Daisies In Diaries 7: The Sword In My Heart

Hello dear sisters, and welcome to Daisies in Diaries.

 

What we do here is very simple. We retell diaries that were never really written down, but could have been. These women from the Bible, from history, from the faith, lived real lives, went through real struggles, cried real tears  , and made real choices.

 

So we take one moment from their story, and we imagine it in diary form to make it close, alive, and relatable. We picture what they might have thought, what they might have whispered, how they might have prayed on that day.

 

Each time we meet, we pluck one daisy, we open one diary, and we let their story speak into ours.

 

Today, the diary we are opening is from Mary of Nazareth. This entry is titled: The Sword in My Heart!

 

 

Daisies In Diaries 7: The Sword In My Heart

 

When Simeon told me thirty-three years ago that a sword would pierce my soul, I thought he meant the ordinary pain of motherhood. 

 

 

I thought it was about watching a child you so much love grow, walk away, and become his own man. 

 

I had no idea that the sword he spoke of would cut this deep. Oh! 

 

What has happened in these past days is worse than any wound the body can bear. 

 

Diary, it feels like a thousand blades are lodged inside me. I know I have aged older than my years in the last three days. I have aged in body, in soul, and in body with so much grief.  Every breath feels like a fresh tear in my chest. Every thought burns like fire.

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It has been three days since I last saw my Jesus alive. Three days since the cross. My Son. My Lord. My baby. 

 

To stand beneath that hill and watch Him die, helpless, unable to reach Him, unable to pull out those nails, unable to take His place, that is the truest death a mother can ever die!

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The house is quiet now, too quiet. Everyone is sleeping, or at least trying to. The air is thick with grief. The faces of my brothers and sisters are still swollen from tears. Only Mary of Magdala is awake. I can hear her in the kitchen. She keeps pounding the spices for His burial, slow and heavy. Every few moments she stops to whisper, “My Lord, my Lord,” her voice shaking. Her tears keep falling into the mixture. The smell of myrrh and oil fills the room, blending with smoke and sorrow.

 

 

Peter is still upstairs. He hasn’t spoken since the crucifixion. I hear him pacing, groaning like someone in a nightmare. He won’t let anyone in. He is drowning in regret. I can feel it in every creak of the floorboards. He loved Jesus deeply, and he truly believed he would never fail Him. And I can hear it in his voice, that deep ache of love and regret.

 

He loved Jesus so much.

 

He truly thought he would never deny Him…

 

But fear is stronger than most people know. Still, I know the Lord loves him. The Lord always loved him. Even from that cross, I saw mercy in His eyes for Peter too. I know He missed him at the cross.

 

How could He not have one of his best friends at His worst moment?

 

John has been sleeping near me on the floor since the crucifixion. He is young, but sorrow has made him look much older in these few days. Even in sleep, his arm stays around me as if he is guarding me.

 

Before sleep took him some minutes back, he whispered, “Mother, I will not leave you.”

 

His voice was soft but firm, like a promise. He has been careful to obey Jesus’ last words, “Behold your mother.” Sometimes he still calls me Mother in his sleep. It comforts him, and it comforts me too. His mouth hangs slightly open now, and I can see that sleep finally won over his tears. I want to thank him, but I have no strength to speak.

 

I keep seeing everything. The road. The dust. The blood. The way He stumbled under the cross. He had known wood all His life. He used to lift it so easily in Joseph’s workshop. His hands were steady and strong when He built tables and mended doors.

 

But that day the wood crushed Him.

 

I can still see His back bent under its weight. His knees scraped against the stones. His hands, those same hands that healed the sick, were bleeding. 

 

I tried to reach Him, but the soldiers pushed me back. I cried out His name, but the noise swallowed my voice.

Then Simon came.

Oh, bless that man. He did not come to help. They forced him. Yet when he took the cross, something changed. His face softened. If he had not taken it, my Son would not have reached the hill. I wish I had thanked him.

 

 

Also Read: Daisies in Diaries 5

 

When we reached Golgotha, I thought my heart would stop. The sky was turning dark even though it was early. The ground smelled of iron and sweat. They offered my Son a drink to numb the pain, but He refused it. I do not know why.

