(I wrote this last year, but today is a good day for a repeat. Happy Easter, precious friends - HE IS RISEN!!)
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!
