A Mother's Tears
A Short Story Based on Ode 9 of the Paschal Canon
The Son of Man was dead.
He had been murdered, leaving His mother with nothing but sorrow. For three days, Mary cried. In a dark corner, she perched on a low chair, trembling in agony, her face buried in a tear-stained cloak. Her mournful wails pierced the air, each note carrying pain from the depths of her soul. She refused to eat. She hardly spoke. How could she? Her Son—her God—was dead, butchered by the pride of His own creations.
Mary had seen her Lord and her Life suspended in mockery. She had seen Him—the One Who fashioned her from the dust and Whom she cradled in her arms not a week before—choking for breath as nails mercilessly tore into the palms she had kissed so many times.
“My baby, my baby,” she sputtered.
James, son of Zebedee and brother of the Lord, sat beside her in a daze. His limbs were heavy and his mind rang with fragmented thoughts. Silence oppressed him. As Mary’s sobs drifted into his dissolving consciousness, he tried to find words of comfort but found none. All he could do was gaze solemnly upon the Eternal Virgin as her heart broke.
James laid his head on Mary’s lap and she cried into his hair. Through the window, he watched as black clouds sulked across the sky. The sun, painted silver and dim with shame, emerged from its hiding place. Finally, James thought, you’ve awakened.
A knock sounded at the door. James drew in a tired breath. “Another visitor,” he said.
“I don’t want to see anyone,” Mary mumbled.
“Mother…”
“Please.”
James sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He slowly stood. Mary listened as James’s heavy footsteps retreated and he went outside. In the sudden quiet, her head throbbed. Mary squeezed her eyes shut and muttered a prayer. Rubbing her temples, she went to search for lavender in the adjoining room. Perhaps, she thought, the scent would bring some comfort.
When Mary opened her eyes, she started. She clutched her aching heart and gaped at the sight before her. A striking man in white sat on the sill, twirling a stalk of lavender between his poised fingers. His gentle gaze fluttered up to her face, and he smiled. Instantly, Mary recognized him as though he were her own kin.
“Gabriel,” she gasped.
The angel’s smile only broadened. “Most Gracious Lady, it’s a pleasure to see you again. My! Your beauty remains exceeding even now in your sorrows.”
Mary lowered her head. Gabriel moved to her. When he saw her drooping shoulders and the unshed tears welling in her rosy eyes, he cooed, “Oh, Mary. Don’t cry… No, I say to you, rejoice!”
“My Lady, rejoice!” He took her hands and grinned, “Your Son has Risen from His three days in the tomb.”
Mary raised her head. The air seemed to vanish from her lungs.
“Yes, Mary! He has returned as promised!”
Mary stammered, “He’s alive…!”
Gabriel laughed, “Truly, I say! And He has freed the dead. The curtain of the Temple has been torn, and the bonds of Satan have been broken throughout Eternity! Hades reigns no more. Yes, I say to you, the souls of the dead have been made alive in your Son and our God!”
Mary’s heart soared. Indeed, her Blessing had conquered death! She shuddered in wonder as joy threatened to overtake her. Straining to maintain herself, she clutched Gabriel’s tunic and asked, “Where is He?”
“Just beyond the city walls, Mother. I—”
“Bless you!”
Mary ran into the outer room and grabbed her veil. She flung it over her head and rushed to the door. James, having just walked in, was amazed.
He asked, “Mother, where are you going?”
She cried, “My Son has returned!”
“What?!”
Without another word, she fled.
Overhead, the darkness of the heavens shattered, giving way to a splendor that washed the streets of Jerusalem in light of gold and amber. The lamentations of the winds gave way to roaring hymns of praise, carrying glorious chants of peacocks and passerines.
Mary Magdalene was racing in the opposite direction. Her auburn hair was gilded by the sun and her eyes shone just as brightly. She nearly tackled the Mother of God in excitement and was so overcome with awe that she could hardly be understood.
“Mother,” Magdalene cried, “I saw Him! I saw your Son!”
“Where is He?!”
“Outside His tomb!”
Mary ran. The ancient streets were a blur of canopies and lime, walls with sharp turns, and crowded homes adorned with engraved and painted mezuzahs. People called out to her, but she refused to stop. She clutched her skirts as she hastened, darting and weaving like a hare through the sands.
Mary whirled around a corner. Her breath caught in her throat. Coming over the horizon was the very Man she’d carried, fretted over, loved, and mourned: the Maker of the Heavens, the Seas, and the Stars, the King of Angels and the Guardian of Saints, the New Adam, Firstborn of the Dead, her Son and her God–the Lord Jesus Christ.
He removed the cloak from His head, revealing the face of primordial beauty, of stoic pride and wisdom, His black eyes laced with warmth and triumph.
Mary fell to her knees. Joy assailed her, and she smiled through newfound tears. The Lord sank beside her, and she held Him close.
“You scared me,” Mary said, laughing at her own foolishness.
“Dear woman,” He replied tenderly, “the time for fear has passed.”
Mary kissed the Lord’s torn palms, and He cherished her.
Beneath the glowing sun, He told His mother of His journey beyond the grave, and she listened with a smile, threading her fingers through His hair and treasuring every word. Just beyond, several streets down, Mary Magdalene roused the Lord’s disciples, proclaiming the good news. Soon, the whole world would know of His victory over death.
This is so beautiful! Thank you.