My nana, a devout, lifelong Catholic, once confessed that when she was a young mom (she’s 89 now), she had a tough time relating to Mary. “How could I relate to this mom of one and the mom of God no less, who was born without original sin?” Nana had nine kids and like the rest of poor humanity, she was not immaculately conceived.
Despite my competitive, if not comparative personality, I’d never really thought about Mary like that. Maybe it’s because my inner self-defeatist knew I’d never live up to her holiness, but she’d love me any way. But, really, I loved Mary because as a woman and later as a wife and mother, I’d found great comfort in her, knowing there was a holy woman who was a mom, too, who knew what it was like to watch her child suffer, who nursed her infant, watched him grow, and later had to watch him die. For me, Mary took maternal empathy to new heights. I could bring all the joys and sorrows of being a mother straight to her, and she’d understand.
This morning at Mass, though, I felt a little like my nana when the priest reminded us of the fact that Mary always said yes to God. Always.
I once read (sorry, but I can’t recall the source) that to be Christian you must accept two great truths:
- There is a God.
- You are not Him.
Mostly, I accept the first truth (though I’ve had periods of pretty intense spiritual doubts). The second is a constant struggle for me. I know I’m not God, but I have the tendency to grasp for control that doesn’t belong to me and never will. Nothing like the maddening defiance or uncontrollable bowel movements of a child to shatter any illusion of control.
Nope. I’m definitely not God, and I’m not Mary, either, I realized. Maybe I was for a few minutes after confession last night. How beautiful to be wiped clean, to be surrounded by fellow sinners, bowing their heads and folding their hands in prayer. But, of course, I’ve already goofed up and feel like I’m drifting farther from the Mirror of Perfection with every passing hour (minute? second?).
But this obsessive flagellation isn’t what Mary wants. She doesn’t want us to look to her and collapse into a heap of unworthiness. She’s the Cause of Our Joy, not the Cause of Our Guilt, and she wants to take our hand and bring us to Jesus, to reveal to us the love that she knew in her womb, in her arms, in her life. She knew how to look for Christ and to keep Him close even when she was afraid. She may have had an immaculate conception, but she had fear, pain, and doubt as well. But her faith overrode it all.
Once I was chatting with moms at a playground while our kids chased one another and flew down super steep slides. A small girl, who couldn’t have been older than two, was attempting to scale a chain-link fence snaking around the perimeter of the play area. The little primate’s pants became snagged and she was stuck, hanging with her arms and legs flailing. She called for her mommy, but she was left helplessly dangling.
Another mom detached her from the fence and off she ran to conquer the monkey bars because that’s what little monkeys do.
“Sally* never knows where her kids are,” the child’s rescuer commented, not with a judgmental tone; it was more like she was stating the obvious. I did not know Sally or her children. I’d just met her that day and what I’d noticed was this: Her hair was as black as night and was swept back into a messy ponytail. She smiled frequently, but she looked tired. And her baby – the youngest of several children who appeared to be spaced quite closely together (if I remember correctly there was a set of young twins, too) – was always in her arms.
Before anyone else could say anything further, a veteran mom of many whom I’ve always admired, said, “Necessity is the mother of invention.”
This mom is one of those moms, who I suppose, like Mary, might make you feel unworthy because she’s always so damn pious and if anyone tries to say anything negative about anyone, she gives it a positive spin or points out her own transgressions or turns what was precariously close to slipping into gossip into a lesson without making you feel like she’s moralizing. I’ve never felt like less around her though, but I have walked away after being in her presence wanting to be so much more.
Necessity is the mother of invention. This same expression popped into my head after Mass today.
And so did this randomly enough: I never thought I’d leave the house without having combed my daughters’ buttery blonde hair, but the other day I showed up at a birthday party and noticed a huge, tangled nest upon which an Albatross could have planted its one and only annual whopping egg on the back of the my 3-year-old’s head.
Oops.
How did this type A, lover of order and perfection, turn into a mom who forgot to comb her kid’s hair and – gasp – didn’t even care (much anyway) when she discovered her oversight in public?
When we really need something, we’ll do whatever it takes to make it so. When we need more minutes in our day to get the important things done, we may let our visions of perfect, curled hair go. When we have a new baby in our arms every two years, we may give our toddlers more free reign and they may end up with a few more scratches on their knees and snags in their clothes than the child of the average helicopter mom of 2.5 kids spaced 3.5 years apart. (Which might explain why Mary Elizabeth has been discovered standing in a toilet, chewing on chokers, also known as Legos, and playing with a broken snow globe.)
When God wanted to show us the beauty of saying, “Yes!” to Him over and over and the joy it would bring, He gave us Mary, conceived without original sin, but like us in every other way. She could have said no at any time. She could have balked at the request to give birth to God’s son, to play a role in the salvation of us all, to bring forth the Savior of the World in a dusty manger, to watch that son suffer and die on the cross for a bunch of people who were always saying no, no, no.
Mary is the necessary mother of hope for an obtuse, obstinate transgressor like I am. God gave us Mary not because He expected we’d be able to completely relate to this perfect handmaid of the Lord but because we we could pray that we might emulate her.
Christ grew in Mary. May He grow in us too during this season of Advent and always.
*Not her real name because I actually don’t know her real name.
Love you my friend!!!! May I link to this?
Of course! Can't wait to see you soon! Happy Advent!
God gave us Mary not because He expected we'd be able to completely relate to this perfect handmaid of the Lord but because we we could pray that we might emulate her.
Fantastic insight. I love this, Kate.
I absolutely love this post. Mary is so special to me in so many ways. I don't know if I could make it through motherhood with out her help and guidance.