Each Easter, since becoming a mom, I cry. Easter reminds me of the enormity of God’s love. I think about how much I love my children and am completely overwhelmed by the realization that God loves all of his children so much more. It is both humbling and empowering.
The second spring following Hart’s death, as I finally emerged from the numbing chrysalis of fresh grief, I experienced Easter anew. I was still grateful and awed by the vastness of God’s love, but I was also experiencing Easter as a mother who had buried her son.
As I sat in church that Easter, listening to the familiar story of Jesus’ resurrection, my heart was drawn to Mary. I thought about her agony as she watched Jesus’ torment, her relief as his suffering came to an end, and the relentless sorrow as the reality of what that end meant washed over her. I thought about how the singularity of her experience must have felt so incredibly lonely. I hurt for her knowing that she no longer had Joseph by her side to share the burden of grief. I understood that, although she knew the importance of her role in fulfilling God’s promise, she would still ache with the emptiness of not being able to touch her beloved son or breathe in his sweet scent. In the midst of all the glorious Easter celebration, it occurred to me, His mother wept.
Although I know God comforted Mary and that she was steadfast in her faith, I also know that losing a child is devastating, knowing ahead of time that you will lose your child doesn’t make it hurt less, and knowing you will see your child again doesn’t mitigate your sorrow.
Every Easter I am still overwhelmed with awe and gratitude for God’s love, I rejoice that His grace prevents us from being separated from Him, I celebrate love because God is love, but I also find comfort in understanding the human spear of grief. My heart still leads me to remember and honor Mary, to mourn with her, a mother who, so long ago, experienced the unimaginable loss of her child.
