Twenty years ago, I became the Mom of a sweet little baby boy and, as a result, my perspective about so many things began to change — Christmas included. As the holidays approached that year, our church decided to host a special program and it was suggested I find a poem to share. Now, that first Christmas as a new Mom I found myself thinking on Mary, the mother of Jesus, quite often so I began to search for a suitable poem that matched my enlightening thoughts but found nothing that was strong enough to challenge me to stand before others. The words I wanted to read from another plagued me for weeks and, almost on a whim, I began speaking my thoughts aloud and then writing them down on paper and before I realized what I was doing, I had written a one-woman portrayal of Mary, the Mother of Christ. It covered the beginning of her story when the angel Gabriel visited her and finished with Christ’s ascension into heaven after He had risen from the dead. Then, to the surprise of all, I did something completely out of character — I dressed as Mary and stood in front of the church as I presented both the Christmas and Easter stories as one from my interpretation of Mary’s perspective. After that presentation, those handwritten pages were put away, never, I thought, to be seen again. But last week, as I pondered what I wanted to write for this season, I was reminded of those words I had written so long ago. I was unsure if I still had those old pages but a quick search through my files revealed that they were indeed still there.

So, I am sharing that simple writing once more, mostly untouched with only a few alterations to make it slightly more reader-friendly. Please remember as you read that this was written twenty years ago from the perspective of a new mother who, for the first time, pondered what the life and death of Christ might have been like from His mother’s eyes. It was also written to be portrayed in verbal speech, as opposed to a reading format and I did have to leave out many parts simply because of time constraints. Finally, I did employ a certain amount of creative freedom in this piece but much is taken directly from the Bible and, of course, as it covers the crucifixion of Christ, there are disturbing elements. I may make apology for the simplicity of the writing, but I will make no apology for the details of what my Savior suffered for me.

I’ve broken it into two parts and this is part one of the story shared today on Good Friday. I will share the second part on Easter Sunday, or as I prefer to think of it, Resurrection Day.

And so, as you begin to read, create a picture in your mind of an older woman, perhaps similar to a Grandmother you may know, gently rocking in her chair as she gathers her thoughts to tell a story … her story.

“Listen, my friends, and I will tell you a story. Many call it the Christmas story but, it is the story of my life and the life of my son. My name is Mary and my son — His name is Jesus.

My story begins many years ago when I was a young woman, not much more than a girl really. I was engaged to a wonderful man, my husband Joseph, and I spent many hours daydreaming of our future life together.

One day the most amazing thing happened! An angel of the Lord suddenly appeared to me and told me that I was highly favored and blessed among women! I was troubled at his words but the angel told me not to be afraid for I had found favor with God. Then he told me I would conceive and bear a son. A son whose name would be called, Jesus.

“How can this be, for I have not known a man?” I remember crying out to him.

The angel explained that it would be by the power of the Most High through His Spirit and that the child that would be born to me would be called, the Son of God. “For with God,” the angel said, “nothing shall be impossible.”

Still amazed by all the angel had said, I could only lower myself before him and answer, “Behold, the handmaid of the Lord, be it unto me according to your word.”

And so it was.

As time progressed, my womb began to swell in evidence of this child growing within me. Every kick and every movement brought an overflowing joy to my soul and I would laugh in delight with every hiccup I felt inside. I already loved this baby of mine and I couldn’t wait to meet him!

I’ll never forget the night my son was born. Joseph and I had just traveled many miles to Bethlehem and I was great with child. There was no room for us in the inn but the kindly innkeeper, upon seeing my condition, offered us shelter in his stable. And it was there, in that humble dwelling, surrounded by all the animals, that I gave birth to my son. I wrapped Him in swaddling cloths and snuggled Him close as I gazed into His eyes, before laying him down in a manger that Joseph had filled with clean straw.

He was such a beautiful baby.

Well, time passed and my son grew, as children always do. His childhood years were incredible He had so much wisdom for one so young and often amazed me and Joseph. He also had such compassion for people; Always having a kind word to say or being willing to help someone in need. Why, it seemed before I knew it, he was a grown man and it was then his real ministry work began.

Oh how well I remember his first miracle! We were at a wedding in Cana and the unthinkable happened! They actually ran out of wine to serve the guests. Fearing disgrace for the bridegroom, I turned to Jesus for help, as I often did in those days, and didn’t he turn those barrels of plain old water into the most wonderful tasting wine? Just like that, he did!

After that it seemed he spent all of his time teaching, traveling from place to place, and doing all kinds of miracles. How my heart swelled with wonder and pride when I heard the stories of him raising the dead to life and healing so many sick and crippled people. I especially loved the time he fed all those thousands of people with just five small loaves of bread and two little fish. That’s just how my son was — so full of compassion.

