photo credit here

gazing up at him, nailed there, out of the reach of her arms, the arms that had swaddled him on his very first day, she grieved an aching, wretched, human grief.

i sit silent for her today, on this Good Friday that must have been anything but, for the mother of the one who suffered and died at Calvary.

who can know the anguish of a mother bereaved?

only the Father.

we hear stories of mothers who find superhuman strength in moments when their children are in danger, but  Mary’s quiet grace is most impressive to me.

for as Jesus hung on his cross, Mary took up hers.

a burden of grief, of powerlessness, of weeping wild while holding strong to a belief in something greater than her grief.  greater even than her love.

what Mary saw is, in some ways, the same thing that we all face each day:  injustice, malevolence, oppression, death.  this world is not as it should be. 

and if we find ourselves like Mary, without power or a platform, perhaps the best thing we can do is to follow her lead:  to weep with those who weep, to fix our eyes on love, even in fear, and to stand, even when our knees want to buckle.

would you stand with me today, in awe of the passion of Christ?