1,432 words, 8 minutes read time.
I’ve heard people say they would have believed—if only they’d seen Him walk among them. I saw Him walk, and it still shattered me. Not because I didn’t believe, but because believing didn’t spare me the cost. If you want to know what faith looks like, don’t look at the calm. Look at the trembling girl who said yes in a world that would never understand her.
I was that girl. And I was His mother.
I remember the morning everything changed. I was alone, or at least I thought I was. In Nazareth, quiet is rare. The town stirs early—animals, carts, the call of children. But that day, everything seemed to hold its breath. And then I saw him—Gabriel. He didn’t need to tell me not to be afraid. I already was.
He said, “You have found favor with God.” Favor. That word echoed in my mind like a bell. I would carry the Son of the Most High. Me. A teenage girl with no dowry and no claim to anything but the scandal that would surely follow. Joseph would leave. My parents would grieve. The neighbors would whisper.
But I said yes.
I didn’t say yes because I was brave. I said yes because something deeper than fear lived inside me. You don’t carry God unless He’s already carried you.
Later, I ran to the hills to find Elizabeth. She didn’t flinch when I told her. She laughed like the barren do when they feel life move inside them. “Blessed are you,” she said, “and blessed is the fruit of your womb!” And for the first time, I sang.
He has looked with favor on His lowly servant… Holy is His name.
If only I had known then what that song would cost me.
Joseph stayed. That surprised me more than Gabriel. He dreamed the truth and believed it. Not everyone did. In Bethlehem, there was no room for us. I gave birth with hay beneath me and animals watching. I held Him with shaking hands, wrapped Him in cloth I had spun months before, never knowing it would one day swaddle the Word made flesh.
That night, shepherds came running. Rough men, wild-eyed, talking about angels. Later, men from the East would come, bearing gifts that hinted at kingship, divinity… and burial. I saw it even then—gold, frankincense, and myrrh. You can smell death in that last one.
Still, I hoped the promise would mean peace.
But peace doesn’t come easy when the world feels threatened by light. Herod sent soldiers, and we fled to Egypt. I never forgot the screams that followed us—mothers like me, with arms suddenly empty. I didn’t feel favored then. I felt spared. That’s different.
In Egypt, we lived as strangers. Foreign tongues, foreign gods. But Jesus grew. He spoke late, but when He did, His words carried weight. He laughed often, but it wasn’t frivolous. There was a kind of fire behind His eyes, even as a child. He once went missing in Jerusalem, and we found Him in the Temple, teaching the teachers. “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?” he said.
We didn’t understand it then.
But He returned with us. Obedient. Quiet. Stronger than His age, deeper than the world knew.
I watched Him grow into a man who built with His hands and listened more than He spoke. The neighbors called Him Joseph’s son. They didn’t know. Not really. He was mine to raise but never mine to keep.
One day, there was a wedding in Cana. The wine ran out, and the panic on the bride’s face mirrored every woman who’s ever been afraid of shame. I nudged Him, gently. “They have no wine,” I said. He looked at me with something in His eyes—an ache, maybe. “My hour has not yet come.”
Still, I told the servants, “Do whatever He tells you.” Because I knew. I knew this was the beginning of the end.
The water became wine. But more than that, that night He stopped being only my son. He stepped into what He came for, and the world would never let Him go back.
He began preaching. Healing. Calling fishermen to follow. Challenging the teachers of the Law. He spoke of forgiveness, even for enemies. That frightened people. Rome tolerated many things, but it never tolerated kings without crowns. And the temple priests… they feared Him more than Rome ever did.
He would come home to Nazareth, and I’d hear them whisper: “Who does He think He is?” Even my own sons—His brothers—struggled to understand. They saw the carpenter. I saw the promise.
But I still didn’t understand the cost.
There was a day I tried to speak with Him, tried to protect Him. The crowds were too thick. Someone told Him, “Your mother and brothers are outside.” And He said something that cut me: “Who is my mother? Who are my brothers?” Then He pointed to His followers. “Here are my mother and my brothers. Whoever does the will of God is my family.”
I knew He didn’t mean to hurt me. But still—it hurt. I had carried Him, nursed Him, soothed Him through fevers, held His hand across stones and rivers. And now… now, I had to let go.
Then Jesus began walking toward Jerusalem.
I tried not to fear. I remembered the angel’s words. I remembered the song. But dread pooled in my stomach.
And then it happened. The trial. The lashes. The thorns.
I stood at the foot of the cross.
His hands, those same hands that had once gripped my finger in sleep, were pierced. His back torn. His breath ragged. He looked down at me—His eyes not wild with pain but calm, clear. He said, “Woman, behold your son.” Then to John, He said, “Behold your mother.”
Even then, He was giving.
But I felt the sword that Simeon had prophesied—remember him? The old man in the temple, all those years ago. He said a sword would pierce my soul. And there it was.
The sky went dark.
He cried out, and then He was gone.
What do you do when the Promise dies in front of you?
You wait.
You hold the silence. You sit in a room with disciples too afraid to hope. You remember the scent of His hair, the weight of His body in your arms, the sound of His laughter, and you wait.
Then Jesus…
Then Jesus rose.
I saw Him. Not just in memory, not in dreams. I saw Him. Alive. Whole. Laughing. Glorified. And the ache in me broke like dawn.
This is not the story of a mother who lost a son. This is the story of a woman who witnessed resurrection. Of a girl who said yes to something she didn’t understand and lived long enough to see it fulfilled.
I know you doubt. I know some of you are angry. Some of you have lost children. Some of you never knew your mothers. Some of you think faith is a crutch for the weak. I carried the Son of God in my body, and even I had days when I didn’t understand Him.
But I never stopped believing in Him.
If you think you’re too broken to belong to Him, remember this: He came from a teenage girl in a forgotten town, laid in straw, hunted before He could speak. He walked with the poor. Touched the sick. Died with criminals.
And rose as King.
This is my story. And it’s yours, too—if you’ll let it be.
Sources
- 5 Lessons from Mary the Mother of Christ in Trusting God
- Lessons from Mary & Elizabeth: Faith, Love, Courage
- What We Can Learn from Zechariah’s Doubt and Mary’s Faith
- A Mother’s Faith: John 2:1–12
- Mother Mary: Undaunted Faith (Luke 1:26–56)
- The Guiding Light of Mary: Inspiration for Deepening Our Relationship with Christ
- Mary: Our Example of Humble Obedience and Faith
- Mary: Portrait Of A Powerful Faith
- How Does Mary Help us as our Spiritual Mother?
- Mary In Scripture: Rediscovering the Bridge Between the Old and the New Testaments
- How Mary Influenced the Gospel of John
- (repeat) 5 Lessons from Mary…
- (repeat) Lessons from Mary & Elizabeth…
Disclaimer:
The views and opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author. The information provided is based on personal research, experience, and understanding of the subject matter at the time of writing. Readers should consult relevant experts or authorities for specific guidance related to their unique situations.
What a thoughtful read.