Mother Mary

When I was growing up, I went to a Catholic school. It was a relatively small building as schools go, just classroom wings, a library, a triple-purpose gym / cafeteria /auditorium, and a nun's apartment behind the school office. Precious square footage, however, was devoted to a tiny courtyard in the center of the school entryway. Its walls were made of glass, and flat blue stones encircled the most beautiful piece of art my young eyes had ever seen-- a tall, luminous statue of Mary.

Carved of white stone, she stood over eight feet tall with her hands clasped in prayer. As I remember it, she gazed from beneath heavy lids with her head cocked to the side-- as if she was listening, either to God or the thoughts of the uniformed students walking past her in line. I found her presence an immense comfort, even if we had to stay clear of her during tornado drills. Apparently, the glass walls that allowed us all an uninterrupted view of her holiness would become deadly projectiles in the event of high winds, breaking into shards and piercing our worldly flesh. It might have been an apt end for the pupils of a school whose logo was the Sacred Heart encircled in thorns, but that didn't occur to me at the time. Instead, I dutifully crowded into the primary hallway with everyone else, the wailing siren germinating a fear in me of twisters that remains a trope in my nightmares even today.

Those years in that school were very hard for me, and I looked to her more than once for comfort coming red-faced out of another embarrassingly awful gym class, or while sitting apart from the other kids during library time. Her back was to me in the library-- this was my least favorite view, as if the Holy Mother herself found something a bit distasteful about my nerdy proclivities. It was always a relief to round the corner on the way back to the classroom and see her face again, beatific and non-judging as ever.

I credit this statue with a quiet fascination with Mary that I've held on to my entire life, well past when I finally left the stifling confines of that school and learned that I, too, could be one of the normal kids with friends as a freshman at the county high school. The idea and image of her-- the pure and perfect Mother of the Saviour, a quiet and accepting intercessor who could take my prayers and hand deliver them to the Big Guy-- remains even to this day. She tends to crop up at random times and, often, in incredibly random places, including a bathroom stall in the Detroit airport. I unfolded the courtesy purse-sitting shelf during a layover to find a prayer card and plastic blue rosary imprinted with the name if the tiny Indiana hometown of my best friend's husband. The magic of that moment didn't really translate outside the bathroom stall, however-- Ryan was pretty underwhelmed at my discovery. I still have the rosary in a box somewhere. It doesn't seem like something to just toss out.

Most recently, during the incredibly stressful waiting period for news about that job opportunity in Virginia Beach, I randomly turned my head while driving to the gym to see a stone grotto outside of the nearby Catholic church. I had never noticed it before, but inside it held a statue of Mary not dissimilar from the one in my memory. And suddenly I had a burning urge to stop and work through all I was feeling, and once again, she was there to listen.

We didn't end up with the job, of course. And I haven't actually been as calm about it as I thought I might, in those moments of peace when she helped me ask for the strength to accept God's will in the matter. Still, I was so grateful to have a neutral place to unload during those precious few hours carved out of baby-care--ostensibly just for exercise, but sometimes also for these little pit-stops.

Mostly, I'm grateful that she's shown up again. I never considered during my pregnancy with Eva that a pregnancy stands at the literal nascence of the Church. But now that I'm a mother myself, I find that Mary's face has taken on a new dimension for me. Her expression is still as calm and peaceful as ever, and she still radiates the trusting purity she always did. Now, though, I see a little something else in her expression. It's the faintest trace of pride, connected not to what her son became, but the tiny regular moments along the way. Moments like the ones I, like every other mother, share with my child every ordinary day. When I look at Mary now, for the first time ever, I see in her a peer as much as an example. And I also feel a bittersweet new tenderness for the child that used to be me, hurrying to catch up to her class as it leaves the library and moves on with the rest of its day.