Mary was a Real Mother

I know a woman whose son died in a carelessly started cabin fire when he was 12. That was twenty years ago. She told me her story after I commented on her brilliantly colored tattoo featuring a name, her son’s name, surrounded by turquoise rays of light emanating from an eagle, his favorite bird. One ray embraced a heart with a piece missing. She recently got the tattoo after all this time to honor his memory. And to let go, in a way.

As I listened to the story, I was struck by several things. First, you can talk to someone for a long time, years in this case, without having any idea about that person’s deep story. The story that matters. Second, tragedy is both personal and universal. I have grieved and still grieve over my son’s autism. Chronic grief. It is not the same as her grief which was heart-exploding catastrophic. I can’t imagine hers. She perhaps can’t imagine mine. But we share a mother’s broken heart.

I have often felt guided and protected by Kuan Yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy and compassion. But Kuan Yin is always serene, never born as a human being, never suffering as a mother. So when my heart has been torn apart with pain that seems unbearable, I turn to Mary, mother of Jesus. As a therapist once said to me, "She was a real mother." Mary is often portrayed with a radiant, sublimely loving face, a Kuan Yin face. But I don't think that is what her face really looked like much of the time.

What did her face look like when her wayward preteen disappeared, only to be found days later teaching in the temple, shrugging his shoulders at his parents’ worried consternation? Or when he refused to acknowledge her in front of the crowd, instead claiming the people around him as his family? (I remember telling my mom once that I wished the next door neighbor was my mom. She promptly told me to go see if Mrs. Beasley wanted any more children and locked me out of the house.)

What did Mary’s face look like when her son was being ridiculed and hated? Not a mother’s proudest moment. What did she answer when all the moms got together to brag about their kids and asked her, “And what does your son do?”

I’m sure none of that compared to what her face looked like as her son was arrested, tortured, and killed right in front of her. I don’t care how strong your faith is. That is not something any mother should have to endure. And yet so many have. Before yielding to God’s will, Jesus asked for the cup to pass from him. How many times did Mary pray this prayer? How many times have I?

I don’t pretend to understand the meaning of such suffering. Or of any suffering for that matter. But I know that some of my most fervent prayers have been to Mary. The mom prayers. The prayers a mother would understand.

Lately, I’ve been asking Mary to watch over my two too young daughters who are expecting babies of their own. I ask Mary to strengthen them with courage, to soften them with kindness, to inspire them with wisdom, to delight them with joy, to calm them with patience, to awaken them with compassion, to sustain them with faith. I ask the same for me.

No, I’m not Catholic, but I think that’s okay with her. After all, Mary was a real mother.