death

Nine days ago, it was Christmas. Nine days ago, it was a whole different year than now, 2010. Nine days ago, I began a special novena to Our Lady of Sorrows.

Today is an anniversary our family will hold dear and commemorate for many years to come. It is one that marked a ripping apart, a journey into pain, a year of worst fears coming true.

We have spent the year in prayer. We have spent the year with many tears.

We’re not done praying. We’re not done crying either.

All year, I’ve found myself examining Mary in light of sorrow and grief and especially in her title as Our Lady of Sorrows. I’ve gripped her hand and tried to let her do the worrying. I’ve placed worries and tears in her lap, trusting that her Son would nestle there and have special consideration for that heavy pile.

I want to write a lovely tribute about my deceased brother-in-law who, I’m ashamed to admit, I’ve come to admire and respect so much more in the closeness that’s come since his passing. I want to share deep thoughts and life-changing insights, but the fact is…I find that I can’t.

For one thing, it doesn’t feel like it’s my place. For another, I am at a loss for words. Though they usually string together for me, this time, they aren’t. They won’t. And I’m not forcing it.

When we watch our loved ones suffer, we suffer too. When we find ourselves unable to relieve them of their burden, we are changed, however slightly. This year, I have felt helpless, and I know I’m not the only one. I have done what I could, but it has felt piddling and inconsequential in the face of the huge pain and impossibility of so many aspects of this situation.

I have, above all, prayed.

So often, I hate being reduced to “just” praying. I hate not being able to show up and do-do-DO. And yet, looking back over the year and considering my own journey through grief with the people I love, I can’t help but see a glowing lesson, one that points me to prayer.

Today, I will begin another series of prayers. I will embrace Mary’s hand and marvel at the familiarity I find there. I’ll look to her face and find it as tear-streaked as my own, and I’ll remember that she knows this well. Not only did she carry her own grief through the Passion, but she looks on each of us, her children, and feels, so keenly, our burdens of heartache.

Perhaps more than anyone else, Mary understands.

Mary, Mother of Sorrows, be a mother to us.

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The Hard Road

Part of the Mary Moment Monday series

I picture her at the side of the road, dust matting her hair, tears mixing with the noise around her. She had noise all around her: yelling and jeering, wailing and sobbing, grunting and groaning.

There was nothing sterile about the experience of watching her Son — innocent, bloodied, abused — dragging himself and his cross through the filthy streets. It was raw pain, horrible grief, unbearable watching.

What did she pray? In her shoes now, I grip a rosary; she didn’t have a rosary. Did she use the words of a Psalm?

This picture of Mary has been with me since January 3, when my brother-in-law unexpectedly died. It has been the image of Mary that I look to when I picture my sister-in-law, widowed at age 34 with two daughters. It is this shoulder that I lean on when I think of how I might comfort her.

I used to wonder how, exactly, Mary could understand our grief and terror and pain. Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen a statue of her dirtied and disheveled, as she must have been during the Passion. We don’t glorify the ugliness of life by making statues of the experience, but I need something other than the sterility of the statues in church.

I need to know Mary understands. It’s hard to open myself up to someone who seems distant, judgmental, perfect.

Seeing her at the side of the road, though, perhaps while I meditate on the sorrowful mysteries, changes our relationship. She goes from a flawless statue above me at Mass to a woman who has felt my pain. As she holds me, I realize that, while I’m not as much like her as I’d like, we have more in common than I thought.

In the coming weeks, I’ll see grief up close as I prepare to visit my sister-in-law and her girls. I’ll feel my brother-in-law’s absence and I’ll struggle with words. I’ll squeeze the rosary in my pocket and pray for the wisdom to know when to keep my words to myself, when to reach out and hug, when to let the Spirit speak through me. I’ll try to do, because there is comfort in doing, but I will also try not to forget that the gift is also being: being there in person, with hugs and ears and shoulder.

This grief is indisputable, huge, raw. It’s larger than I am, bigger than my ability to handle, huge in a way I’ve never felt before.

And it’s not even, really, my grief. Is it harder to watch someone you love suffer than it is to suffer yourself? Is it more wrenching to think of their tribulation than it is to forge through it on your own?

Mary knows. That’s my comfort. She’s a mother to us now in ways we’ve never asked her to be before.

In her knowing, she nods and holds me close, snuggling me close to her Son. She’s lived pain before, and she shares it with us now, offering us her prayers.

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The feast of Our Lady of Lourdes is this week, on February 11. My latest at Faith & Family Live examines the “big splash” Mary made at Lourdes in light of my ordinary life. There are links at the end to help you discover more about the history and devotion to Our Lady of Lourdes. If you’re motivated, you can even plan something for Thursday.