Holy Week always takes me back to Jerusalem, where I imagine Mary; not just as the serene, haloed saint of Renaissance paintings, but as a first-century Palestinian mum with thoughts. You know, the kind of thoughts that start with, "Boy, if you do not…" before she remembers he is literally the Son of God and maybe she should dial it back. Every parent has that child; the one who makes you question both your life choices and your grasp on reality.
If you are lucky enough to have multiple, congratulations, you have got a built-in control group to prove it is not all your fault. If you have only got one? Do not worry; some children cycle through personalities like a Netflix algorithm, ensuring you experience the full spectrum of parenthood in a single tiny human. For Mary and Joseph, that child was Jesus; miracle-worker, radical preacher, and, let us be honest, a terrible candidate for parents who just wanted to live a quiet low-risk life. What do you do when your child starts saying things such as, "I am the way, the truth, and the life"? Ground him? Send him to his room? "Oh, you are the truth now? Then why is your carpentry bench still a mess?"
Mary had to navigate the ultimate parenting paradox; raising a child who was, technically, her own Creator. Imagine the confusion; one minute, she is wiping his face as a toddler, the next, he is turning water into wine at a wedding like the ultimate party trick. "That is my boy!" (Also, "Couldn’t you have done this sooner? We ran out last night.") For 30 years, Jesus was (presumably) a decent son; helping in the workshop, staying out of trouble. Then, right when Jewish moms everywhere were expecting grandchildren and a stable career, he ditched the family business to become a wandering preacher with a ragtag crew of fishermen and tax collectors. "Fishers of men?" Mary must have sighed. "That is not a real job, honey." But she did not shut it down. She showed up; because that is what gangster mothers do. They do not always approve, but they appear at key moments, like a divine stage mum, making sure the Messiah eats something between sermons. Then things got really weird. He started talking about dying. For other people. Parents are not built for that kind of emotional math. We are supposed to outlive our children; it is in the unspoken contract.
But Mary could not exactly pull the "After all I have done for you?" card. I mean, she gave birth to him in a barn. If that does not earn you a lifetime of guilt trips, what does? Yet here is the shocker; Mary did not try to stop him. She stood at the foot of the cross, watching her baby boy suffer, and still trusted; even when every maternal instinct screamed to yank him down and march him back to Nazareth for a sensible career in furniture restoration. So, what is the takeaway for us mere mortal parents? Sometimes, the children who change the world are the ones who refuse to follow the script. They are the rebels, the weirdos, the ones who make you want to drink sacramental wine straight from the bottle. And the best thing we can do; other than stock up on wine; is love them fiercely, even when we do not understand them. This Holy Week, I am raising a glass to Mary, the original boy mum who had to watch her son save humanity while biting her tongue through every "This is such a phase" thought. Because if she could survive raising the Saviour of the World without losing her faith (or her mind), maybe there is hope for the rest of us; just trying to survive mood swings and teenage sarcasm.
