June 6, 2010
Her only son. Her only son. He was her only son. She had already lost her husband. Now her son. Her only son.
We don’t even know what happened. Maybe he got sick. Maybe there was an accident. Maybe a Roman soldier killed him. We don’t know.
But we know he was her only son, and she was a widow. Her life was over. Many from the village joined her parade of sorrow now, but they would avoid her within the month. She was doubly cursed. God must be punishing her for some secret sins. She could beg for bread. Maybe she could survive by going through fields after the harvesters picking up the left-overs. Maybe - if she still had anything to offer - some men might pay for a night with her.
Her life was over. Her only son! His death was her death - separated only by a matter of time and circumstances. Her only son ... her only son ... “OH MY GOD! MY ONLY SON! HOW COULD YOU LET HIM DIE? MY ONLY SON! My only son. My only son.”
What is your widow’s pain? What is the widowed place in your own heart? What part of you cries out? Where do you have that deep heart-shaking loss? ...
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