Mary, the Mother of Jesus

Continuing the series of stories written in the POV of characters from the gospels' accounts of Easter, I present to you, 'Mary, the Mother of Jesus'. This story is collectively written from all four accounts of the crucifixion and resurrection, but the ending is taken from Mark 16.
Nothing I had ever dreamed could’ve prepared me for this day. My wails were loud and forlorn. I refused to be comforted. I watched the Savior of the world be nailed to a crude wooden frame, nails being pounded into His wrists.
I remembered everything that I had pondered in my heart up until this day. I remembered the night of His birth, and the animals that were the welcoming committee for His entry into this world. I remembered the gifts of the magi who had traveled so far to reach us. I remembered the nights we had to flee from those who wished to kill Him because of the prophesies. I remembered singing to Him before night fell. I remembered watching His earthly father, my husband Joseph, guide His small hands over a piece of wood, teaching Him to carve. I remembered the panic that filled my being when I found out that He was no longer with us on our way home from the Passover celebration. I remembered the astonishment of finding Him in the temple. I remembered the miracles He did, the time He changed water to wine at the wedding. I remembered…
A cry went up from my Son, and I wept with and for Him. His disciple, John, was at my side, yet I ceased not from my anguish. It was then that I remembered the words of the devout and righteous man, Simeon, at the temple. And a sword will pierce even your own soul. He was precisely right. It was as though they were piercing a sword through my own heart. The moments stretched into what seemed like eternity as my Son, my Son that I loved, my firstborn, was hanging on the cruelest of all of the Roman’s punishments- the cross.
In an unforetold instant, darkness fell over the land, and the sun was obscured. It mattered not to me. Who cared if the sun grew dark? My Son was dying. A mother’s love for her child is one of the greatest possible loves. I wept.
It was then that Jesus spoke. Through His pain, He said to me, “Woman, behold, your son!” and to John, who stood at my side, He spoke and said, “Behold, your mother!” This touching act of His assuring that I would be taken care of broke my heart into shattered pieces again.
A sudden hush grew over the crowd, and a cry rose from the throat of my Child.
“It is finished!” He exclaimed, and then bowed His head. He was gone from this earth. I fell to the ground, and in a moment, John was beside me as I mourned the death of Jesus.
I stayed for several hours, and the beloved disciple of my Son stayed with me, accepting me into his household. I followed the man who took my Child’s body from the cross, and watched from a distance as the man laid Him in an unused tomb cut from rock. The lush garden that surrounded it provided serenity for His burial place.
The Sabbath was a numbing day for me as I realized that my Son was dead.
On the first day of the week, however, I went with a young woman, Mary of Magdalene, to the tomb. We conferred with one another, asking who would roll away the stone from the entrance of the tomb so that we would be able to anoint His body with spices. As we approached, I immediately saw that the stone had been rolled away, even though it was extremely large. Had someone known that we would come to anoint His body? As I entered the tomb, I was taken by surprise when I noticed a young man sitting at the right, wearing a dazzling white robe. I was amazed. Who was this man?
“Do not be amazed;” he instructed. “You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who has been crucified. He has risen; He is not here; behold, here is the place where they laid Him.”
His words accurately described the place where I had seen the prominent man lay Him. It was then that I realized who he was. The angel continued, “But go, tell His disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see Him, just as He told you.’”
I was both fearful and joyful. Was my Son really alive? Astonishment gripped me, and together with Mary Magdalene, we hurried to tell the disciples. It was incredible.... unbelievable almost.

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Introducing... Charis Rae!

I'm so honored to be a part of Charis Rae's blog launch (a.k.a. Grace from The Girl Upstairs), and here it is!