John 19:26-27 - Mary
Jesus was my baby. He was my gift from God. He was my boy. From the time the angel brought the message that I would give birth to the Messiah, I knew this child was special. How special he was became abundantly clear the night he was born in Bethlehem. The shepherds showed up and told of the angels and how they announced his birth. A few years later the wisemen arrived and told how the star had led them to Jesus.
I watched my little boy grow up. In so many ways, he was just like all the other boys, but in so many ways he was also different. He loved the Scriptures. He loved worship. As he became a man, I knew the time would come when he would have to leave and pursue his purpose of the earth. Like any mother, I hated to see him go, but I knew he must.
I was so proud of all the things Jesus did. He helped so many people. He taught so many wonderful things. I was so surprised when I heard he had been arrested. I hurried to be close by. I was distraught when Pilate sentenced him to death. I stood as close to his cross as I could—joined by Mary Magdalene and John. I wanted to touch him, to comfort him, but the Roman guards would have none of that. He looked down and he saw me. I could see the love in his eyes. I hoped he could seen the same in mine. He told John to take care of me and he told me to take care of John. Then, in just a little while, he was gone. My baby was gone. He was only thirty-three years old.
Every time God did something special in my life or in the life of Jesus, I would ponder it. I would place them in my memory bank and come back and think about those things from time to time. Now, as I stood near the lifeless body of my son, I thought back on all those things. Surely there had to be more, but what?
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