 

Sometimes I think He wanted to take every bit of the pain, to feel every sting of the curse. Perhaps He wanted nothing between Him and the cup the Father had given Him.

 

Ah, what a yielded life!

 

Then came the hammer.

 

The sound still lives inside my bones. The metal hit the wood. The nails went through flesh. The crowd gasped. I could not look away. My Son’s arms stretched out, His fingers twitching, His body jerking from the pain. The wood shook under Him. And yet, not one curse left His lips. Only mercy. He whispered, “Father, forgive them. They do not know what they are doing.”

 

If there was anything that always defined Him, it was how close He was to His Father. He talked about Him like a friend. But on that cross, I heard Him cry out loud. I had never seen Him like that all His life. He cried so loudly: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”

 

He called His Father ‘My God’ for the first time ever! It had always been ‘My Father, my Father!’

 

That cry will never leave me. The world grew silent after that. Even the soldiers looked uneasy. The sky was black. The earth began to tremble. It was as though creation itself could not bear to watch.

 

 

And then He saw me. He looked down. His face was bleeding and broken, yet His eyes found mine. There was love still shining in them. There was peace. He could barely speak, but He said, “Woman, behold your son.” And then to John, “Behold your mother.” 

 

 

Ah, even in agony, He cared for me. Oh, my tears are unstopped. Ahhhh!

 

When He cried, “It is finished,” something broke in the world. The earth shook, the rocks split, and I fell to my knees with the other ladies. 

 

It felt like the end of everything. They pierced His side, and blood and water flowed down. I wanted to scream. I could not. My tears fell into the dust where His blood was spilled. I kissed the ground, trying to hold on to what little of Him I could still touch.

 

How could they kill such a man? He was pure. Gentle. He fed their hungry, healed their sick, touched their lepers, and raised their dead. Yet they shouted, “Crucify Him.” I cannot understand this world. How can people kill the very one who came to save them?

 

Why did no one stop it? Why did heaven stay silent? Why did the Father not tear the sky apart sooner?

 

Save His people from their sins.

 

That was what the angel told me when I first held Him. I thought it meant He would rule, that He would conquer the oppressors and bring peace. I never imagined that salvation would look like this.

 

That the Son of God would hang between thieves.

 

That the child I once nursed would be stripped, mocked, and lifted like a curse.

 

Oh, what humiliation.

 

But dairy, do you know what else happened that shocked us? People keep talking.

 

That even the Temple Veil was torn into two!!!

 

Yes, the great veil in the Temple of our fathers!

That ancient curtain that only the high priest could pass through once in a year!

It ripped right down the middle the very moment He died!!

 

Some say they saw it with their own eyes. Others said the priests came out running, their faces pale with fear.

 

What could it mean?

That veil was what separated man from God, the sinner from His holiness.

 

How could it tear by itself?

 

And not just that. There are rumours that graves opened too. People said they saw the dead walking through the street. The holy ones who had slept for years woke up. I cannot tell if these stories are true. But somehow, I know that something shifted that day.

Heaven moved. Earth shook.

Life and death touched each other, and death lost its power.

 

Even now, the air feels strange, like something unseen is waiting to happen. Every sound outside feels like a signal. Every breeze against the window feels alive. I cannot understand it, but deep inside I know this is not the end. It cannot be the end.

 

They killed Him, yes. But they could not kill His words. They could not kill His promise. They could not kill His light.

 

Joseph of Arimathea came for the body. I followed them. My legs were weak, my feet dragging in the dust. I watched them wrap Him gently. They laid Him in a new tomb. When the stone rolled into place, the sound thundered through me.

 

And now, here I sit. The Sabbath passed like a blur. No one spoke much. The children of the neighbors kept asking what the Rabbi did wrong, and we had no answer. Everyone is weary. Everyone is empty.

 

Ah, I mourn. I mourn sorrowfully. 

 

You know, Joseph was taken from me long before I was ready. It happened so suddenly, so quietly, as if heaven just came and took him away while I was still holding on. He was my comfort, my companion, the one who helped me believe that all those strange prophecies and angelic messages were real. And now, they have taken my Son, my firstborn Son.

 

Sometimes I wonder how much one heart can hold. How can love and loss live in the same body without tearing it apart?

