Mary – it is making me

the art of friendship in a virtual world

Now let me be totally honest and admit that I’ve never been awesome at friendship. I think there’s some understandable reasons for that, but some bad reasons too for which I’m admittedly culpable and through which I’m working. That having been said, even I know that the new social rules and habits that quickly normalized with the coronavirus pandemic suck. They suck real bad.

I live in Oregon, one of the few states that is still mandating mask-wearing. I’m not interested in starting a mask-wearing debate, whatever-I’m-over-it, and it’s common sense that if I sneeze into my mask instead of your face, there is less of a chance I’ll share my germs. Social distancing is also sensible for limiting germ-sharing. I don’t really think these habits are debatable on the grounds of effectiveness. However, are they worth the mental and emotional costs from which our society is clearly suffering? To that, I would have to say no.

I try not to watch the news—I more often listen. But from what I have heard, there’s been much less said about the increase in signs of mental illness in our general population, most disturbingly among teens, than the hospitalized and death count. I’m not a nay-sayer; I know Covid is killing people, and it’s tragic. But I think down the line we’ll suffer further consequences of the social cinching we’ve been pulling through society. I see the effects of it now, the way people are scared to interact: I’ve seen social interactions begin with suspicion and end in aggression; I’ve witnessed social interactions begin shyly, with an awkward thrust of a hand in an offered handshake or halted hug, then end with joyful relief as a real conversation ensues. When I was in labor, when a new nurse entered the room, I would slip my mask on quickly and wait to see how they felt about the mask mandate—either they would smile and encourage me to remove it if I wished, or they would enforce the rule, even correct me in the proper way of wearing it. It made for an added social awkwardness in an already stressful encounter.

And there’s the vomitous mess of social media. It just hits allllll my insecurities. I quit Pinterest after one night when I lost track of the time and realized I had grown more and more dissatisfied with my life seeing all the things I didn’t have and wanted, the beautiful hair and face I wanted but didn’t have, the clean showroom house, etc. I nearly sprang back from the screen in self-disgust, and vowed to leave Pinterest forever. I recently quit Facebook (for a lot of reasons), but I would let it either ruin or make my day, depending on the number of social interactions I’d been granted through their algorithm. If one of my posts was ignored, I felt totally alone in the world. Yuck.

In a neighboring town, there are signs littering yards with encouraging messages like “Don’t Ever Give Up” and “You’re Not Alone”. I hope they’re effective. But these signs with feel-good tropes are like manifested text messages or tweets, leaving their virtual world and joining the real world on real paper in a real yard. The one that always catches my attention is “You Matter”. Do I? Do I matter to you? If I knocked on your door truly in need, would I matter enough for a moment of your time, face-to-face? Or would you, out of fear and suspicion, turn me away? Would you, after you heard my political and religious beliefs, cry ‘hater’ and slam the door in my face? That’s what would happen virtually, and I’m not sure we know how to respond any other way right now. We’ve forgotten what authentic human interaction looks like.

During the Covid lockdown, one of my more social-media-savvy lady-friends from church started a messaging chat-group and a video-chat. It was a blessing in so many ways. We chatted and prayed through a friend’s delivery of her baby, shared recipes, laughs, and hardship. It was a way to “visit” each other when we couldn’t really visit each other. We’ve continued it even though we are certainly able to see each other face-to-face now. Out of the busy-ness of family life, it’s been an easy excuse to keep it up. Yet I find the same insecurities I experienced via Pinterest and Facebook creeping up even through these seemingly healthy mediums. The big answer is that, yes, I have some friend-wounds to work through. But also, it’s a relief to know I’m human: I find myself craving face-fo-face encounters.

The other day, as I was driving to a friend’s house—to actually sit in her kitchen, have coffee, let our noisy kids play together— I thought of the Visitation. Mary went in haste to see her cousin. She didn’t think twice about it; it was an immediate response to the news that her cousin was in need and vulnerable. This act of service was an outpouring of love and the Holy Spirit’s presence within Mary. And I began to wonder whether I have been listening closely enough to that still, small voice; am I attentive to my brothers and sisters in need of friendship, especially now in this age of isolation?

