Her hands lay motionless, folded
in her lap—calloused, wrinkled, worn—
and loving. She looked and
remembered another's hands.
His had worked with wood,
in his father's shop...but the
Designer had not destined
them to remain content as a
carpenter's tools. She smiled a
little, and drew out
older treasures from her
wealth of memory. Those
small hands had first held her
heart when he touched
her face that night in
the stable. Tiny baby fingers
grasped her dark curls. And
she had laughed through her tears,
for the joy of motherhood and
for the sorrow of the scars those
perfect hands held hidden.
She had rejoiced as he
grew—a sturdy, healthy child.
But somehow she felt with
every moment of joy some tinge
of sadness because she knew
one day he would become
a man and follow the Father's
chosen plan for his life and
death. She looked with watery
eyes towards the sky, and
wondered how such joy and
foreboding of sorrow could have
dwelt in such magnitude in her soul.
Her gaze traveled to
the dusty road, where a young
boy, perhaps twelve, walked
with firm step toward the village,
singing an ancient melody.
And she remembered her son,
and their trip to the temple. Ah...
a journey worth remembering. But
she also recalled the fear that grasped
her heart when she realized
they had left her boy in that vast city.
Dazed with worry, she had not
shed many tears. But finally, after
returning and searching, they found the child
calmly discoursing with the priests.
She sighed a little at the remembrance of
her consternation. She had not
understood his words... only rejoiced
to see him safe. His Father's house? But
that was in Nazareth! No... even then
he knew, and she realized then that
he had begun upon his path of destiny.
She wanted to hold him back, but
she remembered the heavenly Visitor
of long ago and prayed for the
strength to break her will. And almost
each day he seemed more ready
to leave, and yet also he seemed
to love her more, if that was possible.
He kissed her goodbye, she
remembered... and walked the
length of the land. Through town
after town he went and those hands
grew weary but never stopped
touching, touching, touching—
the sick, lame, blind—his love
flowed with power and healed. And
when he would come back home
now and then, his strong grip would
comfort her and she would lay
her head lovingly against
her son. But the people he loved
and helped and healed turned
against her beloved—God's beloved.
Joyful "Hosannas!" changed
drastically and horribly to mad
shouts of "Crucify Him!" Oh, the
anguish. Why her perfect son? She closed
her eyes and saw him again,
betrayed, beaten, bleeding.
As he stumbled through the crowds
carrying that heavy cross—weighted with
the sins of man—she had tried
to touch him, to comfort him, but
the cruel press of people drove her
back and she watched him pass on in
agony of mind and heart. She didn't
notice the tears that fell upon her
stricken face. Somehow she knew
she had to follow him. Painfully she
struggled through the throng to
Golgotha. She stopped her ears
at his scream of pain as the nails
ripped through tendons and nerves.
Her heart broke. She opened her eyes
and looked at the sunny blueness
above, remembering...
One of his followers had found
her, held her, cried with her. Through
a mist she saw her son, hung
against the sky. The swiftly gathering
clouds mirrored the darkness
in her soul. Eternity seemed
to pass in those hours before
he died. 'It is finished!' he cried.
What was finished? His life,
one among many murdered as
common criminals. And the storm
broke with mighty winds, the
wrath of God vented on the earth
at mankind’s terrible crime.
She remembered the despair of
those three days too well. Such
utter hopelessness, for who could
hope when Hope himself had died?
But then—she laughed with joy
at the mere memory—that early
morning when the women
came back from his tomb. Flushed
from running, they burst into
the upper room. Alive! Alive?
The wild joy of it muddled
their minds. She hoped again.
And then, and then... he himself...
her son—risen. All her doubts
fled, he released her heart from
fear and sorrow. She looked at his
wounded hands, so scarred yet
beautiful and remembered his birth.
And she wept. Even now, she
could not think of that glorious day
without getting teary-eyed. The
joy of it overwhelmed her. Soon
she would see him again... it
could not be much longer now.
She looked down again at her own
hands, and remembered the feeling of
holding the baby, the child's small palm,
the strong man's loving touch, the risen Lord's
glorious wounded hand. Silently
she smiled, and closed her eyes.

age = 13-16