In the second grade, I learned my four-year-old cousin had died. I was too young to really understand what leukemia was. I remember having to wear a mask during her treatment. I remember her angelic smile, even though she had lost her blonde hair. It didn’t really hit me until late that night, being kept awake by Happy, my hamster running on his wheel in the glass tank next to my bed. The realization hit me in the face… if Emily could die, so could Happy. I didn’t want him to die. I didn’t want to die.
The sobs and wailing came just as quickly as the realization.
Mom came in with her quiet, soothing voice. I don’t really remember all she said. I only remember how her presence consoled my troubled heart. My pain as I processed what death was for the first time as a seven-year-old. The comfort only she could give me that night, just by being there. Regardless of how ruthless and cruel the world can be… a mother’s love lights up a room in the darkest of nights.
Only a year or so after this encounter, I was brought into the Church. I found solace in praying this cheap plastic bead rosary in my room. I had a prayer card I could read while navigating each bead. I never did memorize any of the prayers except the Hail Mary and the Our Father. Some nights I would just say the prayers I knew by heart and skip the others.
There was always a comforting feeling when saying these prayers. Or even hearing the song Let It Be by the Beatles play over my speakers. I can distinctly remember visualizing a serene blue auric light washing over me, as Paul McCartney’s voice carried away, “Mother Mary comes to me…”.
On Sunday, when sitting with my mom and grandpa, I would stare up at the Marian statue. Feeling so small in the presence of the church. Everything seemed so large, the future was so far away, and any worries I had would disappear in those moments. I loved the Blessed Virgin Mary and her tender motherliness.
Over the years, and after my grandpa’s death, we left the church. We started attending a General Baptist church with my step-dad’s mom and her entire family. It was a slow process, but it started out with me just going to youth group and getting to know the kids at the church.
I would eventually end up attending this church every Sunday and going to the Wednesday youth group more often. A place I would find some kind of belonging, surrounded by kids my age. Something my parish didn’t have. In fact, it appeared there weren’t any teenagers or even young adults in the parish—only gray-haired and older generations. It was great to attend a church that did fun things like go to concerts, jam sessions in classrooms, and youth conferences. Things that spoke to a younger generation. Things that spoke to me.
My first youth conference took our entire church youth to the south. It was either Missouri or Tennessee. Prior to this experience, I never realized how others thought of Mother Mary.
In a casual conversation with one of the youth pastors about some key moments in the Bible, under the wooden spiral stairs leading up to the second floor of the cabin-like common building, I spoke of Mother Mary. As someone I loved and admired. Completely unaware of how everyone else in this conference felt about her.
“Mother Mary? You must have been Catholic.” His words felt more like an accusatory jab.
I didn’t shy away from it at that moment. I told him I came from the Catholic Church before attending this new church. He asked questions, which at the time, I had no idea, were designed to disarm me about my position on the Blessed Virgin. I was young, not well catechized, and just trying to fit in. I learned that Mary was a sinful person, just like the rest of us.
Soon after that, I realized she wasn’t ever spoken about. Sometimes you would hear the song, “Mary Did You Know?” at Christmas services in church, but she was very rarely mentioned.
Upon coming home to the Church and returning to what I remember, I picked up an old rosary I had. One I picked up while stationed in Italy. I started praying the prayers I remembered over each bead. Much like riding a bike, the words rushed back. I spent so much time without her. I feel robbed of my youthfulness and eagerness to know the Mother of my Savior.
As it is May, our parish had a beautiful rendition of Ave Maria sung from the choir loft. The melody of the Tenor’s voice surrounded me with that familiar feeling of her hug. Reminding me of the visualization I had as a child, when I first heard “Let It Be.”
I think of that boy under the spiral stairs. How little it took, a few well-placed questions, a desire to belong, and fear of being different. That boy didn’t defend the Mother of God. Nor did he know he had to. As I have started to learn about her, once more, and come to love her more deeply, I can’t help but feel remorse for others who are being robbed of their relationship with the Mother God gave us. When Jesus hung on the cross and said…”Behold, your mother.” He gave her to us. Why do so many not behold?
As she clung to the feet of the cross, watching her son through His Passion, we too must cling to her. Who better to show us the way to Christ than His mother? When the world feels so big, the night feels long, and the weight of the world presses down, may Mother Mary come to us, speaking the words of Wisdom and leading us to Christ
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