Good Friday: Mary's Lament

Photo taken at St. Elias Maronite Catholic Church in Birmingham, AL

I knew this day would come.
Years ago, I was honored to carry Him in my womb; I remember the feel of each kick and barrel roll. On that Holy Night I bore down and felt every pain of labor as he made his physical entrance into this world. Although I knew He was not here to stay forever, I had to watch the Lord’s plan unfold and find how He would use me in it. Why had I been chosen to mother the Savior of the world? What had I done to deserve this honor?

When he was a child at my chest, I would look deep into His eyes, searching them for any signs of his deity. The Son of God wrapped in muslin blankets, laid in my lap, staring back at me with those deep brown eyes. I looked for anything that would hint at his Holiness. But all I saw was my son, eyes full of light and life.

As he grew older he changed constantly—not just physically but he grew in vast wisdom and knowledge. He would amaze all who heard him speak with his grasp of the ancient scrolls. His eyes would light up, as men twice his age would seek him out for explanation and opinion on the scriptures. He would happily oblige, once even getting lost for hours in temple as we frantically searched the streets for him. When we finally found him and my anxiety subdued I asked “Why have you treated us like this?” He answered, “Mama, you know I had to be in my Father’s house.” Before I could say another word, he looked at me again with that tender and purposeful gaze and I knew that there was nothing I could say to change his mind.

I knew this day would come.
All I have ever wanted to do was protect him, to watch over him and to provide him the best life. I think that’s intrinsically what most mothers want for their children: To help them avoid pain. To cover them with love. To be a safe place, a haven, for them to return to. And until tonight, I did just that.

Tonight I couldn’t protect my boy. I couldn’t stop the pain. All I could do was watch as they murdered my son.

I knew that this is what He was born to do. Yet everything in me wants to pull Him down from that rugged cross and hold him close to me. My mama-heart is consumed with every emotion—fear, anger, betrayal, sorrow—and I wish I could’ve put a stop to it all. Truly, I would’ve much rather been in his place. But that was never the plan now, was it?

Yes, I knew this day would come.
His body was beaten and ripped, just as prophets foretold. In the midst of all his pain and the crushing weight of sin upon him, he lifted his head to look at me one last time, and I looked into his swollen and bloodied eyes. It was that same knowing look we’ve shared so many times. The way he looked at me as a babe lying in my arms. The way he looked at me when we found him in the temple that afternoon. The look he gave me at the wedding in Cana before performing his first miracle. A look that I understand so much more now…it says, “Trust me, Mama. I’m doing my Father’s work.”

Yes, I know he is our Redeemer and Savior. I believe—I have to believe—that he will make all things right and fulfill Yahweh’s plans. But seeing the life flow out of him as the sword pierced his side was a sight too much to bear.

Tonight my heart is breaking; darkness seems to be all around. But I said it then, and I will declare again that I am a servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to Your word, Oh Lord.

I knew this day would come.
For it has been written:

“He will swallow up death forever;
and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces”
“He was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his wounds we are healed.”

And so if everything I’ve been taught since I was a young girl is true and if He actually is the Messiah, I must believe that, as he has said, he will rise again. It is the little bit of light piercing the darkness now as we prepare to depart from Golgotha, and I leave my son—my beloved Yeshua--to die on a cross.

Lord, I believe.
Help my unbelief.
And heal my broken mother’s heart.

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