They say that a parent shouldn’t have to bury their child. It goes against the natural order things. And yet, all too often, it happens. I am one of a long line of grieving mothers, stretching back to our first mother Eve whose oldest son Cain killed his younger brother Abel, and reaching forward to encompass all those mothers who will grieve lost children even though they are not yet born.
But while I am part of a sisterhood of grief, I am also unique, because my son is unique. Let me tell you my story and his story.
The story contains a lot of visits by angels which should give you some idea just how special my son is. My first angelic experience was when an angel appeared to me – an ordinary girl from an ordinary family – and told me that I would have a child. This child wouldn’t be conceived by the normal human process, but by God’s Spirit. If this wasn’t amazing enough, this child – a son who we were to name Jesus – would reign on David’s throne and be known as the Son of the Most High God. Barely able to take in this astounding news, I replied that I was the Lord’s servant. What else could I do except gladly obey?
My precious fiancee Joseph also received an angelic vision. His obedience to God meant that he didn’t cast me aside but loved and supported me against the gossip and unkindness directed at an unmarried, pregnant girl. He proved to be the most wonderful husband to me and father to Jesus and our naturally born children for all the years we were privileged to have him with us.
Early in my pregnancy, I visited my cousin Elizabeth. The angel’s words were confirmed again as Elizabeth, now miraculously pregnant herself in her old age, prophesied over me and the child I carried. Like me, she also knows the pain of losing her miracle child in terrible and traumatic circumstances.
Jesus’ birth and early childhood were a mix of fear, anxiety and amazing joy. Alone in a strange place due to the census requirements, Joseph and I prepared for the birth in an animal shelter. When Jesus was born we were visited by shepherds – not the first people you’d expect to want to see a newborn baby – but they too had had their own angelic visit. The angels told them where to find the Saviour who had just been born. Later we were visited by wise men, who’d travelled a long distance following a star, to see the promised Saviour. We then spent several years hiding in Egypt to protect Jesus from King Herod who wanted to kill the child he saw as a threat to his rule.
I could tell you so many stories about Jesus as a child, but I just want to mention two – both involving the temple. When we took Jesus to the temple for his circumcision ceremony, two elderly prophets spoke amazing words over him – not only that Jesus was the promised Messiah but also about the grief I would experience.
When Jesus was twelve and we again took him to Jerusalem for Passover, we managed to lose him. Can you imagine my fear? It took three frantic days of searching until we finally found him in the temple, sitting with the teachers, astounding them with his deep knowledge. When I chastised him for all the worry he’d put us through, he looked surprised. He assumed we’d know he’d be in what he called his ‘Father’s house’.
As you can imagine, all this gave Joseph and me plenty to think about. We had glimpses all through his growing up years about how special and how different he was from all the other children. But even so, we couldn’t understand how he would be, could be, what had been prophesied.
Until the last few days that is. The jealousy of the Jewish officials and the complicity of the Romans have brought him to this. Arrested, tried – if you can call what happened to him a trial – and found not guilty by Pilate, but still condemned to the worst kind of criminal’s death imaginable. This is not how it was supposed to end! What happened to the One who would save his people? How can he be hanging on a Roman cross, dying the most unspeakable death?
No-one should have to go through this, and no mother should ever have to watch this.
But here we are.
In the midst of his agony, he saw me sobbing in the crowd and told his disciple and close friend John to look after me. As his mother, I should have looked after him, but I failed.
The days since have been the worst days of my life. Even the earth itself seems to be grieving – the sky went dark and stories are circulating about the temple curtain being ripped from top to bottom, earthquakes and other strange events.
And now, the strangest thing of all. Some of the women went to prepare his body as tradition requires and found his tomb empty. An angel told them not to worry because he is alive.
Of course, this sounds impossible, but it’s true! He is alive! I’ve seen him myself with my own eyes. My grief has turned to joy, my confusion to understanding. He is alive. He is God’s promised Messiah – God’s salvation for the world.
And now I know that I haven’t failed him. God has been in control all along. He gave me the privilege of bearing his Son physically in my body, but I’ve also carried him in my heart, for these 33 years. And because he is alive, he will always be with me.
Some people call me the “God bearer” – a type of the Ark of the Covenant, because I carried God’s word in my body. But now, through his death and resurrection, all of us can carry him, through God’s Spirit, in our hearts and in our lives.
I am truly blessed among all women.