When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his garments and divided them into four parts, one part for each soldier; also his tunic. But the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from top to bottom, so they said to one another, “Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see whose it shall be.” This was to fulfill the Scripture which says,
“They divided my garments among them,
and for my clothing they cast lots.”
So the soldiers did these things, but standing by the cross of Jesus were his mother and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home.
(John 19:16-27 ESV)
Had it been more than 30 years since the angel appeared?
“Do not be afraid,” the angel said.
She remembered speaking calmly to the angel, asking how it could be the that she would have a son and telling the angel, “Let it be to me according to your word.”
But, now. Now, she was aftaid. Not for herself, but for her son on this cross.
Sorrow and rage battled for preeminence in her heart. Rage against the Romans who viciously nailed her Son to the cross. Rage against the Jewish leaders who had taken Him to Pilate in the first place. Rage against the crowds who hurled insults at him and viewed his agony as an entertaining spectacle.
And sorrow. Sorrow at losing her son. Sorrow at the weeping of the women beside her. Sorrow that the disciples had all turned away – all but one. He stood there. He stood faithful.
Then, a word from the cross. A request from a dying son.
Now, just before he took his last breath, her son directed one of his closest friends to care for her.
Once again, she obeyed.