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My Son----My  Savior
by Dorothy Doutt Minchew

So much has happened in only a few days. The stately green palm branches that were strewn as a path for the "King" are now brown from the sun and bruised and torn almost beyond recognition from the feet of countless visitors. Thousands have streamed into Jerusalem for this most festive of religious occasions--this festive occasion that is turning into a nightmare.
My son has been betrayed by one of his own followers. Sold!! For thirty pieces of silver!! Because it is "expedient that one should die," Jesus has been turned over to Pilate to be crucified, while the thoughtless crowd shouts for the release of a common thief by the name of Barabbas. And now, by the simple act of washing his hands, Pilate becomes another of those whose hideous insults Jesus must bear.
I cannot stand much more of this anguish. I have no more tears. The hot ache in my parched throat makes it impossible for me to speak. As I stand helplessly by and watch my son being so cruelly mistreated by men, woman, and children who are not worthy even to be in his presence, I wish that he had not even been born. He has tried so valiantly to do his heavenly Father's bidding, and it has been such a difficult task. Why has so much been demanded from him?
Surely God, in His great wisdom, could have found another answer to man's sin. "Blessed art thou among women" Those words echo in my ears. Blessed? Blessed to know that from my womb has come one who will suffer an agony so horrible that even God must surely blacken all the earth to keep from seeing it?  Oh, God, did You forget?  Do You not know above all others, what pain a mother's heart contains? Is it only the one who nurtures her babe that aches as her son aches?
continued......

My baby son. How happy Joseph and I were when you were born that star-filled night in Bethlehem. You were such a tiny bundle of joy for both of us. As the angels heralded your birth, we knew that you were someone special.
My pain is almost unbearable, watching the soldiers mock you, as they dress you in a scarlet robe and press a crown of thorns upon your brow. Where now, my son, are your faithful followers--even Peter?  Oh, I have been pushed down by the rushing mob and cannot even get a glimpse of him. As I lie here, unable to rise, I cannot help thinking back to his twelfth year, when Joseph and I brought him to Jerusalem for the Passover. How different it was from this day. Little did we realize that that year was the turning point in his life--until we discovered that he had not followed us as we left. When we returned to find him, we were amazed to hear him speaking with such wisdom and authority in the midst of learned men. Suddenly, I realized that my son surely was no ordinary boy. It was from that day that I began to know that he belonged more to God than to me.
At last, I can rise to my feet and see Jesus again. They have now clothed him in his own garments. Be strong, Son. Stop there and rest. He is on his way up the Hill of Golgotha, laboring under the weight of the cumbrous cross. Splinters from the roughhewn wood have pierced his hands and streams of blood pour forth from the swollen purple bruises.  Oh, God, I cannot bear it any longer!!
There are more tears. I thought there were none left. But God, in His Mercy, has granted me once more a sweet release, as hot, relentless tears rush down my burning cheeks and muffled shrieks cut into my throat. I can only watch in dismay and disbelief as the Roman soldiers raise the crude wooden cross on which his body hangs. I want to beat upon them with my fists, but I am too weak from grief to stir. I hear his barely audible whisper, "I thirst.'  Dear God, have mercy on my son!!
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My eyes dim with tears as I think of the wedding guests whose thirst he quenched. It was in Galilee, at a great wedding feast in Cana, that I asked Jesus to perform his first miracle. He was astonished that I asked, but he did my bidding. That was the first time we shared openly what we had both known in secret. He, whom I have seen perform miracles, cannot now even satisfy the longing on his own parched lips for a sip of cool water. "He saved others; himself he cannot save!"  I have to clamp my trembling hands over my ears to block out the invidious jeering and shouting. Do they not care? Is it nothing to them--all those who pass by?
I did not suppose that it would come to such a time as this. Nor do I understand how Jesus can ask for mercy for those who are committing this heinous act against him, how he can plead with God to "forgive them."
I want my son to show them all----spineless Pilate, the too-loyal Roman soldiers, the cruel mob---what special powers he possesses. But no! The torture continues hour after sickening hour as I watch the life's blood run out of him.  Oh, how faint I am. His hours  on the cross seem unending. How much longer, God, before the anguish of this unholy day becomes a haunting memory?
The full power of Jesus' mission is beginning to unfold. I hear him tell the thief on the cross next to him that his sins are forgiven and that they will be together this very day in Paradise.

I was not aware that I was moving so close to the cross. But, all of a sudden, I am on John's arms, standing directly at the foot of the cross. I look up into the eyes of my dying son. But he, in spite of his agony and suffering, sees only my grief, not his own. With a look of love, he is trying to relieve the agony which he knows is tearing at my heart. As he asks John to take care of me, a drop of his precious blood fell from his thorn-crowned brow onto mine. I must reach up to him. And as I gaze into His face, I do not see my son.
I see my Savior.