If I—I, admittedly terrible at friendship, quick to cut my losses and run instead of engaging—find myself craving authentic face-to-face encounters, then how many people out there are starving for friendship? Real friendship. Not the half-engaged, distracted comment-bomb-dropping of social media, or the awkward nods in the grocery store of people peering out from behind their masks, but real friendship that seeks to truly know, understand, and love each other. And with all things like this, I can’t just let this be a thought or idea- like a nice trope floating in cyberspace that people can thumbs-up or ‘heart’ (or poo)- I need to act, in haste.

with the women at the tomb

It’s Holy Week, the last week of Lent— and the third week of Oregon’s social distancing mandate because of the coronavirus pandemic— and the third week without Mass. It’s so strange to think of not going to Mass during Holy Week. I was doing okay with it. I was like, yes Lord, tell me what you want me to learn from this Eucharistic fast. And, as usual, my stamina began to give way. Fortitude is not my forte. I went to Confession (thank God we still have that) and afterwards found myself weeping like a Magdalene at the doors of the Church (“Where have you put my Lord?”), knowing Father was saying Mass just twenty yards away—our Lord was so close, but I couldn’t touch Him or see Him, let alone partake of His Body and Blood. My eldest daughter, who was with me at the time, looked perplexed as I sobbed all the way home.

I texted a friend later and she had some very wise words that gave me peace and strength. She said my tears were a gift from our Blessed Mother on the eve of Palm Sunday, a gift to know a part of her sorrows as we begin Holy Week. Her beautiful words reminded me of something I had recently been pondering.

Just a week into the Oregon quarantine, my birthday present from my husband arrived one month late from the Ukraine. The timing couldn’t have been more providential. It was an icon of the resurrected Lord in the garden with three women looking on from a short distance away. It’s an icon I’ve been wanting for a while; about a year ago, while praying through the Consecration to Jesus through Mary, I was moved by the story of Mary Magdalene in the Gospel of John when, while weeping at the empty tomb, she recognizes Jesus’ voice calling her by name. Though I’ve heard and read that story many times, it struck me deeply as I imagined myself at the empty tomb, as I imagined Jesus calling me by name. Ever since then, my devotion to Mary Magdalene has grown as I’ve realized more ways I feel connected to her. This icon was the closest I could come to that beloved story in the Gospel.

But the icon offered so much more than what I had initially seen in it. As soon as I unwrapped it, my 13-year-old artist-daughter noted how fitting an icon it was for this strange time we’re in without Mass: we, like the women in the garden, gaze at our risen Lord, but are unable to get much nearer.

Prompted by her introspection, I meditated on the icon for a time, alone. I realized the three women were in the same shape that, in other icons, Christ’s hand takes as he makes the sign of the Trinity. The two standing women are turning towards one another with their hands gesturing towards the risen Christ. But the third woman, who I assume is Mary Magdalene by her posture, is kneeling and reaching towards Jesus. Everyone is dressed in white with accents of red, symbols of purity and the Spirit. Their white clothing is almost transparent, signifying the temporality of this world, but their faces and hands are solid, signifying the immortality of the soul. The icon is split unevenly down the middle: the side that Christ stands on has more depth, and seems to be higher ground, while the side the women are on is less defined and more flat. Christ’s hand reaches out towards them, palm-up. He is not going towards them, but greets and beckons generously; he does not look as though he’s there to dry their eyes, but stands matter-of-factly, as though His risen body is His testament, the proof of His love for them.

I’m not sure where I’m going to hang this icon; for now it is beside my bed so it is the first and last image I see in the day (besides my husband’s handsome face, of course). It has been a true gift for my heart during this time away from Our Lord’s table, and a reminder not to squander it (which I’ve definitely done at times). Ideally, love and desire should increase, a gratitude for the unique mystery of the Eucharist should strengthen, and awareness of my brothers and sisters throughout the world who live without the Sacraments readily available should take root in my heart where an on-going prayer for them can manifest.

What will Easter be like without a Eucharistic feast? I don’t know; probably sad to a degree, maybe anti-climactic. It’s good to feel that loss, to hate going without. But it will be a good spiritual exercise to remember our Blessed Mother and the women at the tomb who, though they could not touch Him as they could before, were overjoyed that He was truly risen.

totus tuus: knowledge of Mary

knowledge through motherhood

The steps I have taken towards Mary over the course of my conversion as a Catholic have been baby steps. I’ve inched my way along, past the discomfort to indifference, then past indifference to comfort, then beyond comfort into affection.

Therese, the film, was released in October of 2004, just a few months after I got married. I was on tour much of that year promoting the film with interviews and appearances at Catholic conferences. Several times I was told that I should portray Mary, “Mary should be your next role”. I remember one such time that it struck me how true that might be—that motherhood might be the next “role” I take on. The thought was terrifying and thrilling, but I had no plan to have a baby any time soon. We were going to wait a few years, see where my career went, prep my husband for graduate school—get our life in order.

