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I went to pray, and started the walk to calvary. I began as a silent observer, but when I gazed at the crown of thorns I felt the tickling sensation of blood across my brow, and as he fell for the third time I felt the weight on my shoulders and I tried to give him my strength so he could rise, but I had none, and then Simon took the bar and the heaviness lifted, and I stumbled on.
And then the sacrament was brought out of the tabernacle and instantly I was John, standing at the foot of the cross, Mary beside me. And it was noon, and I had three hours left with Jesus in the world, and I was not going to take my eyes from him for a moment. And so I spent the next three hours gazing up at him. At first it was agonising, and at times I had to fight to keep the sobbing (mostly) under control, swamped with the fear of being left alone. But he was so beautiful, and in a strange way, despite the bruises and the blood, so peaceful. And the fear and the anguish abated, and there was no room left in my heart for anything but love - mine for him, and his for me, flowing back and forth between us like the tide. At times my mind drifted, and we were back in the boat. His eyelids were no longer held shut by the swelling and matted by the dried blood, but lightly flickering as I watched him sleeping. Or a little later, as we walked along the shore arm in arm, and then I slipped away and ran into the waters, splashing him, and he looked at the lapping waves with mock affront, then wagged his finger, saying "I thought I told you to be calm." Then I slipped and fell, and as the water splashed my face I came back to reality, and he was dying again.
Another time I thought I could just get up and cut him down, carry him gently away and tend to his wounds, wash them and bandage them, brush his hair and sit with him, until all this was just a terrible memory. Then I felt Mary's hand taking mine, and realised that I'd started to walk towards him. Her hands were like his in miniature. The same warmth and softness and skin tone, the same habit of squeezing yours just before letting go, as if to say silently "Don’t worry, I'm not going anywhere". He had her eyes too. It always feels like a bit of a cheap compliment to tell someone they have beautiful eyes. Everyone's eyes are beautiful. But the thing about theirs was, when you gazed into them, you were beautiful.
I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, then there was a pause, too long, then a deeper breath, almost a groan, and I heard Mary beside me half whisper "Oh, my boy. My dear sweet boy." Until then I would not have thought it credible that anyone could love him more than I. But I've never been a mother. His eyes opened then and he spoke to us. Made us family. And it was like there was no-one else in the world but the three of us.
It was getting darker now, colder, closer. And I kept pouring out my love for him, thinking that if I could love him enough, purely enough, selflessly enough, if I could want him to be safe more than I wanted to keep him for myself that somehow it would come true. And then I heard his voice in my head saying "Love is strong as death, and passion fierce as the grave." And I thought for one glorious moment that it had worked. And then I understood. He would live on after his death in his love for me, for us, and ours for him, and for each other. And I knew what I had to do, to love them as he did. Peter, with his stupid pompous speeches and his always jumping in feet first without thinking and then tripping over them, which he only did because he was trying so hard to live up to what Jesus had asked of him. Mary Magdalene, with her annoying habit of always being around when I wanted to be alone with him, and her astonishing ability to actually get Peter to shut up. James, with the ability to wind me up that belongs specially to big brothers, and the fierce determination to look after me, likewise. And the others. All of them. We would love one another, and we would love all God's children, and we would show the world that there was a better way, His way. And in that we would keep him alive.
His breaths were further apart now, and shallower, and I knew that it was time. I silently poured out one last plaintive "I love you". And he heard me, and opened his eyes and gazed into mine for the last time.
He said "It is finished." Then he bowed his head and gave up the ghost.
As I felt the life go out of him I threw myself prostrate on the ground before him, and I wailed and I sobbed until I was exhausted. I don't know how much longer I lay there then, until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, and her eyes, his eyes, were looking down at me with such compassion it took my breath away. We sat together then, holding one another, not saying a word, because what could we possibly say. After a while the soldiers came. I saw them pierce his side and blood and water flowed out. They cut him down, and the others, and carried the others away.
More time passed, and then two men came and picked him up. I wanted to run at them, tell them to leave him alone, but I couldn't remember how to move, how to speak. Then I saw how carefully, reverently even, they were holding him, and I realised I'd seen them before. I saw Mary Magdalene approach them and they spoke quietly, and the three of them left together, carrying him away. It was no longer dark, but sunset was approaching, and so we stood, my new mother and I, and walked silently back to the city.
