By His Wounds: The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Jesus Meets his Mother

Jesus Meets his Mother

Mary wanted to see her Son. She wanted to hold him, touch him...tell him everything was all right like she had when he was little and scraped his knee. She wanted to whisper words of encouragement in his ear, just to let him know that she was there, she was watching, and he would get threw this horrible trial. She'd seen him embrace his cross before he started carrying it—she'd read his lips as he mumbled words to his Father. To Mary's Father. Only she, her Son, and the Father really knew what was happening—why Jesus was going through all this pain. No one else did. And Mary only knew because the Father had told her so. Not a lot of information, just bits here and there. When Gabriel had told her she'd become pregnant with a Son, but not even be married. When her cousin Elizabeth had proclaimed her joy at seeing Mary carry the Lord of lords, and the salvation of the world that would become of him being born. When Jesus had been a child and he'd helped his foster father, Joseph, with his carpentry, and how Jesus had stared at the large nails Joseph owned and how two beams laid over each other made a cross. When Jesus was a teenager and he'd just happened to witnessed the crucifixion of a criminal—Mary had seen the way he watched the nailing from afar; the way he'd closed his eyes and winced at the sound of the nails being driven into the man's hands as he screamed in pain.

Yes, Mary had seen how this crucifixion was predicted long before it even began to happen. It should have been easy for her to cope with, to bear. For her Son, at least. But it wasn't. She wanted to run in front of the Roman soldiers and scream, "Lo! No, please stop this madness!" the way she'd whispered it to herself. She wanted to tear the whips out of the soldiers hands and demand that the crowd stop their ranting. Yes, Mary had her moments of when she felt like she could actually do these acts. But then she had her moments of sadness, when she had to sincerely accept the fact that her Son was being whipped, beaten, and was now covered in blood. She had to sit down, breathe, and come with the realization that her Son was carrying his deathbed, and that in a matter of hours, he would be dead. She had to actually realize that after today, she would have no one. No husband, no Son. She wouldn't hear the hammer of nails into wood as Jesus worked on his carpentry. Actually, the hammer of nails would probably frighten her after today...after what was still to come.

And for whom? The sins of the world. Everyone. Did Mary feel angry towards the Roman soldiers, the crowd, Pilate, even John and Mary? No. She felt love, and strangly enough, happiness. She hated the fact that her Son had to die this way, and she wished she was in his place, but she knew why it was to be. If her Son didn't suffer, who would go to Heaven? If her Son wasn't whipped, everyone would be condemned to Hell with Satan. If her Son wasn't forced to carry his own cross, her dear friends, John and Mary and Peter, wouldn't have the opportunity of living in Heaven after death. They would suffer in Hell forever and ever.

Yes, her Son did have to do this. For her friends; for everyone.

But Mary still wished he didn't.

And since she couldn't stop this madness, she needed to see him. Needed to be close to him. Needed him to know she was near.

"I want to see my Son," she told John.

John looked at her in disbelief, but she didn't care. She only nodded her head and pleaded with him to take her to her Son.

"All right. Come this way."

The three—Mary, Mary, and John—hurried past the crowd to the alleys. Hardly anybody was there, so it was easier to run. Mary's breathing quicked, for she wasn't young anymore, but she hurried to keep up.

"This way, Mother," John said as he darted past a pedestrian and through another alley.

Mary followed, her veil flowing behind her.

After three more alleys and a few more houses, John led the two Mary's to a certain area near the road Jesus would walk on. There was hardly any crowd, for Jesus wasn't here yet, but the sea of people began to build with each passing second. A Roman soldier passed on a horse, his red cape draped over the horse's rump. He kept his eyes forward.

John ran towards the front of the crowd, trying to clear the way, but as time went by, the rowdy crowd began to push and shove at John, not allowing him to get past and leave room for Mary, she saw. So she remained where she stood, about twenty feet away from the road, waiting and watching.

Then, she saw the tip of a cross. A man's head...a crown of thorns on top.

It was her Baby Boy, wrapped no longer in swaddling clothes, but in a bloodied tunic—the one she'd made for him. He looked...exhausted. He could barely pick up his feet to walk, and Mary was sure that when they did, they ached horribly. She could see the giant whip lashes on them, even past the red blood. Both arms were wrapped gingerly around one part of the cross. His hands, nearly black in color from so much abuse, shook uncontrollably as he struggled to grasp the wood.

Then, he stumbled. He didn't competely fall to the ground, but his knees gave out and the cross became even more heavy over his body.

In a split second, Mary was running through the alley towards him. She pushed past the rowdy men and weeping women, trying to reach her Baby Boy. One Roman soldier grabbed her by the arm and threw her backwards, but she managed to whisper a quick "Help me, Father," and push past the large man towards the one on the ground. She ignored all of her surroundings and only focused on her Son. She grabbed his tunic with both hands and pulled him slightly towards her.

"I'm right here!" she said. "I'm right here!"

Jesus turned his head towards his Mother. Seeing that he was in such pain that he couldn't say a word, Mary yelled out, "John!" John then came running past the guards and grabbed the cross of Jesus, groaning under the weight of the wood.

"It's all right, my Son," Mary cried. "I'm here. You're safe. I'm here."

Jesus looked at Mary, his eyes red and swollen. He managed to get himself to a slight stand and grab the cross from John with new profound strength and without saying a single word. Then, with one hand holding the cross against his body, he reached up and stroked Mary's cheek. With all the confidence one can possibly have in his situation, Jesus said, "Mother...see? I make all things new."

Before Mary could think of a reply, Jesus had turned his eyes towards the road before him. The cross wobbled, but his hands no longer shook and his arms tightly grasped the wood.

A tear slipped from Mary's eye, mixing with the blood on her cheek. She watched Jesus stumble along for as long as she could before two Roman soldiers grabbed each of her arms and threw her towards the alley. John rushed to her side, asking if she was all right, but before she could say a word, the two soldiers interupted her by pointing and shouting, saying, "The criminal's mother weeps for him! How sad! You should have raised a better son, my mother."

The other said, "Yes, then he wouldn't have been condemned to death by crucfixion."

"The worst it yet to come. Enjoy the show, Mother."

"Lekh mipo!" Mary of Magdala shouted, and the soldiers laughed at her, then walked away, the whips grasped in their hands.

Mary the Mother touched her cheek where Jesus had, closed her eyes, and tried to keep herself from weeping.