Mary, at the foot of the cross

I am not a mother and I don’t even have a child. So it is difficult for me to even fathom what it is like for Mary to look up at the cross to see her son being slowly put to death; what’s worse, at the instigation of the Jewish authorities for blasphemy. The weight of pain and sorrow must have been overwhelming. But here’s an attempt to get into her thoughts.

Woman.

He always does that – call me woman. I know there is no disrespect. And no lack of love either. But it feels like he wants to keep his distance. I chafe at it, but I have come to accept it. My son is a man born with a mission and he has always made it clear that that is his central focus.

I looked up and once again my eyes welled up with tears. He was calm. Clearly in pain but he was focused on me. Looking right at me he said,

Behold your son.

I was startled, not fully grasping what he said. Then his eyes shifted and his head moved slightly. I followed his gaze and looked into John’s eyes.

Behold your mother.

John knew. Perhaps they had talked before and Jesus had asked him to take care of me. There was such love in his eyes. He pulled me into his embrace.

It was overwhelming. I had such mixed emotions. I looked up at my son, dying. And I looked across at my son, holding me, supporting me.

Behold your son.

His words crashed through my confusion. Behold your son. I looked at John. Behold your son. This is your son.

I looked up at my son hanging on the cross. Against the sky his head was grisly, with fresh blood running down his face as the thorns dug deep into his brow. Just then, clarity came as all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

Behold your king.

I looked across to my son, a blessing from my king in my darkest hour. John smiled at what he saw in my eyes. I took his hand in mine, and together we both looked up.

Behold your king.