I knew the story. I knew what happened. I knew He was betrayed. I knew He was arrested. I knew He was beaten. I knew He was crucified, and I knew He rose again. I expected to see all of that and to feel sadness and joy for that.
What I didn't expect was to be so overwhelmed with empathy for Mary.
Every time they would show her, you see the pain in her eyes and I found myself stepping into her shoes (as best I could anyhow) and imagining what it had to have been like.
To see my son, my "baby" being hated would be bad enough, but to see him getting hit and spit on would feel like I myself were being punched in the stomach. To know this was "supposed" to happen wouldn't make it any easier to endure. That's your child. You have protected them from skinned knees and bruised elbows. While this is much worse, there is nothing you can do, though the desire is stronger than ever.
To stand there and endure watching the physical trauma and the emotional trauma....I don't know if I could have done it. Would I have rushed in and tried to protect him? Wouldn't that be the instinct of a mother? To drape your body over his? As he collapses in exhaustion, would I yell out for all to hear "ENOUGH!"
To the men doing this?
Yes, she knew this was to come to pass. But that couldn't have made it any easier or less heartbreaking.
I just don't know what I might have done.
If I would have been strong enough.
Did she ever wish she had not been the chosen one?
Did she wish HE had not been the chosen one?
Did she have doubts?
How deep must her anguish have been.
And yet, how happy her joy on Easter morning.