I can’t stop thinking about her. Mary.

The mother of Jesus.

Standing there at the cross, heart broken, watching the unthinkable unfold.

No screaming. No running. No rescue plan.

Just... standing.

As a mom, this verse guts me.

She once kissed those cheeks. Held those tiny hands. Whispered “I love you” as she rocked Him to sleep. And now she watched those same hands nailed to the cross. She stood just feet away while the world crucified the One she carried in her womb.

And still—she stayed. I truly could not imagine.

I often wonder…How much did Mary know?

How much did she have to surrender—as a mom—to be a part of God’s plan?

She knew her son was the Messiah. She knew He would save the world.

But did she know how brutal it would be?

Did she know that obedience would look like watching Him suffer?

The emotions she must have had to quiet…The ache she must have felt…The inner war between wanting to cling to her baby and the holy call to release Him.

It wrecks me.

So I did a deep dive into her role as His mama.

She didn't just arrive at surrender. It was a life long process.

Before she held Jesus in her arms, she had to say yes to carrying Him.

She was a teenager. Engaged.

 Ordinary.

And God asked her to surrender everything: Her reputation. Her plans. Her body. Her future.

This was the surrender of self.

And it was that first “yes” that made all the others possible.

She gave birth on a dirty floor in a town far from home, surrounded by livestock instead of family. No clean bed. No midwife. No privacy.

Just a stable, a manger, and a sky full of angels.

She laid the Savior of the world in straw and whispered lullabies over the King of Kings.

And she did it all without complaint.

Because when God asks you to carry something holy, comfort doesn’t get the final say.

 And I get that part.

The morning that Luci was born, I remember crying on the way to my ultrasound appointment, knowing things were about to change. I could feel it and I was so afraid.

I asked God to hold my hand. To walk with me through this.

I had just turned 30 weeks pregnant and the week before, I was diagnosed with preeclampsia. I was terrified.

I knew I had to surrender control over what I thought my pregnancy and birth would look like. So I did. I cried in my car that morning, and surrendered. I had no idea what would unfold that day.

March 2, 2020.

  That day, at the ultrasound appointment, the doctor was nervous.

He walked me over to triage and I was rushed in for an emergency C-section a few hours later. My blood pressure was scary high. I was losing my vision. I could feel everyone's fear spinning around me.

The doctors.

My husband.

Everything was moving faster than I could process.

But deep down, I knew—God had us. 

It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t how I imagined. But it was holy.

When I gave birth to Luci, the world was shutting down. COVID had just started.

I imagined family in the waiting room, visits from loved ones, a peaceful postpartum season. But none of that happened.

I had been launched into motherhood in the most traumatic way, and in the midst of a global pandemic. 

I didn’t have control, but I had Jesus.

And that is how my motherhood ministry started.

 That is when I knew that I had to surrender everything.

Not just my daughter's birth.

And that’s what Mary teaches us—God’s presence isn’t limited to perfect circumstances. He shows up in the chaos.

He holds us in the unknown.

He enters the world right in the middle of what feels undone.

Not long after Jesus birth, she and Joseph had to flee with Him because Herod wanted Him dead. They became refugees—new parents in a foreign land, trusting God to protect them as they ran for their lives.

Mary surrendered the idea that her family would be safe and settled.

This was the surrender of security.

As he grew into a boy, it was more surrender for her.

At twelve, He stayed behind at the temple, while Mary frantically searched for Him. When she found Him, He gently reminded her:

That must have stung. She was His mother—but He was not hers to keep.

This was the surrender of ownership. Of realizing that while she was chosen to raise Him, He ultimately belonged to God.

Then there was His ministry.

The moment He stepped into His public calling, everything changed. Mary was no longer just “Mama.” She became His follower. His witness. His humble supporter in the background.

She had to release what she thought motherhood would look like…

And let God redefine it.

Mary didn’t just surrender once. She surrendered again and again—layer by layer, year by year. And yet she did it silently. She didn't ask the world to honor her. She didn't ask for recognition or accolades. She just quietly surrendered, and then stepped aside. Because she KNEW it was for something so much greater.

Mary teaches us that motherhood isn’t one big surrender… it’s a thousand little ones. Because the reality is that we as moms don’t arrive at surrender all at once, but piece by piece, over a lifetime.

• When we lay down our sleep for midnight feedings.

• When we give up control over what our kids will face.

• When we trust God with their hearts, their future, their safety.

• When we show up for the hard conversations.

• When we let them go and pray they hold onto truth.

If you’re feeling the ache of surrender—If God is asking you to release something you desperately want to hold onto—If you’re watching your child walk a road you never would have chosen—remember that motherhood is about surrendering.

You are not failing.

You are not forgotten.

You are walking the same holy path Mary once did.

And the God who carried her will carry you, too.

Because he saw her, and he sees you too.

A Prayer for the Surrendering Mother:

Lord, I want to trust You like Mary did. Even when I don’t understand. Even when it hurts. Even when letting go feels like losing. Teach me to surrender—not out of fear, but out of faith. Give me the strength to stay present in the pain, and the courage to believe You’re still working. Let my motherhood be marked by the kind of love that follows You all the way to the cross… and beyond. Amen.