By Thanksgiving of that same year, I was pregnant.

The trajectory of my life, as I perceived it, suddenly shifted. My career was my face and my body, which was morphing into something unrecognizable. My focus became increasingly interior as I retreated into the mystery that was growing inside of me. Even though I, of course, wanted and welcomed this child, I marveled at how subconscious baby-forming was; I wasn’t consciously telling my body to do anything. In fact, it was doing the opposite of what I wanted: nausea, weight gain, fatigue. I had been taken over by an alien force. I felt myself shrinking back into the shadows of my life, retreating to a more interior existence, but with more joy and purpose than I could have imagined.

I was naturally attracted to Mary, drawn to her maternal image, wondered with new imaginative material what it would have been like to carry Christ. And through arduous labor, that intense spending of self and blood-shed, I glimpsed the sorrow of motherhood. I remember lying in bed, light-headed and weak from hemorrhaging, watching family marvel at this new life that had, miraculously and at long-last, passed through me. I felt satisfied. I also felt like my body was going to dissolve into the hospital bed and disappear. But in a good way: I had spent myself for life, done something really purposeful with my body, and would have faded away happily. I didn’t, thank God, and the days that followed were much more difficult than I imagined, but that is another story.

It was babies, babies, babies in the years that followed. In the back of my head I thought I’d go back to acting one day, like I’d seen many of my female acting instructors do. But my husband and I were consumed with just keeping our heads above water. He was in graduate school and working full time; we were on food-stamps and state health. I felt humiliated and discouraged much of the time, both with our economic situation and a general feeling of failure as a mother. I wasn’t the kind of mother I had hoped to be. I felt worn out, often befuddled about how to deal with difficulties, bored a lot of the time… and guilty for feeling all those things.

And then we got pregnant. Again. Number four. I was so embarrassed to tell people, dreading all the stupid comments like, “Don’t you guys know how to use a condom?” and, “Don’t you guys know how that happens?” (To which I enjoyed replying, “Yeah, do you?”) I didn’t want to care what other people thought, but I did.

At my lowest point, I was sitting in the bathtub, crying, feeling sorry for myself, but also worrying about how we were going to provide for this child. I was full of resentment towards the Church and NFP; I felt like we’d been tricked into pro-creating. Suddenly—I do not doubt directed by the Holy Spirit—I recalled a homily I had heard years before (let that give you hope, dear priests, we are listening!). Father had said that we ask for many things in prayer, and God may not answer to our liking based off of what is best for us, but there is one request He will always generously grant: a plea for more love. Ask for more love, Father had urged us. Years later, as I was feeling utterly poured out with nothing to give this new life inside me, I asked God for more love: more love for my children, more love for my husband, more love for the life He had given me, more love to love God with. In the same moment—and again, I have no doubt was prompted by the Holy Spirit—it occurred to me that I should try asking Mary for help. Mary, who was the Mother of all mothers, the mother God chose for Himself. Mary, I ask for your help. Please love this baby inside of me; be her mother until I can love her as I ought.

The change wasn’t immediate; I was angry and worried for a while. But a few months into the pregnancy, I was sitting on the couch folding clothes with my kids, and I realized I was enjoying my time with them. I realized that slowly over time, I had grown to love them more. I had grown to accept my vocation a little more. I also learned a lot about prayer during that pregnancy. Always afraid to ask for things in prayer, I went out on a limb and asked God for a lot over that pregnancy. And He delivered. Not always in the ways I expected, but we were taken care of.

Furthermore, I know Mary took my plea to heart—and must have known how sincere I was in my desperation—for this fourth baby, who I call Viva here, was born on the feast of St. Anne, Mary’s mother. And she was born into laughter! It was the only birth at which I did not hemorrhage, and was able to nurse without difficulty.