 

Still, I tell myself that my life belongs to Yahweh. I gave it to Him from the beginning. I told Him that my story could be whatever He wanted it to be, even if I did not understand it. I have always known that this story would shake the world. I just never knew it would shake me like this.

 

Every time I close my eyes, I see Him. I dream of Him standing before me, His robe shining white, His face full of light. He calls me “Mother.” He says, “Mother, why are you crying? Come, wipe your tears.” Then He wraps His arms around me, and I feel peace.

 

It is so real that when I wake up, I almost expect to see Him sitting beside me. But when I open my eyes, the room is dark again, and I remember. The stillness presses on me like a weight.

 

So I try to fall asleep again, just to meet Him there, in that place between life and heaven. That is the only place I still feel close to Him.

 

Mary of Magdala and the other women have been preparing to go to the tomb at dawn. They say they will take the spices to anoint Him properly. They tried to tell me to stay behind, to rest, but I cannot. I told them I am going with them. I must.

 

 

I keep wondering who will roll the stone away for us. The guards are there, and the seal of Rome is strong. But I still want to go. I cannot explain it, but something inside me keeps stirring.

 

There is a strange warmth that has been growing in my heart since the sky turned black on that hill. It feels like something is waiting to happen, like heaven is holding its breath.

 

I need to see Him again.

I need to touch Him one more time, even if His body is cold.

 

Maybe there will be a miracle. Maybe what I have seen in my dreams will happen in the morning. 

 

I cannot wait for the light to break. The night feels endless. My heart is trembling. My hands are shaking.

 

Oh Yahweh, help my heart to hold on until morning.

 

Lessons from Mary’s Diary

 

1. God’s story doesn’t always make sense at first: When the angel said, “He shall save His people from their sins,” Mary never imagined that saving would come through death. Sisters, sometimes what God promised looks like it’s falling apart, but it’s actually falling into place.

 

2. The higher the calling, the deeper the crushing: Mary was chosen to carry God Himself, yet her journey was filled with pain, misunderstanding, and loss. The womb that bore the Light also bore sorrow. But every crushing releases fragrance. Every piercing births power. Thank God Mary gave the world Jesus. Thank God she yielded!!!

 

3. Obedience may lead through dark paths, but it never ends in darkness: Mary obeyed from the start. “Be it unto me according to Your Word.” That obedience led her to Bethlehem, to Egypt, to Nazareth, and finally to the foot of the cross. But beyond the cross was an empty tomb. Whatever obedience costs you, it will never cost you more than what it gives back.

 

4. Grief can be holy if it still hopes: Mary’s tears were not wasted. Every drop was caught by heaven. When you love God deeply, even your pain becomes worship.

 

5. When the Father seems far, remember: the veil has torn: Mary watched the Temple Veil rip apart. She didn’t know then that God was showing her something. That there would never again be separation between man and God. Sisters, you can come close now. You can come freely.

 

6. Don’t despise the silence of God: Between the cross and the resurrection, heaven was quiet. But even in the silence, God was working. The greatest miracles are often born in stillness.

 

7. When all you can do is cry, cry in His direction: Mary couldn’t pray long prayers. She couldn’t quote scriptures. She could only cry. But every tear she cried was toward God. Keep your tears pointed heavenward. That’s still prayer.

 

8. God sees your faithfulness in the waiting: When everyone else hid, Mary stayed. When the disciples fled, she stood. When others gave up, she still planned to anoint His body. God always rewards those who stay.

 

9. Heaven is never far from a broken heart: The Bible says, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted.” Mary’s house was filled with grief, yet heaven was already preparing the resurrection morning. Sisters, when your heart is broken, heaven moves closer.

 

10. The darkest nights are often the hours before dawn: Mary sat trembling, waiting for morning, not knowing that the morning would bring the greatest news ever told. Sisters, if your night feels endless, hold on. Morning is already walking toward you.

 

Rounding Off:

And here, sisters, we close today’s diary. What a fragrance it has left with us!

 

Do you want to read more diaries? Read other Episodes of Daisies in Diaries Here

 

Until next time, when another story unfolds, may your own life and mine also become a diary that whispers God’s faithfulness to generations after us