At the foot of the Cross

There stood by the foot of the Cross, Mary, the disciple whom Jesus loved, Mother, Father, my brother John, and me. In life, Mother feared it was true. Father hoped it might be true. John always believed.

Jesus was shivering with shock and cold, dying, in appalling pain, his breathing rattling in his chest. Mother knew what he was going through. She had nursed many people through the painful last hours of life. Father, who loved her, had heard her breathing like this as she herself died. John breathed like this as he was dying, too. I watched them all die. Now I was watching my Lord die, out of love for each of us.

Jesus looked at Mother with love in his agonised face. 'Because she loved much, much is forgiven her. Needy, uncertain Sheila, it is time to be loved just as you are. Come to me.'

He looked at Father. 'Another doubting Thomas. He too loved much, gave everything. Come to me, doubting Tom. You can stop thinking now, and rest content in me.'

'And John. Stumbling, defiant, wild, passionate John. Beneath it all, a true heart. Come to  me, John.'

And me? I am the friend from His childhood.

'Ah, you came,' He whispered.

His Mother looked into the troubled face of my mother and then opened her arms wide and embraced her, nodding to signify that she understood her sister, understood all.

Then she smiled up into the face of my father, raising her hand tenderly to his cheek.

She then put a kiss in the the palm of her hand and, reaching up, rested her hand on my brother’s head.

Finally she smiled at me, the same smile as when He and I crept into her kitchen when she was making raisin bread.

Mary, holy virgin, mother of us all, pray for us and guide us to your Beloved and Risen Son. Pray for healing for me. Never let me be parted from Him, or from you.

Mother, Father, John, pray for me.