(Silent pause)

But then came that day, such a dreadful day that I shall never be able to forget. I was in my little home when someone came pounding at the door and when I opened it, they told me that my son, my Jesus, had been taken prisoner the night before by the chief priests and Pharisees. He had been put on trial before Pilate and he had been sentenced to death.

in disbelief, I ran out the door and rushed down the street to where I could see a mob had gathered, angry and shouting. As I drew closer, I could begin to make out what they were yelling: “Crucify him, Crucify him!”

“Crucify him?” I thought to myself, “Who do they want to crucify and WHERE IS MY JESUS?”

Just then the still-shouting crowd parted and there, slowly coming towards me was a figure, nearly bent over beneath the weight of a heavy, wooden cross. I gasped in horror as that figure drew nearer to me and I could see how beaten and bloodied he was. Every inch of that poor soul, from the top of his head where a vicious-looking crown of thorns was cruelly driven into his skull, all the way down to his bloodied feet, was an open, bleeding wound. I had never seen anyone more viciously beaten and abused. I ached for this man and for his mother who would never be able to recognize him for his visage was so badly marred.

Just then, that man stumbled beneath the weight of his cross and the soldiers grabbed a nearby man from the crowd to carry the cross in his place. For one brief moment, the man on the ground lifted his head and his eyes looked straight into mine — almost as though he knew me. His eyes looked so familiar to me as if I had looked into them many times before …

Oh dear God in heaven — that’s my Son!

I followed in numb horror as the soldiers led Jesus and two others to the dreadful hill of Golgotha to be crucified. I remember how they had to force those two thieves onto their crosses, but not Jesus. No, when it was his turn, the soldiers watched in surprise as he willingly laid down on his cross and painfully stretched out his arms.

I had to turn away as they began to pound huge nails into my son’s hands and feet, holding him fast. I sank to my knees as I remembered the night He was born and how I counted and kissed each little finger and toe. How many times had I washed those little hands and feet when he was little — and still, still they continued to pound those nails deeper. How many miles had those feet walked to reach someone who needed Him? How many times had those hands reached out in love and compassion to the wounded or to gather a small child into His arms? Now nails were driven through those hands and feet.

When I looked up again, the soldiers had raised the crosses and there was my son, between two criminals, high on a blood-stained cross. I knelt beneath him and watched as his precious blood ran down that cross and puddled on the ground. I listened as the Chief Priests, the Roman soldiers, and even the one thief mocked him — spat at him — laughed at his pain.

But he said not a word in response.

Instead, I heard Jesus speak in a low tone, ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they do!” as he watched the soldiers gamble of the clothing they had stripped from Him.

When he looked down and saw me at the foot of his cross, he spoke again. ‘Woman, behold your son and son, behold your mother.” I felt a trembling hand touch my shoulder and when I turned, there stood, John, one of His disciples, with tears streaming down his face. Even in such agony, Jesus was caring for another.

The day grew long and just when it seemed he could take no more, the sky suddenly darkened and a new agony overcame Jesus as he cried out, ‘My God, My God, why have You forsaken me!’ Oh, how I trembled in fear as those words echoed deep within my soul. But then, strangely enough, a peace gradually filled my son as he softly spoke these words, ‘Father, into Your hands, I commend My Spirit.’

For a brief moment, his eyes lifted heavenward as he cried out, almost triumphantly, ‘It is finished!’

With that, he breathed out a final breath and died.

After the soldiers were assured of his death, men came and lowered my son from the cross and gently laid his now lifeless body on the ground. I ran and gathered Him in my arms as I had done so many years before. I couldn’t help but rock gently with him in my arms as I cried bitter and angry tears over his broken body. Then they took Jesus away, wrapped him in clean linen, and placed His body in a borrowed tomb.

For three days I sat in my home, unable to move, eat, or sleep. When I tried to sleep, all I could see was the broken body of my son. When I tried to sleep, all I could hear was the pounding of the nails that held him to that cross. I sat alone, consumed with bitterness towards those who had killed my Son. Why did Jesus have to die?”

All hope seemed lost as darkness covered the hearts of many.

When I transcribed these words into my computer this week, tears filled my eyes as I reread and pondered anew the words that spoke of His suffering. The sacrifice of Christ impacts me so much more now than it did twenty years ago because I can better understand the truth of His love in a way that I could not before I entered a life of my own suffering. Such love is far beyond anything a mere human can fathom.

As I typed and ruminated on these thoughts today, one song came to mind that I will close this portion with: Wonderful, Merciful Savior, sung by Selah ~

Wonderful merciful savior
Precious redeemer and friend
Who would have thought that a lamb could
Rescue the souls of man

Come back for Mary’s Story ~ Part 2 when we pick up with her question, “Why did Jesus have to die?”