It was early dawn. She stared out the open doorway, past its wooden frame to the dusty street outside. The sun came down between the close buildings, illuminating the few children who crawled in the dust. One child was crying, rubbing dusty hands across her face. Mary watched, sadness in her eyes. He had loved them. He had reached out to them. He had held their little forms in his strong arms, and shared His love with them. She stepped out the door and quietly knelt and picked up the crying girl. She hugged her close, whispering that everything would be all right.
Mary tried to believe those words herself. But, as she stepped back inside to gather a few tidbits of food for the children, the seen from the hill that day flashed through her mind, causing her to catch her breath sharply. He had been in her arms so many years ago, but it still seemed like just yesterday. He had come running, crying about being pushed down in the dirt by his cousin. She’d soothed his hurts, and pushed Him to go out and play again.
She’d watched Him grow. She’d seen Him become all that a mother could ever wish for her son. And in one afternoon, all that had changed. Mary felt the gasp coming, and she set the child down. The pain was so deep, like a sword that pierced her very soul. Only a mother that has lost a child would understand, could understand. Silently she wept. She remembered vividly the crowds, their voices as they mocked. She remembered the haunting voices of the soldiers who cared little, hardened and callused beyond feeling.
And, she remembered her son. She remembered that same hurt look on his face. Before she’d been able to sooth away his pain, but this time she couldn’t. As he hung on that cruel cross, she felt a part of herself was there with him. It was the pain of a mother. She’d been praying for him, then. Even in her pain, in all the confusion, in her own heartbrokeness, she’d been praying. Praying that his courage would not fail, and He would fulfill His Heavenly Father’s plan. Yes, she had been the mother of Jesus.
As the child hungrily sipped the milk Mary offered, tiny rivulets of white dribbled down her chin. Mary lifted her head, and forced herself to focus on the present. That’s when she heard the running steps. She felt her entire being tense. The last time she’d heard running steps…she shook her head. No, she wouldn’t think about it.
The doorway was blackened by the shaking form of a young girl. The girl struggled to catch her breath…”Mary! Mary! You’ll never believe. I don’t believe! But I saw it, He wasn’t there.”
“What…slow down, who wasn’t there?”
“Jesus, Jesus wasn’t there.”
Mary hated the shock that went through her. She couldn’t stand. At the mention of His name, the floodgates opened and she no longer held it inside. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Mary, did you hear me? Jesus wasn’t in the tomb. He’s alive.”
As the sobs wracked her body, Mary tried to process what the girl was saying, but it didn’t make sense. She’d seen Him die. But, then she remembered. Slowly her weeping quieted. She didn’t know whether to let the hope that began to rise have a foothold in her broken heart. Could it be? Was that what her Son had meant? Had He…was He really…YES! Jesus was the Son of God. Mary believed, she knew she believed.
I don’t think it makes any sense either. But I had to write this evening, and that’s what appeared, and this is my writing practice blog, so that’s what you get. Someday I’ll stop trying to convince myself that this stuff that I write doesn’t need an excuse to find it’s way onto this blog, but until then, I will continue to make excuses. It’s the way of the writer.)