Excerpt



Mary, theres talk about Jesus.

Theres been talk of my son ever since he began his teachings.

I heard the high priests are building a case against him, that they plan to have him arrested.

Marys hands stopped moving. Her gaze fell on the hills below. Mary mostly kept her feelings to herself, never complaining, always humble and accepting of Gods will. Yet once Veronica questioned her, she found herself opening up to her friend.

In the essence of my heart, she began, gazing at the afternoon sun. In here, she said, her hand resting on her chest. This is where Ive carried each sorrow, knowing that the hour was near. She paused, picked up her skirt and turned to her childhood friend.

Do you not hear, Veronica, what the people are saying? Not the jealous priests youre referring to but those that believe hes the Messiah?

I do. I also believe. Mary, Ive known Jesus since he was a little boy. I want no harm to come to him. Youve got to do something to stop it.

They seek him, Veronica. The people are hungry for peace. Why would I want to put an end to that?

Were mothers. We protect our children, no matter how grown, regardless of what theyre doing out there.

Veronica, who am I to interfere with the Lords plan?

Youre his mother! Id be devastated if something were to happen to one of my children and I did nothing to stop it. Whats motherly love if you can use it to save your son?

Motherly love, thought Mary. That something special that begins to embody the child the exact moment the mother knows of his existence, and continues to grow with every moment of his life. It is from this love that the mother will seek the strength to let go of her child when the time comes.

Marys reflections evoked memories of nursing him, of holding her little boy in her arms. She couldnt describe it all to her friend. When Mary spoke again, Veronica became aware of the beauty of her voice as if she was hearing it for the very first time. A voice so soft it was divine, yet it was filled with an enormous amount of emotion.

My little boy, she said, staring at her hands. My hands have dressed him, bathe him, combed his hair. Taking her folded hands to her chest, she looked at her friend, Hes here in my heart. Ive laughed with him, cried with him. My lips have touched his forehead, his hands, his cheeks. This Veronica, this touch, is the motherly love that makes it possible for me to let him go.

Veronica persisted. Mary, they will ask for his death if hes proven guilty of blasphemy.

How can I try to take away his purpose and claim to love him?

But why go through all that suffering?

You cant understand. I dont expect you to. I cant even find the words to describe it. Even you cannot begin to explain the love you feel for your children. As I cannot explain that my eyes can see, that my ears can hear. As surely as my being is alive, breathing the air of which I cannot see, I cannot describe the love I feel for my son. And yes, it causes me unbearable pain.

No, Mary. I cant understand it.

I accepted that Id love him enough to let him go the moment I became the servant of the Lord. It is this love that allows me to see him when hes not present. Wherever my feet take me, I carry him in my heart. I see him in his treasures, in the butterflies he befriends, in the herd and the fields. Hes everywhere I look because hes in me. My friend, in the spirit of sacrifice, I will let him go.