I knew this day was coming. All those prophesies and teachings, I'd known even if I hadn't been able to fully understand. Hadn't I known from the start, deep down, that a day like this was coming? But, oh, how many days had I hoped we still had so much time left? Once he had started his ministry I knew it would be sooner rather than later. He had angered the synagogue leaders so many times. I knew they wanted him dead. I knew that it was only a matter of time before his popularity with the people could no longer keep him safe. I'd come ahead of he and the disciples for Passover in Jerusalem and when I saw him ride in on the donkey, saw the crowds gathered, saw the rage in the eyes of the religious leaders, I felt, deep inside, that this was finally it. We wouldn't see another Passover together.
When the disciples appeared late that night to tell me he had been arrested my heart was seized with fear. This WAS going to be it, wasn't it? I went to stand at the back of the crowds when Pilate presented him and offered to release him. He looked weary from lack of sleep, hunched forward from the beating, but I could see in his face, even from a distance, that he knew he was doing what he must.
"Crucify him! Crucify him!" The words still rang in my ears long after I had run from that place, unable to bear it any longer. They didn't know. They didn't know.
And so I walked with John as they brought Jesus and two other men to be put to death. He said nothing, simply holding my arm. There were no words for this moment. I watched as my son stumbled and fell and remembered him suddenly so clearly as a little boy talking his first steps. Then, I had gathered him up in my arms when he fell and kissed him until he smiled once more. Oh, to hold him in my arms just once more, to be able to kiss his face, to be able to take away his pain.
The journey to the top of the hill seemed to be never-ending and to rush by at the same time. Before I knew it the crowd was pressing in to watch the prisoners be nailed to the crosses. I watched as the soldiers approached, nails and hammers in hand. How many nails had their hands held? As many as my son's? For the briefest moment I allowed myself to remember fondly the first time Joseph handed Jesus nails and a hammer. It was his turn to start learning the family business. He had listened carefully, learned quickly and was soon enough ready to be trusted with projects of his own. For a moment I felt the warmth of the memory of the pride with which Joseph had shown me his handiwork, Jesus stood quietly behind him, waiting for my reaction.
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I was jolted back to reality by the anguished cries of the other prisoners as the nails were driven through their wrists. I knew Jesus must have wanted to cry out when his turn came, but he didn't. His face strained, he maintained his gaze on the soldier driving the nails into his body. The soldier seemed to be able to sense it but was determined not to look at him. Did he know? Did he know he was executing an innocent man? Did he care?
Once the crosses were raised some people began to leave. As time dragged on fewer and fewer people remained. John remained steadfastly holding my arm, my sister Salome stood on my other side, and the other Mary's who also refused to leave stood behind us. We few were determined we would stay until the end. This was my firstborn son, how could I have left him now? But if I had long forgotten the pain of his birth, the pain of his coming death felt overwhelming. I clung to John's arm fearing that if I let go I would no longer be able to stand.
It was then that Jesus spoke to us. His voice was not strong but his words were clear. He looked at me as he had never looked at me before. This was more than the loving gaze of a son, it was like, even now, he wanted to comfort me. "Woman," he said, his eyes moving to John, "behold your son." John's grip tightened on my arm. "Behold, your mother!". John placed his other hand over mine and squeezed. Oh, my son! Even now he was taking care of me!
When he had gazed at us just a moment more he said he was thirsty and was given a little sour wine and then spoke his last words, "It is finished!" And then he was gone. I felt the ache of that moment in my whole being. Mary Magdelene was weeping loudly behind me, the other Mary and Salome had sunk to their knees. John, still holding me upright was looking to the soldiers coming back. They had a large hammer to break the prisoners' legs to speed up the deaths but John implored them to see Jesus was already dead. One of the soldiers thrust his spear into Jesus' side and seemed satisfied he was dead. He was dead. My son. Dead.
We didn’t know what to do. The sabbath was fast approaching and there was no time to properly prepare Jesus for burial. But then Joseph came, and Nicodemus with him. Joseph had permission to bury Jesus in his own tomb and Nicodemus had brought myrrh and aloes. Relief flooded in. How could I bear, after so much pain, to see my son thrown in a mass grave or left for the birds?
Jesus was taken down from the cross and we gently wrapped him. The men who had come took him to the tomb and John took me to his own lodging. I knew I wouldn’t sleep, but as I lay down I knew I could finally release the anguish I had been keeping at bay for so many hours. Oh, my son. My son...
