My heart aches. It’s Good Friday, but Jesus has been killed. I envision his mother there on her knees crying uncontrollably. She remembers the visit from the angel proclaiming his arrival. Wasn’t her son sent to be Lord of all? The angel had said she was highly favored. She didn’t feel highly favored. She felt the weight of all the anger and anguish of this place on her shoulders. Peering up at her precious son, bitter tears stung Mary’s face and drenched her cloth. She felt as if her heart would surely crumble. Jesus was unrecognizable. His crimson blood flowed down the wooden cross and onto the ground. The smell…
