Sunday, February 14, 2010

my son, her Son

Joshua fell by accident.

Jesus was innocent.

The edge of the fireplace split his forehead open.

The crown of thorns ripped His forehead.  The whips slashed His back.  The nails punctured His hands and feet.  The sword pierced His side.

I rushed him to the hospital.

He was placed in a tomb.

Stitches were put on him.

Grave clothes were put on Him.

I sat and watched.

She sat and watched.

Days later, I placed ointment on his forehead.

Days later, they took spices.

Becoming a mother has given me a new perspective on Jesus.  When my boys were born, I used to think about what they would be like when they grew up.  I still do.  But, Mary already knew.  As she stroked His newborn feet, did she think of the cross?  When her hand held His, did she think of the nails?  What did she think when the Magi gave her myrrh, a spice for someone who was going to die? 

Although Jesus was not my son, He is my Savior.  My sins put Him on the cross.  But because He loves me so, He knew this was the only perfect sacrifice. 

where Glory meets my suffering