Mary as Mama

A Mary Moment Monday post

Four letters, two syllables.

Mama.

Sometimes, the soothing balm to my days. Other times, pronounced in certain way, I find myself cringing, knowing what’s coming next.

Mama.

I don’t remember using this term for my own mother-figures. I don’t recall ever saying this as a child, but maybe I’ve just forgotten.

Mama.

It’s a word I don’t hear the teenagers in my life using with their mothers. Has my own seven-and-a-half-year-old started trending away from using it?

Mama.

It’s such a simple word, isn’t it?

Mama.

Though I do call Mary “Mother,” it’s to this word that I come when I think of her.

Mama.

She can be formal, poised on a statue in the front of the church with perfect hair and a well-behaved toddler boy. She can have great make-up and an unreal complexion and unrumpled clothes.

Mama.

To me, she’s more approachable with an apron and gardening gloves, a coming-lose-at-the-temples ponytail and the start of a sunburn. She’s someone I can talk to when I think of her as human (even though I know she was also sinless) and as a mom-friend (though I know she is the Queen of Heaven).

Mama.

Turning to Mary has become natural, but I sometimes forget its importance. I overlook the difference I can make, I will make, when I trust with my whole self.

Mama.

She must touch our temples, she must hold us tight. She must carry us when the tears flow so hard they blind us. She must pray for us when we don’t know what to ask. Even when we aren’t sure anyone else is there. Even when we wonder if it’s worth it to continue. Even when the bright sun can’t fight the dark night.

Mama.

A whole month for Mama. I’m glad I get a day, but even gladder that she gets a month.

image credit: Karen’s Whimsy

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