And then the sacrament was brought out of the tabernacle and instantly I was John, standing at the foot of the cross, Mary beside me. And it was noon, and I had three hours left with Jesus in the world, and I was not going to take my eyes from him for a moment. And so I spent the next three hours gazing up at him. At first it was agonising, and at times I had to fight to keep the sobbing (mostly) under control, swamped with the fear of being left alone. But he was so beautiful, and in a strange way, despite the bruises and the blood, so peaceful. And the fear and the anguish abated, and there was no room left in my heart for anything but love - mine for him, and his for me, flowing back and forth between us like the tide. At times my mind drifted, and we were back in the boat. His eyelids were no longer held shut by the swelling and matted by the dried blood, but lightly flickering as I watched him sleeping. Or a little later, as we walked along the shore arm in arm, and then I slipped away and ran into the waters, splashing him, and he looked at the lapping waves with mock affront, then wagged his finger, saying "I thought I told you to be calm." Then I slipped and fell, and as the water splashed my face I came back to reality, and he was dying again.
Another time I thought I could just get up and cut him down, carry him gently away and tend to his wounds, wash them and bandage them, brush his hair and sit with him, until all this was just a terrible memory. Then I felt Mary's hand taking mine, and realised that I'd started to walk towards him. Her hands were like his in miniature. The same warmth and softness and skin tone, the same habit of squeezing yours just before letting go, as if to say silently "Don’t worry, I'm not going anywhere". He had her eyes too. It always feels like a bit of a cheap compliment to tell someone they have beautiful eyes. Everyone's eyes are beautiful. But the thing about theirs was, when you gazed into them, you were beautiful.
I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, then there was a pause, too long, then a deeper breath, almost a groan, and I heard Mary beside me half whisper "Oh, my boy. My dear sweet boy." Until then I would not have thought it credible that anyone could love him more than I. But I've never been a mother. His eyes opened then and he spoke to us. Made us family. And it was like there was no-one else in the world but the three of us.
It was getting darker now, colder, closer. And I kept pouring out my love for him, thinking that if I could love him enough, purely enough, selflessly enough, if I could want him to be safe more than I wanted to keep him for myself that somehow it would come true. And then I heard his voice in my head saying "Love is strong as death, and passion fierce as the grave." And I thought for one glorious moment that it had worked. And then I understood. He would live on after his death in his love for me, for us, and ours for him, and for each other. And I knew what I had to do, to love them as he did. Peter, with his stupid pompous speeches and his always jumping in feet first without thinking and then tripping over them, which he only did because he was trying so hard to live up to what Jesus had asked of him. Mary Magdalene, with her annoying habit of always being around when I wanted to be alone with him, and her astonishing ability to actually get Peter to shut up. James, with the ability to wind me up that belongs specially to big brothers, and the fierce determination to look after me, likewise. And the others. All of them. We would love one another, and we would love all God's children, and we would show the world that there was a better way, His way. And in that we would keep him alive.
His breaths were further apart now, and shallower, and I knew that it was time. I silently poured out one last plaintive "I love you". And he heard me, and opened his eyes and gazed into mine for the last time.
He said "It is finished." Then he bowed his head and gave up the ghost.
As I felt the life go out of him I threw myself prostrate on the ground before him, and I wailed and I sobbed until I was exhausted. I don't know how much longer I lay there then, until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, and her eyes, his eyes, were looking down at me with such compassion it took my breath away. We sat together then, holding one another, not saying a word, because what could we possibly say. After a while the soldiers came. I saw them pierce his side and blood and water flowed out. They cut him down, and the others, and carried the others away.
More time passed, and then two men came and picked him up. I wanted to run at them, tell them to leave him alone, but I couldn't remember how to move, how to speak. Then I saw how carefully, reverently even, they were holding him, and I realised I'd seen them before. I saw Mary Magdalene approach them and they spoke quietly, and the three of them left together, carrying him away. It was no longer dark, but sunset was approaching, and so we stood, my new mother and I, and walked silently back to the city.
