Our son coughed a little during one Saturday night. At church the next day he started running a fever, and as his temperature went up he started having trouble breathing. We left the service early, and by nightfall he was struggling to draw each breath.

No doctor had officially labeled the problem yet. I grew up with asthma. I know all about the days missed from school, the constant medication, and the innumerable trips to the doctor. I have known the bitter disappointment of preparing for months for a sports event only to experience a sudden attack that robs strength, breath, and the opportunity to compete.

I thought of all this as I tried to help my son get to sleep that night. I rubbed between his shoulders, which were hunched in the way asthmatics naturally roll their shoulders to take the pressure off their lungs. I listened to him inhale in wheezing misery and exhale through lips pursed as his body instinctively tried to create back pressure to expand his bronchial tubes another micro-millimeter.

My son was miserable, but the difficulty he was having was not greater than the pain I was feeling. I had already experienced each of these asthma reactions a thousand times. I knew the life that lay ahead for my son, and my heart was crying out, "Oh, my child, how I wish I could spare you what I went through."

It was in those moments of heartbreak for my son that I thought of mercy. I remembered another who went through such misery that it took his breath away. I thought of other shoulders rolled in suffering against the wood of a cross. I recalled the one whose weight hung on nails so cruel that each breath was torture. He willingly took the agony my sins deserve, all so that his lips pursed with pain could express, "Oh my child, now I will spare you what I go through."