When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then he said to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home.
If someone had told me that it would come to this, I don’t know. Perhaps, I would have asked God to choose someone else. You grow up with all these stories about him, and you get caught up in the excitement and the promise of it all. You never really think that it could be like this, so gut-wrenchingly painful.
I knew he had pushed them too far. I knew that he had said too much, done too much, challenged people too much. He really didn’t need to put his life on the line like that. Will it really change anything? Will we have that abundant life he talked about, will we finally be free to worship the Father in spirit and in truth instead of living in fear and in poverty because of those in power? In the end, will it be all worth it?
As I watched him grow into the man who has become. As my Jewish sisters teased me and wondered why he was so different. Then, we realized the truth, we used to sing this song, “Mary did you know, that your baby boy would one day walk on water? Mary did you know? Mary did you know? Did you know?”
I can’t help but keep wondering. Will my son’s death, really matter? I know that He is the Son of God, who makes me ponder you God. But, he is also the Son of Man, this woman’s son who came from this womb. He is my son, the one who created these worry lines each time I lost him in the crowd.
I really don’t mean to be so disrespectful, but I just need to know if you really meant things to be this way? I know you are his father, but I am his mother, and this is just too much to bear. My soul, my soul, my soul is crushing under the weight of this sorrow. I cannot watch my son die, not even for the entire world.
And look at him, hanging there, suffering, bleeding, dying, yet still worried about me. I hear him God trying to make sure I am okay, trying to be my savior. But, as I listen to his words, “Woman, here is your son…Here is your mother,” I, I, I remember. I cry without end, but I remember my promise to you God.
“Here am I,” STILL, “the servant of the Lord; let it be with me” AND HIM “according to your word.”
Today, as you reflect, see the cross. See yourself there, next to Mary and ponder with her. Remember, him dying for you and me. Remember Him, Jesus, Son of Man, Son of God.