I Wonder What Mary Felt

I wonder what Mary felt. Not the saint in stained glass— but the mother. The woman. The girl who said yes before she even knew what that yes would cost her. I wonder if she remembered the way He kicked inside her womb. If she thought about tiny toes now pierced through and the soft coos now replaced by labored breaths. I wonder if she screamed. Not just cried— but screamed the way only a mother can when the world dares to take her child. They called Him Savior. But she called Him Son. Before the miracles, before the crowds, before the cross— He was hers. And I wonder, as she watched them strip Him of dignity, of breath, of life, if she whispered, “I would trade places.” Because isn’t that what mothers do? I wonder if she saw the boy who once brought her pebbles like treasures, the boy who asked big questions about stars and God and why people hurt. I wonder if she questioned God back. I wonder if she still believed— not in the promise of resurrection, but in the ache of the now. The cross was prophecy fulfilled— but also a mother’s worst nightmare. And maybe that’s the mystery— that God so loved the world, He gave us His Son. But first— a woman had to give us hers.