Jesus and his mother, Mary.

Pause a moment, please. I want to give you a head’s up. If you aren’t in a private space as you start to read this, you might want to wait until you are before continuing. I’m only saying that because each time I’ve worked on this blog post, there have been tears before I hit “save.” It ends well, so there is that … and, I do want you to continue reading – I just didn’t want you to be blindsided out in public. Here we go …

It’s Easter season now and a couple of things have been percolating in my mind. Actually, they might be more than percolating … I find myself awake at night, wondering and writing about them in my head.

The first one has been on my mind on and off since Easter of 2019. That particular season was a bit rougher for me than usual, and I was spending a lot more time wondering, pondering, and analyzing lots of different things.

The one that presented itself the most was this: Did Mary know?

The Scriptures give us a record of Mary being told she would bear Jesus; we know that it was confirmed when she visited Elizabeth; we are told about the birth, the angels, the shepherds, the wise men. And we know that she “pondered all of these things in her heart.” But, if my theology is complete, the last recorded interaction between Jesus and Mary happens when he is about thirteen. As the time came close for him to sacrifice himself, did he go to Mary for a private conversation? Did he send a message?

On another side, what did she know? Yes, she knew the Scriptures that prophesied the Messiah. But remember, as a woman she wasn’t asked to study; she wouldn’t have been allowed to – at least not formally. So, did she know any more than what her father or husband told her? And, what did they tell her? There is no mention of Joseph in the Scriptures after the incident at the temple when Jesus was a teen … was Joseph still alive on that Passover? Did Jesus get her aside for a chat before he left home?

So, how much preparation did Mary have for what she saw, heard and experienced as she stood next to the disciple, John, while her son … her first born … hung dying on the cross? Was there, or is there, any amount of preparation or knowledge that would help a mother survive that? And at what point did John guide her away from the horror? Was it after the sky went black and the ground shook? Or before?

Those are some of the questions that have been randomly running through my mind over the last two years. They were joined by some new ones that appeared about a year ago …

The Scriptures tell us about Mary Magdalene going to the tomb and seeing the risen Jesus; there’s the story of Jesus appearing in the upper room with the disciples; of him meeting with them again in order to let Thomas see and touch him. We can read about his walk along the road to Emmaus as he explained the prophecies about himself to the two unaware disciples. And, the recounting of him fixing breakfast for the disciples on the shore, and pardoning Peter.

Here’s what’s missing for me: did he stop and spend time with his mother, Mary, in his resurrected form? I have to believe he did … after all, he arranged for her care as he was in agony on the cross. But what did he say? What did she say? I’m so glad to know that his body was physical enough for Thomas to touch him, for Mary Magdalene to hold onto him … because in my mother’s heart I want to picture him wrapping his arms around Mary, lifting her off the ground and letting her cry out her tears of sorrow and joy on his shoulder. I can see them sitting quietly together, alone in a corner, him gently wiping the tears from her eyes as, slowly, her face begins to reflect the glory of her risen son.

If I’m honest, I have to say that I long for this to be true for Mary, because I also long for it to be true for me. You see, this second subject to ponder appeared in my thoughts right around Easter of last year … and that wasn’t too long after my oldest son went home to be with Jesus. Wait – I just now stopped writing long enough to look up exactly how long it was – according to my calculations it was 40 days between Mark’s departure and Easter Sunday that year.

I’m not claiming any “special spirituality” here … but that discovery did make me pause for more than a moment. I’m well aware of the frequency of the number 40 in the Scriptures; and I love it when something “pops” in such a way as to make it memorable. Even if my math is off by a day or two, I think that one will stay in my mind for a while – but, I digress.

Back to my longing … on those days when Mark is on my mind more than usual; those times when it feels like the grief is raw and fresh; the moments where a memory comes so sharply into focus that it’s almost knife-like – on those days I seek the comfort of trying to see beyond the veil, to picture in my imagination the time when Mark will once again lift me clear off my feet in a hug … and the tears I cry will be only tears of joy. And maybe I’ll look over Mark’s shoulder and see Jesus smiling and nodding a “yes” to my question.