I Don't Care If Religion Is Real Or Not And It Has Probably Been Said Here Before, But If I Were Mary,

I don't care if religion is real or not and it has probably been said here before, but if I were Mary, I would've stopped believing in God the second I saw my son being almost dragged through the streets by the Romans.

God promised he would be the savior, that I would carry His son and give birth to him.

I gestated him, I felt him in my womb, I felt him kick. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh.

And when the time came, I held him when he took his first breaths, when he wailed after being born, when he was still covered in my blood, when he was but a small helpless newborn.

And I comforted him, and I nursed him, I gave him everything he would ever need. I loved him. I raised him.

I tended his wounds while on childhood. Probably taking care of his scrapped knees, maybe some splinters when he was learning to be a carpenter. Cleaning his tears after a nightmare, holding him tight after he got lost in a crowd.

I saw him perform his first miracle, my brain remembering how all those years ago, that angel promised my son to be not only the savior but also the son of God. The happiness of knowing he will be safe because he's the son of God, isn't he? God would never allow anything to happen to him.

See him grow, performing more miracles, watching him gather crowds and followers. Hearing him teach those same crowds, inspire people, help the poor, heal the wounded, resurrect the dead...

After 30 years, I would probably would have felt secure that God would never allow anything to happen to him. To his son. To my son.

I imagine how heartbreaking would have been to Mary to hear that he had been betrayed. That he was imprisoned by the Romans. That he was in danger.

And she probably prayed and prayed, begged God to take care of her son. Her child. Her baby. She was restless, trying to find ways to get to him.

She probably kept her faith and tried to keep a strong belief in God. After all, He's the creator, supreme being that would help keep His son safe.

And then she sees it, the verdict delivered by the hand of Pilate. Her son must die on a cross. And I imagine her faith waver, thinking that no, it has to be a mistake. God will save him. He has to. Her son is not only the savior but also an innocent man.

Yet there he was. Carrying a cross. A crown of thorns over his forehead, the same she had kissed goodnight so many times before. His frame holding the heavy cross, the same frame she had hugged goodbye, probably less than a month ago. His back bloodied by the lashes that the Romans delivered onto him, the same back she rubbed to take the burps out when he was a baby.

And God doesn't help him. He doesn't intervene. He doesn't save her precious little boy. He doesn't hear her begging.

They crucified him, they put nails through his wrists, blood dripping down, the same blood she has running through her veins. And she hears him wail in pain, but she can't hug him and tell him he'll be fine.

She sees him up there, suffering, barely conscious for three consecutive days. Three days when the Romans poked him with a spear, cutting the same ribs, she probably massaged when he was sick as a kid.

And I honestly believe that she would've lost all her faith. She wailed in pain and despair, screaming to the sky in anger, clutching her heart because her baby, the supposed savior, was dead. They took him from her.

She had given her body, her milk, and now her tears, to a God that could not even bother to give her son a merciful end, to take his pain away. She gave everything of her and still lost him.

So I don't think she would've kept being faithful to God or even keep believing in Him. He used her, and it was only then, only when she could see her son being tortured, that she started realizing it.