What would this week have been like for Mary? Holy Week. Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem had to have been bittersweet for her. Her people seemingly embracing what she had know all along. But, she knew more. Knew that it would be short-lived.
She saw Judas with the silver . . .
I bet she was pretty angry with God, also. I know I would have been down right pissed! I can imagine her prayers, her pleadings . . .
This is not how this has to be. You can fix this. With a word. A flick of your wrist. You have the power to stop this don’t you? Aren’t you who you say you are?
I can imagine she did have her doubts about God and His sovereignty at this moment. Doubted whether He cared about her. Cared about Jesus. Doubted He knew what was best because this couldn’t possibly be for the best.
He’s my son! It’s not fair that he should have to endure this. Do something. Aren’t you bigger than this? More powerful? More compassionate? Don’t you even care?
I imagine at this moment she was having a really hard time trusting God with her baby. I know I do. All the time. I have a son who’s almost 29 and I still plead for him at the Father’s feet when he is in trouble. Even though as an adult he is more that capable of doing that on his own. He is still my baby. My firstborn. Even though I know God ordered his steps and loves infinitely more that I. And Mary – she intimately knew God’s plans for her son but it didn’t make her any less his mama with a fierce mama heart.
Why God? Why this? Is there not another way? He has so much more life to live. So much more to offer. Please Lord, let this pass from him . . .
Yes, I think her prayers were very much like her son’s in the garden. She knows him, after all. She is his mama. Friday comes and she is so weary. Tired of prayers falling on deaf ears. Tired of no answers. Her heart is shattered. Nothing is ever going to be the same again.
I can’t bear to see him like this. On the road to his death. Beaten and bloody. Disfigured and disgraced. Despised by the very people who celebrated his coming. But how can I not be there for him. I am his mama. He needs me. . .
I find him just as he falls under the weight of his cross and all I can see is my little boy. I run to him to wipe his tears, to soothe his scrapes. But it’s not the boy who looks up at me but this man, my firstborn, who looks through the blood running down his face and says, “Mama, I make all things new.”