She missed him stopping by for dinner and exclaiming “best dinner yet mom”.
She missed him helping her husband in the workshop. Watching him shape and carve the wood just so. Missed seeing his look of satisfaction after polishing the wood until it gleamed. In fact, the very bowl on her kitchen table which held her fruit was his creation.
She had watched him swing the children around and around and gather them at his feet to hear the stories he shared. This brought such joy to her. Standing in the background and observing the joy of a person’s first sight or first step after years of disease were memories she would never lose.
Friday, she lost her son. She not only lost him, she was there when he was beaten, spit on, mocked and tortured. She was there as he struggled with the tree that would hold him up in ridicule. All she wanted to do was wipe the blood away from his eyes, help him, stop them, free him, take him home and wake up from the awful dream this had to be.
Thirty three years just wasn’t enough. From the beginning watching him suckle at her breast, take his first step, run, jump, play. Mud pies, chasing rabbits, climbing trees, and the strong desire to learn at the temple were all part of her memories. Oh, how proud she was at the wedding. God used her son.
But, how much did she really anticipate? On that hill with her son on the tree did she know Sunday was coming? Could she see through her tears and past the mangled body that was once part of her that Sunday was coming? When his body was placed in that cold, dark rock did the fact the Sunday was coming warm her?
Two thousand and some odd years ago on Sunday morning a mother heard the birds more clearly, tasted the water more sweetly, and smelled the air more fragrantly. Her son returned. Redemption was accomplished.
His death was payment for His gift of eternal life to all who believe.
Sunday is coming. Please don’t waste a drop of his precious blood.
Sunday is coming!!
I trust you will have a wonderful Resurrection Day.
