Mother Mary

I thought my day was going to be filled with worry about the sudden decline of my 14-year-old dog. And then I heard the siren.

I live in the city, so the sounds of sirens usually don’t disrupt my day. This one was different. It stopped at the house next door, and we soon realized that death had come to our neighborhood.

Our neighbor was a much loved son, grandson, brother and friend. His death brought darkness to our street and immeasurable pain to his family.

I’m old, and I’m a cradle Catholic; and that morning I felt compelled to head to Mass at my parish. As I sat in the pew, I looked at the crucifix above the altar and I thought of Mary.

I imagined how the young teenage mother must have counted the fingers and toes of her newborn Son as she rested in the stable.

She was probably younger than 30 when she watched Him sitting in the temple with the teachers, listening and asking questions.

Life must have settled into a wonderful normalcy when He joined his father, Joseph, in the family carpentry shop. And when He began His earthly ministry, was Mary filled with wonder? With fear?

We know she had confidence that He could transform water into the finest wine, and that she was often in the crowd when He preached.

As His ministry grew, I’m sure she heard the praise and the adulation for her Son. Did she hear the murmurings? The grumblings? When did her trepidation grow?

I hope she was there during His triumphant entrance into Jerusalem, watching fellow Jews sing Hosannas in His honor. Was she with Him during the trial in Pilate’s court? Did she see the soldiers mock Him and cover His head with a crown of thorns?

During Lent, we pray the Stations of the Cross. At the fourth station, we remember that Jesus met his mother along the Via Dolorosa. What great pain she must have felt. She was a mother. How she must have longed to take His agony away.

We are told that she was at the foot of the cross as His side was pierced with a lance, and that she was there when He died.

More than 500 years ago, Michelangelo took a block of marble and carved the most heart-wrenching image of her holding the lifeless body of her precious son, his holy hands and feet mangled by nails.

Every mother wants good things for her children. And every mother suffers when her children suffer.

I pray that God our loving Father will divinely comfort all the broken-hearted women who have lost their dear children.