Do You Think He Cried?

Nicole Johnson reflects on the pain of seeing your child suffer and the peace she finds in asking for the Blessed Mother’s intervention.

Do you think He cried?

Jesus, that is.

I do wonder. When He looked down at His mother from the cross, near His final moments, did He cry? And if so, what was behind those tears? What was the depth of sadness like for Him? Was there anger mixed in? Fear? Confusion?

How did Mary carry it all? Her strength and perseverance: it’s unfathomable. From the moment she was greeted by the Angel Gabriel, her very heart—and every emotion she would feel as her son grew in her womb to his final breaths—was all out of her control. Like many a mother’s heart, it beat in rhythm and ebbed and flowed with that of her child.

It was a few months ago that I held my own son while he cried. He’s 20 years old and over six feet tall, but he will, of course, always be my baby. My baby cried—oh, did he cry. It was as if he couldn’t cry hard enough but he so needed to cleanse himself of the anger and fear and confusion: this pain that threatened to swallow him whole. This was not a skinned knee he was presenting me with. There was no band-aid large enough, no fast-acting numbing spray I could use to give him any relief.

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This was a broken heart—shattered, in fact—and he had no idea how to piece himself together. His girlfriend of two and a half years had broken up with him. During this time, she had become his best friend, his person, his everything. And just like that, she was gone. The timing of the break was especially difficult, as my son had just transferred to a new school and was far from home and everyone he loved. He had already been fighting a growing sense of depression, and had now lost his one true source of joy.

And in the depths of despair is where I found my child. It was as if he was standing over the pieces of his heart, wondering how he would ever feel whole again. By the grace of God, at 20 years of age, grief had never found him. And now that it had, he felt totally helpless in finding his way out from under its weight. I went to him and I simply held him while he cried. There is just no greater pain than seeing your child suffer. And no greater frustration than not being able to fix it. And no greater opportunity to hand it all over and place him in the arms of Jesus. Mercifully, I held my son and Jesus held us both.

The tears eventually dried, but anyone who has dealt with grief knows that the road to healing is long and bumpy and filled with unknowns. This incredibly talented, vibrant child of mine who loves deeply, laughs until he cries, and effortlessly illuminates any room he walks into, now walks beneath a weight that is unforgivingly heavy. I feel that weight in my heart as if it is my own. I’d take it all from him if I could.

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There is no greater pain than seeing your child suffer, no greater frustration than not being able to fix it, no greater opportunity to hand it all over and place him in the arms of Jesus. #CatholicMom

I’ve always been one to turn to Mary, and in the past few months I’ve held tight to her promise to bring our intentions before her son. She knows pain like no other. I trust her so deeply to listen to my pleas and to respond with the compassion and presence I’ve come to count on. I recently came to learn the Memorare and now pray it several times a day, as if I’m sitting next to Mary and conversing with her—another mother who knows what it feels like to watch your son suffer and not be able to fix it. I’m boundlessly grateful for her example and for the comfort I find in being wrapped in her love.

The power of prayer continually amazes me and leaves me humbled in my role, my miraculous role of a mother. I’m pretty sure it won’t ever be easy, but this love that knows no bounds will always, always be worth it.

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