Black Sheep Friday

A Mother's Perspective

Apr 18, 2025

As the mother of a man in prison, I feel Good Friday in the pit of my stomach— and not for the reasons which might be considered proper or expected or righteous.

Easter week centers on the sentencing and execution of a human being.

A man they have called The Lamb. At the risk of sounding blasphemous I will posit that Jesus was the OG Black Sheep. He hung out with hookers and criminals and he rebelled against the rules until it got him killed.

First century scholars (Roman and Jewish and Christian alike) documented his political execution. Regardless of our affiliations and belief systems, we are assured that this horrific event took place at the hands of the Roman government, as sanctioned by the moral authority of the day.

Though the cross is known to us as the principle symbol of the Christian faith, it recalls the brutality of mankind’s idea of “justice.” Guilty only of challenging the status quo, Jesus was dragged into court, accused, convicted, and hung for his ‘crimes.’

And his mother was present for it.

Every year at this time, I go a little off script.

Rightly or wrongly, sacrilege or human interest, I align with the motherhood of Mary in a bizarre way. While everyone else focuses on the cross, I look into the crowd sideways. Mom to mom. She would have been about 50 years old when her son was arrested— approximately my age.

For the record, I have a complicated relationship with Religion. Who doesn’t? While it is not the topic of this blog, readers must know that I am endlessly grappling with big Why questions; walking around daily with God-sized needs. I have never prayed for miracles like I do now but I am not qualified, nor do I aim, to preach any sermons. I am not elevating myself to Mary’s historical significance nor am I aligning myself with any measure of holiness. The death of her son is not the same as the imprisonment of mine. But on Good Friday, I embody the horror of Mary’s loss.

Shortly after his birth, in the throes of postpartum depression, I envisioned my son suffering as an adult. I had a sudden realization that I had brought a human being onto this planet who would know loss, pain, and eventually death. Though I would not call it prophecy, per se, it terrified me. That moment is still so vivid a memory that I can recall exactly where I was standing and exactly how his helpless newborn-face looked up at me. As preschool teachers began to warn me and other adults shared their concerns about my growing child, it was clear that my son was different. It was clear that I had my hands full. In my guts, I knew that he would suffer early and often.

If you believe any historical accounts about his life, Mary knew from birth that Jesus would cause her own soul to stir and, eventually, suffer. She was warned. She watched him defy convention and authority for years. She knew he was destined to walk a lonely path; that it would likely end in his physical demise.

BUT—

I wonder how she really felt as the premonitions became real life events.

What did she feel, for instance, watching her son mock the Roman government, tempting his own death? I want to know if she tried to bargain with her God as her son was walked into the custody of authorities. Was she shamed and diminished by the comments and looks of the gawking, judging public? Did she hate the evil in this world as much as I do now?

As the memories of his life replayed in her mind— the miracle and mess of his birth, the gregarious years, and all of the potential that she had nurtured; even if she had support, she stood alone in her grief.

It is a unique life experience to be the mom of an accused.

Blameless or 100% guilty, it unfolds the same when the powers of government judge your child's behavior. I have heard my son plead guilty. I was there to watch him be taken away by men with weapons. And I have laid awake knowing that he is cold and hungry and being mistreated.

It is a pain unlike any other.

Though she could not have known that week, Mary’s experience had political and societal ramifications that have echoed around the globe for 20 centuries. Whether Jesus was stark-raving mad or the Son of God is for you to decide— but his mother was just a human female walking along the complicated path that became her son's life. To the very end, she bore it as only a mother could.

This, I understand better with each passing year.

Lord Willing

My son’s incarceration will, Lord willing, not end in death. The hope of him coming home keeps me from despair. Each season change brings a sense that I am closer to seeing him again in the free world. It is also a taunting reminder that he is not.

The tree buds this month are inventory of another year’s worth of days gone by. It'll soon be one year since I was last allowed to hug him. One year since I have held my child. Another year that he is not in the backyard, not stopping by to throw a ball with his younger brother— the brother, who has grown at least a foot since they last saw one another.

On spring days, I see him there in the yard as a toddler. A young boy hitting things with a stick and throwing rocks and laughing at our dog. I relive the fears for his teetering independence, and think about all that I have learned to let go. I can hear his adult laugh echo through the trees as the dog manically rips through the dead leaves, getting muddy in the river, chasing the geese.

The joviality of him, always with me.

He will not be here again this weekend— I will not look out from the kitchen to see my first born standing on the deck with my other kids. No heaping helpings of cheesy potatoes, no racing his siblings to find hidden eggs with the money and jelly beans tucked inside.

While driving this week, I saw a fielding team take their place on the ball diamond behind a school— their uniforms still crisp. I exhaled loudly. For everyone else, it's spring. For me, it is another reminder of how it felt to be his mom before this mess of sin and handcuffs and collect calls. The days before he branded himself the Black Sheep and society concurred.

I wonder if Mary forgave the men who took and mistreated her son. She had seen their faces, watched them be disgustingly cruel to her child. It would be nothing short of divine to be able to find peace beyond that heartbreak.

Rudely (or perhaps in reverence), no one tells us anything about Mary after Jesus is gone. After he fulfilled his promises and left, who did she become? I am not asking for a theological explanation. I am asking as a mom. I am asking how she continued to live on this forsaken planet, having seen all that she had.

Mary is the OG Black Sheep Mom.

Her and I are connected across 20 centuries as my son attends a service each week to hear about her son. Never a religious man, my boy has been thankful to Jesus for getting him outside of his cell every Friday to attend the prisoner-led Christian group in his unit. It is a small relief to me that they will open his cell door today and let him walk to another room— in Jesus's name.

Oh, a prisoner who found Jesus— how original.

Yes, a prisoner who found Jesus. And until you have been there, please do not assume where you might look for grace and mercy. Until you are in them, do not claim that the rebellion of Jesus would not offer you freedom from a life in chains. This man who offered friendship and peace to the outcasts— a man whose last recorded conversation gave hope to a condemned criminal. Yes, that is exactly the person our loved ones in prison hope to find. That is the Jesus I want to know.

I don’t know how Mary went on in life post-conviction and post-death penalty, but if Jesus re-appeared to anyone after his death, I hope that he came to see his mom. I hope she got to touch his face and see him standing before her, healed and whole. I hope she got to see him set free— rising above all that had happened in their lives, over the darkness that had tried to bury them both.

I think she deserved that hug most.