Yes, it is spring and there are still mountains of snow on the ground. My husband is worried about flooding. The children need and the house needs and the goats need. There is more need than there is time or money. In big mental piles in my brain are the school work and house work and relationship work. And soon we will be up to our eyeballs in spring mud.
I’m not complaining. I don’t think I’m complaining. These are not things stressing me or keeping me awake at night. These are the realities of my day-after-day, and I am challenged, at times, to look up from them. Way up, as the giant on one of those old CBC children’s shows used to say.
To look way up, and to really see.
Today I look up and I see a cross. The sight of it stops me, holds me still. I’m a bystander at an accident scene. Only it’s not an accident. It’s on purpose, for a purpose, and I’m shocked out of my silly smallness. I’m looking up, I’m really seeing, and it breaks me. I look over and I see a mother, weeping, and I weep with her.
A year ago, on Good Friday 2012, I wrote the following:
Today is a Good Day, because today I do not have to watch my son die. I don’t have to watch him, hurt and bleeding, carry a heavy piece of wood up a hill. I don’t have to witness crowds of people making fun of him. I don’t have to see soldiers nail him to a cross or lift his hanging body into the air. Today, I don’t have to watch my son die.
Ah Mary, it seems like just yesterday I was with you in the stable, celebrating his birth. Today, I’m with you in the nightmare.
While the soldiers were looking after themselves, Jesus’ mother, his aunt, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene stood at the foot of the cross. Jesus saw his mother and the disciple he loved standing near her. He said to his mother, “Woman, here is your son.” Then to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that moment the disciple accepted her as his own mother.