By Rebecca van Noppen
When David and I left a family business over 15 years ago, we headed into the unknown. Trying to follow God’s leading, trying to obey, trying to give our daily YES to God.
Saying YES. That became for us an acronym.
Yielded to God.
Established in love.
Servants unto death.
Big words. Very big words, in fact, found within three small letters. A YES that eventually led us to More Than Enough Financial, and keeps us here today.
During this Easter week, I picked up a book about the suffering of Christ, as reflected in the 1499 marble sculpture by Michelangelo Buonarroti called the Pieta. I had previously read Ken Gire’s book Shaped By The Cross about Christ and this sculpture, but this time there was something about the image of Mary sorrowfully contemplating the dead body of her son in her lap. I was arrested. Her face, His body. It opened up thoughts and reflections about Mary’s YES. And how that YES at Gabriel’s visit, was a YES to love’s encompassing sorrow and joy. Mary may not have held her son in his death, but Buonarroti’s work even in photographs has opened a door to help me gain a sense of Mary’s grief, and the magnitude of her first YES.
Christ’s crucifixion is more than just a story. It is the truth of His scourging and death. Jesus really did live, but He really did die. For all those who loved Him, that day was a striking grief, like a sword to pierce the soul.
So as I think of the YES that led David and me to More Than Enough Financial in 2008, I reflect on Mary’s greater YES, that led her to the Cross.
She said YES.
“Let it be to me as you say.”
Let it be. And she said yes.
But a yes—unrecognizable. A yes spoken too young, too little understood. A yes to paths of love, longing, sadness and tears. A yes to childbirth, immigration, and running from fear. A yes to pain and grief—as the unexpected sword would find its way inside.
Her yes was a yes to fleeing death fears and the tumbling of tears. A yes to tearing, ripping from hands and heart. A yes to a world spinning and turning and wielding its sword of thorns and blood.
Yet.
Her yes was filled with laughter, of a toddler’s little feet, and the wonder of watching Jesus overcome defeat. Too soon the crying baby, suckling at her breast, had wandered into crowds away from brothers, home and rest. But wandering and leaving, he found deeper learning still, and spoke out all his questions that amazed bewildered men.
But after.
Three days.
Three days.
Found after.
Found.
And the yes so freely given, became murky with the sound. Let it be to me as you say. And the yes caught in her throat. What more? What more? What more will come? Let it be to me as you say. More pain, more joy? What more will come? Let it be to me as you say.
Her own yes came back to thwart her. Yes now. At every turn. The water turning to wine again, and the crowds pushing her away. Yes now. Not now. No more. Not now. Let it be to me as you say. The yes I gave comes back again. Let it be to me as you say.
Her yes. His yes. Caught, snagged, unraveling. How much more of this she bears? This yes, like garment, torn undone, leaves her naked against the gale. And as she stands in that wind, atop the hill she finds…
Her son.
Her son, hanging.
Alone and grey and bare.
She hears the cry, the earth cracks wide, and the daylight disappears.
He’s gone. Her yes. Is now thrown down. Her yes breaks through her heart.
And here before the cross she cries. She holds her son and says, my yes, is yours, my yes, is His, let it be to me as was said.
And then. She hears the whispered response. Carried now in stillness.
“Just wait and see. Be not dismayed. Your yes will rise again.”
But after.
Three days.
Three days.
Found after.
Found.
Her YES, His YES, rise again.