That same year, my husband lost his job, we foreclosed on our house, and moved 3,000 miles away to the opposite side of the United States to start over. But instead of allowing worry to fill my heart, through grace, I trusted God was going to take care of us. I know that was the fruit of prayer, of offering my heart up to Jesus through Mary’s maternal intercession. Embracing Mary led to embracing motherhood as a true and just vocation.

totus tuus: knowledge of Mary

knowledge through Truth

In 1998, when I was 16 years old, I toured the Iberian peninsula with my grandparents, including a few hour stop in Fátima, Portugal where I first opened a little window into Nazareth, so to speak, and grew curious about the person of Mary, a figure from the Bible I knew very little about and, as a Protestant, had kept a safe distance. (see previous post)

Through a series of events that transpired that fall, I began to take Catholicism a little more seriously, though certainly approached it with a great deal of skepticism and suspicion. After about a year, after reading bits of the early Church Fathers and feeling winded by all I was learning about the early Church—for example, that it looked very Catholic—Mary was the figure that stood in my way. She was, in many ways, a safe haven in the sense that she was the official reason I could never become Catholic. However true the Catholic faith may be, the Marian stuff was the limit.

But there were historical and theological bits that would give me pause about my hesitancy towards Mary, not to mention the example of the faithful. The Catholic Marian doctrines were beginning to make a bit of sense.

By this time, there were a couple saints with whom I felt a kinship. I had first been impressed by St. Faustina and the other-worldly love she shared with Jesus Christ. When I learned of her devotion to Mary, I had to acknowledge that it clearly hadn’t disrupted her love for God.

The image of Mary as the new Ark of the Covenant pierced my Old-Testament-reared Scripture-brain. I knew what the Ark was, the importance, what it housed—and what happened to those who touched it. The early Church Fathers immediately recognized Mary as the new Ark of the Covenant, this vessel who had housed God, made holy by her Creator for His divine purpose.

Even more intriguing to me was the way by which Mary came to be called Theotokos, which means “God-bearer” in Greek, or Mother of God. In response to a heresy that threatened to separate Christ’s dual natures of God and man (Nestorianism), the Church at the Council of Ephesus in 431 declared Mary to indeed be Theotokos, God-bearer. If Christ the man was in Mary’s womb, then Christ the divine was also in Mary’s womb; His natures could not be divided. This was my first experience of seeing how anything Marian inevitably points to God. Even in apparitions, her message is always one that leads people to Christ. She, by her very being, glorifies our Lord.

totus tuus: day 12

self-gift

I’ve come to the end of the period within the 33 days of consecration known as the “preliminary days”, which concentrate on some of the not-so-basic basics of Christianity, like the persons of the Trinity, divine providence, sin and mercy. I feel like I’ve been putting mental bookmarks into thoughts and ideas along the way, like “ooh, I want to learn more about that” or, “I wonder why THAT was so hard”, some of which I wrote about, a lot of which I kept private.

I mentioned this before, but St. Louis de Montfort’s consecration is nothing like I imagined it to be, but really digs its heels into one’s perception and love of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. It truly is a consecration to Jesus. It’s humbling in a soul-stripping sort of way, satisfying in a getting-truly-fed sort of way. It’s hard work, and I think it’s going to get harder in the days to come.

What’s becoming increasingly clear, though, is Mary’s role in the consecration, the “why” of growing closer to Jesus through Mary. I’m sure to many Catholics, that’d be followed by a “well, duh”, but I know I’m not alone in the suspicion/curiosity/befuddlement of why Mary has to be involved, and why this would become increasingly clear in contemplating the Trinity.

About a year ago, a friend recommended I read the 20^th century Catholic theologian Hans urs von Balthasar, as well as Adrienne von Speyr, a Swiss Catholic writer. Balthasar is a theologian I never knew I always loved. Even though he makes a distinction from theologians and the lover-saints, I think he approaches God as a lover-theologian; he strives to explain mysteries of God with a lover’s heart and theologian’s mind. And Adrienne von Speyr is a feast to read; I started with Handmaid of the Lord, a contemplative insight into the mysteries of Mary’s life. I had to take it in pieces, ponder it, then go back to read more. The timing of having just read (and still reading) these writers is providential as I work through the consecration and draw upon the wisdom and insight of both Balthasar and Speyr.

I imagine I will write more on this, but the most repetitive and potent point right now is the nature of self-gift in both the Trinity and in Mary’s fiat. Balthasar explains the Trinity as an on-going giving and receiving of love. Jesus’ obedience to the Father, therefore, is “essentially love”. Speyr writes, “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ is given to us only through the self-giving love of God the Father, so that we can participate in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit” (The Holy Mass). And St. John Paul II writes, “In the Holy Spirit the intimate life of the Triune God becomes totally gift, an exchange of mutual love between the Divine Persons” (Dominum et Vivificantem, as quoted by Fr. McMaster in Totus Tuus).

