Mary, my Mainstay

If you woke up early to drive your nephew to work and you fall asleep easily, reciting the Rosary while you drive home is a very bad idea. I don't know about you but I find the Rosary very relaxing.

Cradle Catholics tend to be better at the Mother of God than converts, or so I have found, and speaking as a convert I would be in a position to know. And yet, sometimes even converts can come to some amazing things.

Cradle Catholics may have the advantage over converts because they are raised with an understanding of and relationship to Mary. It's kind of the difference between being adopted and being born into a family.

But sometimes I think Mary, being a mother, senses which of her children is in the greatest need of her love and help and reaches out to that person to draw them near. A lot of people don't seem to understand how reciting set prayers can bring you closer to someone, but the Rosary is a rosary--a collection of roses.

And sitting at your mother's feet, talking over all the things in your life (which is what your mind has a tendency to hare off and do when reciting the Rosary--at least, mine does) and handing her a Rose every couple of minutes as you are overcome with love for her seems to result in a close and intimate relationship with one's mother.

Like all good mothers, she is never too busy, she goes on quietly with her work as her children sit at her feet. She listens, commiserates, comforts and cares. And like with all good mothers, the touch of her hand smoothing your hair back as she smiles at you with love is immeasurably comforting and reassuring.

I think she is fundamentally a Jewish mother, which means she cares about you out of all proportion to your worth and sees things in you that no one else can. I like to think of her practicing HER faith. Did Jesus stand and watch as his mother covered her eyes, lit the candles for Shabbat and recited the prayers? Was he proud and happy and glad to be who he was, then when he was small?

I think so. And best of all I like it when, for a little while, I am a child again and stand by my brother, who holds my hand, and watch as our mother lights the candles for us, welcoming in the Sabbath.

And then we are fed, and loved, and made whole by the traditions of our faith which, even though I am an adopted child, is every bit as real and important and welcoming to me as it ever was to a birth child. I know she doesn't distinguish between her birth child and her adopted child, she loves us both the same.

I know that because I am a mother, and a mother who has raised children she didn't carry in her body, and because her son asked her to love us, and for that and for her own holiness and goodness, she does.

I don't worship her, anymore than any of us worships our mother. Frequently I take advantage of her love, take her for granted, act in a perfectly horrible way and occasionally, when vexed, cry, "You don't love me!"

But she does, and I know she does, even when I am being a brat. And she never turns from me, she smiles her gentle smile and points me to where I should go and what I should do and makes me behave and teaches me how to be her child and a sister to her Son.

She is patient and tolerant and kind, she doesn't forgive me my faults, she never sees them. She's my mother.

She's yours, too. And she would so like to help you and love you and comfort you and speak for you, but she can't unless you ask, you know. And it's okay to ask, Jesus said so. Like all children, he is eager to share his mother with us, he grabs our hand and pulls us in to where she sits and says, "Ask her. Go ahead, she loves you."

And it would be nice if, now and then, you thought to take her a flower. She likes roses.

God's peace.