Wasted Dreams

Wasted Dreams

I remember when I learned you were on the way. It was hard for me to tell your father; a new bride knew nothing of how to tell such news, but when he finally learned, all embarrassment left. His face is so stern, but that day, when he learned that I carried his child, I saw a different man. He smiled and shouted for a celebration to be held, for he knew that his son would be born.

I have to confess, I was afraid all the time I carried you. Your father was so convinced I carried his son, and I feared his wrath if you had not been a boy. The time came. When I was finally delivered, I kept my eyes shut. Strange, isn’t it? I longed to see you, my child I had carried for so many months, had cherished within me for so long, but I feared your father’s wrath. Then I heard the midwife’s proclamation and against all orders, I sat up and demanded my son.

Oh, when I held you for the first time and looked at you, such dreams filled my heart and mind. I pictured you running and laughing and playing; I saw you at school, learning and excelling. I saw you bringing joy and happiness to your father’s house. Then he came in and demanded his son. He took you, and once again, that stern visage transformed as he held you in his strong arms. His eyes softened, and his mouth formed the most wonderful words I had heard since our marriage: “Well done, my wife. Thank you for bringing me the heritage I have dreamed of. He will do well.”

Placing you back in my arms, your father strode from the room, and I held you, knowing that for a few short years, you were mine. Those times were so precious, my son. I cherish every memory, every second of laughter, every tear wiped away, every sweet story tucked away in my heart.

It soon grew obvious that you were as your father had predicted you would be, brilliant beyond your years. Of course, nothing was too good for you. I did my best to caution him, to guide you into understanding that brilliance is, in itself, simply a gift and in itself undeserved, but I fear I soon lost any influence I might have had. You excelled, of course, in your training, and how your father boasted as he saw you forge ahead at your studies.

Then it happened. You met . . . Him. The Rabbi. The One who was bringing division to our people, the One who many said was the Messiah. At first, I thought you were simply investigating, but it soon became obvious that you had become a follower of this strange Man.

Oh, my son, do you know how many nights your father remained up, sleepless, pacing the halls, trying to discern how to regain what he had lost? Do you know the ridicule he endured from his friends because of the choices you made to follow such a strange Leader? He is such a proud man, and so faithful to the teachings of the Prophets and to follow the Law. Try as he might, he could not reconcile your decisions with what he knew to be the will of the Holy One.

Did you understand why he made the decision he did? Did you ever grasp what pain it cost him to declare you dead to his family? Did you ever understand that all it would have taken would have been for you to apologize, to tell him you were wrong? He would have welcomed you back so quickly, so fully. Life without you was, for him, much like life without purpose at all.

I have often wondered if things would have been different if the Lord had seen fit to send us more children, but in His wisdom, He only sent us one. When we lost that one to the ways of a Stranger, your father didn’t know what to do, and gradually, he grew . . . old, infirm. He became unable to make decisions as he used to–or perhaps he was simply unwilling. I don’t know. I only know his heart was empty..

Then it happened. Your Rabbi was arrested. Persecuted. Crucified. I grieved for you, my son, because I believed you would be heartbroken. Then the stories came. We heard that you were the one who betrayed Him, the one who told the Sanhedrin where to find Him. In an odd way, that was a last gift to your father, because he began to believe that you really had changed, you really had turned back to the ways of our fathers. He began to walk tall, to command again. I dared to hope.

But now, now I sit alone, sitting Shiva for my son who has taken his own life and for my husband, who died of an emptied dream and a hopeless heart. And I wonder, my son, I wonder, as you went and hanged yourself, did you, my precious Judas, did you even think of us? We, who gave you so much and crippled you by teaching you to think first and foremost of yourself, were we in your thoughts at all? If we were to live life again, would things change? Or were your decisions already made?

A strange thing happened to me today. Another mother visited me. She, too, lost a Son. She, too, knows what it is like to see a child die. I thought she came to revile me. I wouldn’t blame her. Tell me, Judas, you who spent time with this woman, this Mary, wife of Joseph, how could you leave her devastated and alone; how could you betray her child as you betrayed your own parents? Mary has invited me to come with her, to meet with friends who, she says, can help me understand and will welcome me. I at first said no, but she is persistent, that one.

So today, my Judas, I will follow your tradition by breaking traditions of the house. I will go with Mary to meet with her friends. And perhaps, just perhaps, as I fall at their feet and ask their forgiveness for what you did, I might find some sort of peace for myself. Mary says she thinks it is very possible I can find real peace by doing so. For some reason, I believe her.

Why? She’s a mother. She understands that in spite of all that has happened, in spite of all that you did, I love you, my son, my life, my beloved Judas.