Good Friday. I really never understood why it was called “good”. I’ve read the account repeatedly. I could understand Easter being called “Good Sunday”. But Friday was a horrific day for Jesus. For those that loved Him. For His mama.
When I ponder on the heartache I have had for my own children, I cannot begin to imagine Mary’s. Illness. Struggles. Disappointment. Mistakes. A mama wants to fix these things for her children, no matter their age. The hardest place is when you come to the realization that you have no power to change a circumstance. Were the many prayers sent up for this child all in vain?
And then I reflect upon Mary. She had no power. No prayer left. Her heart exposed. I cannot help but wonder, when her eyes met His eyes that day, did she know? Did she know through the tears, the blood, and His broken body, that He would save the world? Did that tiny speck of hope still lie somewhere deep inside her aching soul?
She was a mama. Mama’s always have hope for their babies. And somehow, I think she knew….