As Easter draws near, my heart keeps going back to Mary. Not just as the mother of Jesus, but as a mother.

I picture her holding Him for the first time, overwhelmed with love, memorizing every feature of His tiny face. I imagine her rocking Him to sleep, smiling as He giggled for the first time, chasing after Him as He took His first wobbly steps. She raised Him. Loved Him. Watched Him grow into the man He was created to be. And yet, in all that glory, He was still her baby.

And then came the cross.

She watched them beat Him. Spit on Him. Nail Him to wood like He was nothing. She stood there, feet rooted in grief, while her Son cried out in agony. Her baby. The same hands she once kissed now pierced with nails. The same body she once swaddled now stripped and broken. And she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t protect Him.

As a mother myself, I cannot fathom that kind of pain. I think about my own children—their laughter, their soft sleepy breaths, their tiny arms wrapping around my neck. I think about the times I’ve cried just seeing them sick or hurting. And then I imagine standing where Mary stood, watching the world destroy the very child I carried and nurtured. My heart shatters at the thought.

Mary’s strength wasn’t just in her silence—it was in her surrender. She trusted God’s plan, even when it tore her apart.

This Easter, I’m not just thinking about the empty tomb. I’m thinking about the mother who stood at the foot of the cross, her soul crushed, her heart bleeding, yet still full of faith.

~Celeste