Mother said, “It’s Good Friday, because it’s the day that Jesus was crucified. And then three days later He rose, so it turned out to be good.”
And my little childish heart mused…that didn’t sound like a very nice reason to call Friday good. I mean they killed Jesus after all.
All this week of Holy Week, my contemplations have been repeatedly drawn to consider his beautiful Mother Mary.
After my children were born and their heart no longer beat beneath mine, I realized that my heart had transferred to beat beneath theirs.
Everywhere they went, my heart went right along too.
Every hurt they felt, my heart hurt twice. Two times more…
I hurt for them and again for me.
Every joy they felt, I felt…two times…once for them and again for me.
And surely The Mother Mary felt heartache and joy as you and I do.
How many times did she lift him high over her head with her graceful arms extended as he giggled and laughed?
How many times did she bury her nose in his brown curls after a long day of play in the dust and sunshine and smell his puppy dog smell?
How many times did she hold him close and kiss his cheeks and calm his fears?
How many times did she feel the blow of the lashes and scourges of the brutal blows to the flesh on his back?
How many times did her heart writhe in pain as he suffered?
How many times did she gag as the reed of vinegar was thrust to his lips?
How many times did she reach with trembling hands, trying to grasp a piece of his garment as the soldiers cast lots for the bloody threads. Her heart may have been longing for a tiny remnant, a mere scrap of cloth, for the box of keepsakes, that she may have kept from significant moments of his life. She may have kept an alabaster box which also held the precious gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh.
How many times did she feel the sorrow and guilt of not doing enough…
to carry his burden…
…the burden for which he was conceived?
I can’t help but imagine that as long as his heart was beating, she felt his joys and his sorrows and his excruciatingly painful death. EVERY. SINGLE.TIME. Yes, that is what I believe.
When his heart began to beat underneath hers, she knew it was Divine…
a Divine plan where the good of a not so very Good Friday, became the joy of a really absolutely fantastic Sunday.
And I believe her heart felt every single beat of the bad that was all mixed up inside the good of Good Friday.
Seriously, don’t you feel like your heart is living outside yourself with each of your children?
Because of Good Friday…love multiplies.
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