyes and whispers, “Son, behold your mother…” That is so like my baby, even when he is dying, he makes sure that his mother is taken care of. John grips my shoulders tightly and we both weep bitter, heartbroken tears. We love him so much.

He raises himself up on the nails that these filthy soldiers have pounded into his feet and takes a toiled breath. The sweet feet that were once washed by woman who wiped the oils from his feet with her tears and her hair. Feet that walked miles to raise a friend from the dead. As he raises up he forgives the soldiers for putting him on the cross. Forgive them? How? They have slaughtered my baby, yet he forgives them. He promises the thief hanging next to him that they will see each other in Paradise today. He loves them all so much.

The day is almost over now. They offer him water, and something to dull the pain, but he won’t take it. My baby is getting ready to die. I would trade places with him if I could, but I can’t. My death won’t accomplish what his will. My death isn’t God’s will, my son’s is. I love him so much.

It’s near the end now. The darkness has closed in on us. The sun seems reluctant to shine on this horrific scene, hiding behind clouds to shroud what is happening to my son. My baby boy’s breathing has slowed. He raises himself up one more time and shouts to the heavens, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

My son is dead. And he died for each of you. My perfect baby boy. Dead. He suffered for our sins. But I have hope, because he promised he would come back. It’s Friday, but Resurrection Sunday is on its way…