All week I’ve had a heaviness that I can’t seem to shake. Then, Wednesday of this week, David asked if I would write something from Mary’s perspective on Good Friday. No words could ever do justice to what she must’ve gone through on that day. But here’s my feeble attempt:

“Today is by far the worst day of my life. I am in complete agony. Yet I can’t look away. I need you to know that I’m here with you no matter what you are facing. So I’m here. But some moments are so painful to hear and see that I let my mind wander back to earlier, happier times. I remember the day I was told that I would give birth to the Savior. I said “Yes,” but I immediately feared that I wouldn’t be enough for you. I knew that I would fail you over and over as both a human and as a mother. When you were born, I was shocked to see that you were just a normal baby. Future Saviour of all mankind, yet you still needed me to change your diaper, feed you, and rock you to sleep.

I’m suddenly jolted back to reality with the sound of whip sinking into flesh.  I instantly cringe because I can hear your pain.  And I feel it in the same part of my body.  I want so badly to make it stop.  To care for your wounds and hold you until you feel all better.  I want to take your place.  I begged God for years to let me take your place so I could spare you this pain.  And me.  I knew this day would come.  Yet no prayer, fasting, or preparation can prepare a mother to watch her son be brutally beaten and crucified in front of her eyes.  I am completely helpless and powerless.  I hate this feeling.  I’ve completely failed you.  And yet, somehow through this whole ordeal, I feel your gaze reach mine.  And it’s as if YOU are comforting ME.  Which is completely backwards.  Yet I find it the only seconds of solace to this day.  And I’m reminded of how you have been preparing for this day your whole life.

I remember when you were 12 and Joseph and I left to return to Nazareth.  We were so focused on getting our stuff packed and beginning the long journey back to our home.  It took us a full day to realize that you weren’t with us.  And it took another full day to find you.  I was a wreck.  I couldn’t eat or sleep.  I feared the worst.  Yet, when we found you, you were in the Temple eagerly soaking up every tidbit of information you could get from the leaders.  You were cool, calm, and collected.  You still are.  Even in the middle of being beaten to death, you are still calm enough to look at me because you are worried about me.

At that moment I realize all over again all of the things I want to tell you. I want to scream at the top of my lungs about how proud I am of you. About how I love you more than words can say. About how you don’t deserve this. About how it should be me instead of you. About how I’m sorry that I failed you as a mom because I couldn’t protect you. And how I’m still failing you because I can’t take your pain away in this moment. I keep praying that God would make your pain end quickly. Yet I’m scared to pray that. I know what the prophesy says, but what if something happens to cause it not to happen as they say it will? I have complete faith, yet I’m still scared. And even though I know you will come back to life after 3 days, there’s a fear that you might not. Or even when you do, our relationship will never be the same again. You won’t live here with me on Earth ever again. I will miss our conversations and our times of laughter. Yet I know I must let you go so that the prophecy can be fulfilled and so that you can save the world. I’m trying to hard not to be selfish in this moment, but my heart is aching…breaking…melting…crumbling…all at once. Yet not my will. Oh God, your will sucks so bad right now. Please make it stop and please take him up to heaven. And please oh PLEASE bring him back to life on Sunday. And please make Sunday get here NOW. And please help the waiting not to kill me.”