Because of our sinful nature, it is not natural for us to think in terms of self-gift. To give of ourselves is an effort that requires grace. But we were created for self-gift, since we were created in the image of God. Before the fall in Eden, I assume we were able to enter into that giving of self and exchange of mutual love, freely and beautifully. Now by the merits of Christ, we are invited into that exchange, but it is a constant struggle with our sinful nature.

Yet for Mary, who was without original sin by the grace of God, it wasn’t against her nature to act in total self-gift. It is natural for her to give of herself without reservation to God and His will. She unites her will to His; His mission becomes hers; His desires become hers. Even while experiencing great suffering and trials, while watching her Son and Lord be tortured and crucified, she is confident in the good design of the Father. This is why she’s the example to all Christians: “Her obedience is the prototype of every future instance of Christian obedience, which draws its whole meaning from the life of prayer and the perception of God’s will” (Handmaid). Even if Mary’s immaculate-ness (that she was born without original sin) makes you uncomfortable or you don’t believe it, you would have to agree that she followed and carried out God’s will as no one else had before her (or since).

During my life as a Catholic, whenever it has come to Mary, my brain takes a detour; the radius of space around her has slowly slimmed down, but I have been reticent to get much closer. I’ll write more about this later, but at this point, in large part thanks to von Speyr’s comprehensible descriptions of Mary and these first several days of the consecration, I truly do see and completely embrace the why of growing closer to Jesus through Mary. Through her, we learn perfect Christian obedience, perfect surrender, and perfect unity with God’s holy will, which all flows from perfect love.

totus tuus: day 4

the “what”

“This devotion is necessary for us only in order that we may find Christ perfectly, may love Him tenderly and serve Him faithfully.”
True Devotion, St. Louis de Montfort

When I finally picked up True Devotion by St. Louis de Montfort after giving it almost two decades of a shelf-life, I was surprised to realize how much I had misunderstood Marian consecration, even during my years as a Catholic. My mistake was to think of it as just a Mary-thing, which is why I kept a safe distance. I was made immediately aware of this when I realized the correct title of the consecration is not to Mary, but to Jesus, through Mary. St. Louis de Montfort spends many pages singing God’s praises:

“He is our only Master… our only Lord… our only Head… our only Shepherd… our only Way… our only Truth… Except the Name of Jesus, there is no name given under Heaven whereby we must be saved.”

He repeats this throughout the book, again and again stressing that the primary goal of the consecration—because it is the primary goal of our life—is to grow closer to Jesus Christ, and Mary shows us how to do that. He writes, “Mary is so transformed by You by Grace, that she no longer lives as of herself; it is You alone, O Jesus, Who live and reign in her,” which is why she is the model of all Christians.

As powerful and beautiful as True Devotion is, when faced with the actual, practical consecration, I was confused and overwhelmed by it. Essentially, it’s like a 33-day retreat, but in real time, all while living out one’s real day-to-day life. So how do I, a partially over-whelmed home-schooling mother of six, stay focused through an increasingly challenging 33-day period? A dear friend suggested I use Totus Tuus: A Consecration to Jesus through Mary with Saint John Paul II by Father Brian McMaster. I’m extremely grateful for this book. It is faithful to St. Louis de Montfort’s form and prayers, while also including daily focal points, Scripture readings, and selections from JPII’s writings. It’s been really helpful in focusing my prayer time and contemplation throughout the day.

The consecration is divided into sections. In the first part, what is called the “preliminary days”, the focus is on the fundamentals of the Christian faith (i.e. the Trinity, the Incarnation, prayer, etc.). The next period encourages a knowledge of self, followed by a knowledge of Mary, and finishes with a knowledge of Jesus. The act of consecration is prayed on the 34^th day, which for me will be May 31, the Feast of the Visitation, and the anniversary of my baptism.

In the introduction to Fr. McMaster’s book, he includes an excerpt from John Paul II’s memoirs where he remembers that as a young man, he thought he should steer away from the ardent Marian devotion of his childhood, afraid it might compromise his worship of Christ. But after reading True Devotion, he realized his error, and sees how Marian devotion is truly rooted in the mysteries of the Trinity, the Incarnation, and the Word of God.

Though our circumstances of hesitancy towards Marian devotion were quite different, I was heartened by this. I still see St. John Paul II as a spiritual father, like most Catholics in my generation; he was pope when I came into the Church and was a true “papa” and shepherd who exemplified love, joy, and mercy. His devotion to Our Lady was so public and undeniable during his pontificate that, though it was not something I fully understood, planted a seed in my heart. I am glad to have him with me throughout this consecration.