by J. GRANT SWANK JR.

in chains. He was dressed in that dreaded orange outfit. His otherwise handsome face was grimaced, especially as he shot shamed glances at his mother and me when enter- ing through the side door. Guards were on either side of him. He would end up in a federal prison for several years. His mother and I knew that Jay was on a course of self-destruction. He had run away from home several times, was unruly when he was in a surly mood, and had no regard for authorities. Not good for making it through this life. Nevertheless, as my striking multira- cial boy stood straight before the judge, I saw not that grown teen, but a little baby only two and a half months old. That was his age when we adopted him, gave him my name, and hugged him to our hearts. I saw in front of me not a man before the law but a little babe, a tiny tot, cuddly and warm, smelling of fresh powder and looking endearingly into my face. He was wrapped in that first blue blanket we bought him. He was smiling, cooing. How we delighted in showing him off to everyone we met!

SHACKLEDAND HOPE?

A

SON

S I SAT in that courtroom— cold, impersonal, austere space—I looked straight ahead at my teen son with his feet

a child goes wayward, the parents are cut through and through with the memories of childhood. I attempted to get him to understand the sharp, twisting sword that cuts right through every one of life’s muscles.

,

Then I recalled visiting him in the state youth center after one of his earlier escapades. My wife and I dreaded that crudely-put-together waiting room. We had to sign in and behave ourselves as if we were under some sort of investiga- tion. If this was the “cordiality” we were accorded, what were the youth enduring? As Jay would come into the room to visit with us each Sunday afternoon, I saw there not so much my misbehaving son, but a squirming baby boy in my arms, held tightly to my heart. Then I saw him as a toddler, then off to the waiting bus on his first day at school, and then a pre- teen all dressed up for some event. During one visit, a distraught mother from the northern part of our state intro- duced herself to us. She too was waiting to see her troubled teen son. Soon her boy came through the door, dragging along the chains on his feet. In an instant that anguished mother jumped to her feet to embrace her own. Many tears flowed from the two of them. Not much in the way of words, but much in the language of the soul. I could feel in her the wretched pierc- ing of that sword, just as it had pierced my heart on too many occasions. There was a mother seeing not so much her 16-year-old son, but her 6-day-old new- born, her 6-week-old baby, her 6-month- old growing child.

While my son was in prison, I wrote him a letter in which I related that when

So it is once again this Easter I think of another parent. Her name was Mary. She carried in her womb the Son of all sons—Jesus. In the jubilation of that pregnancy, however, there was a sword promised her. When Jesus was 6 weeks old, the prophet Simeon warned Mary, “A sword will pierce your own soul” (Luke 2:35 NIV).

Mary! I will never fathom how you lived through your utter brokenness. It is beyond my imagination. When I com- pare the pain that my wife and I have endured, how then did you ever stand up beneath all that anguish inflicted on your holy offspring, Jesus?

He too wore the chains. He too was scoffed and derided, led before authori- ties for harsh scowls and snickers. He was then laced between heaven and earth for crimes that He never committed, but for crimes that we have done. Yet through it all, you stayed there beneath His bleeding frame—patiently praying, wrestling with the shame.

Surely, as you looked into the face of your grown Son at Calvary, you held in your arms the precious Bethle- hem baby. Cuddling Him. Kissing His cheeks. Spreading your kind fingers across His brow. Wanting to rub out those fears and injustices.

When He was but a tiny one, as you held Him in your arms beneath heaven’s brightest star, you knew in your heart of hearts that someday you would hold Him in your arms when He lay limp from the cross. How could it be?

At this Easter, I give praise to God for Mary, a parent who endured the sword, who stayed true to her Son despite that sword. May every parent who endures such suffering find the courage Mary found in God.

J. Grant Swank Jr. is a

minister and writer who lives in Windham, Maine.

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