Untie the Strong Woman

During Holy Week, I read a review of this book, "Untie the Strong Woman" in a blog that I subscribe to: Spiritual Travels. It immediately grabbed my attention as yet again, Mary touched my life at Easter. I ordered the book and have already completed reading it. Like Dr. Estes' book "Women Who Run With the Wolves," (another personal favorite of mine), this one is full of stories, legends and mystical happenings that truly illustrate the 'Blessed Mother's immaculate love for the wild soul' which is the book's subtitle. I was enthralled; where has this Mary been all my life? That's one disadvantage of growing up Protestant...we don't have saints and once Christmas is past, we hear virtually nothing about Mary. Yet here she is...a living, breathing presence for so many people. A kind, compassionate heart to which those in pain, in trouble or in spiritual devastation pray. Mary comforts all and is part of all...politics, human rights, illegal immigration, abortion, the shameful history of oppresion and destruction of peoples. Her people pray to her in times of drought, war, pregnancy, prison, and troubled relationships. And Dr. Estes tells her story with ex-votos, poetry, and even a few naughty words. I think my favorite chapter in the book is actually a poem, "Guadalupe is a Girl Gang Leader in Heaven" That's my kind of woman!

I will begin re-reading this book today with pen and highlighter in hand just as I did with "Woman Who Run With the Wolves." There is much food for thought...and action here. At one point, Estes writes: “Her fingerprints are all over me….Her palm prints are on my shoulders from trying to steer me in various proper and difficult directions.” And now her fingerprints are all over me as well. Into which direction is she steering me? Time will tell.

Thanks to SoundsTrue for the book image.

Mary

I've been enwrapped in thoughts about Mary since Holy Week. I'm not surprised that she came into my thoughts then; for the past few years, I've experienced the Passion through her mother's eyes. It began my first Easter as a member of St. Timothy's Episcopal Church. My priest, Mary, took us through the Stations of the Cross on Good Friday. As she read Station 4: Jesus Meets His Mother, her voice broke and tears flowed, both hers and mine. Ever since, I've journeyed towards Easter with Mary, Blessed Mother of Christ. Her presence has lingered this year, though. Perhaps because I'm here in France where her fingerprints are everywhere...if only you open your eyes to see them. Any town large enough to have more than one church, invariably has one named Notre Dame...Our Lady...of something. Think of Paris. Notre Dame de Paris,Notre Dame des Victoires, Notre Dame de Lorette, Notre Dame d'Esperance, Notre Dame de Perpetual Secours, Notre Dame de Bercy, Notre Dame de la Grace...the list goes on. She is present, though, in every church here as statue or....

stained glass.

She holds her precious baby in the ruins of ancient abbeys....

She prays in the outside grottoes of tiny villages....

She watches over pilgrims as they pass through the portals of ancient fortified towns

and from the walls of the hostels where pilgrims sleep...

Look up...you may see her praying high in a niche on the wall of someone's home...

And she is frequently a presence for travelers in roadside chapels and shrines.

Mary is always there. You just have to open your eyes to see her.

My eyes are open, and I'll share what else I've seen with you in another post.

(all photos are from my travels in France 2009-2012)

A Mother's Suffering

This is Holy Week. All my devotions ask me to pray about the suffering of Jesus during this time. While I can do that intellectually, it isn't until I pray about Jesus' mother, Mary, that my heart breaks wide open and the tears flow...

 As a mother, I can feel the joy she must have felt as he preached, as his ministry spread. She can feel his exhaustion and knows how dangerous his ideas are to others. I know how she longs to comfort him, to hold his hand while he prayed. I can sorrow with her in the understanding that not one of his friends will stay awake and pray with him. But his mother would. Mothers are always on-call for comfort and support. She would say to him...'you rest now; I'll keep watch over you as I did when you were a baby' ....fully knowing there is nothing she can do to prevent the events of this week unfolding. I am angry and indignant with her as she watches him being scourged and tormented and mocked...her child! How dare they do that to him! I flinch with her and my gut tightens as we listen to each nail being pounded in. Oh, the agony! And I can weep with her as she stands by the cross watching the life fade from his eyes as he gives up himself to his heavenly Father.

Mary, who unlike us, doesn't know the rest of the story until she hears the rumors on Sunday. The tomb is empty; He has risen!

As God's servant, she rejoices. But as Jesus' mother, she still weeps bitter tears, and I weep with her. He is gone forever from her life. She will never hug him or lean on his arm for support again.  Never again will he sit at her table to share a meal and later talk with her of his dreams, his ideas, and his Father's plan for him. There will be no grandchildren; no daugher-in-law to help her in her old age. Jesus will not be there to hold her hand and weep for her when she dies. There is an empty place in her heart that will never again be filled...in this life

But today, Maundy Thursday, she does not yet know all this. All she knows is that tonight, Jesus will share the Passover meal with his friends, his disciples. They will break bread, drink wine, say the prayers and sing the songs. He will not eat at her table tonight for already he belongs to the world.

A mother weeps and suffers.

Icon Update

I decided to sleuth around a bit on Google to see if I could find my 'pilgrim' icon. While I didn't find the exact image, I did find a few icon images of Mary robed in red with the same design on the cloth. Most of the Mary images show her with Jesus, but there are a few, like mine, that show her alone. So, perhaps my icon is Mary? Here's one I found while Googling that is similiar to my icon.

The Holy Birth

Joseph holds Mary's hand, her fingers gripping tight and hard as she begins the final work. She pushes. Every eye in the stable is on her, even the animals seem to hold their breath. The Babe comes--bloody, purple, mottled, his little fists clenched, his legs drawn up tight against his body as he squeezes through the narrow birth passage. As all watch, he takes his first breath of life...and cries. His legs kick, his arms flail, the purple mottled skin begins to turn pink with every breath. Quickly Joseph wraps him in a rough blanket to keep him warm. Another contraction, another push--the birth is done. The innkeeper has supplied a clean knife and the cord is cut. As Joseph runs to the inn for water, Mary brings the Babe to her breast; he eagerly suckles. The animals sigh deeply and go back to sleep, comforted that life has begun anew and that they were blessed to be its witness this cold night in Bethlehem. Joseph returns with a jar of warm water and the servant girl, Iscah. He busies himself with cleaning up the wet, bloody straw and replacing it with fresh, as Mary and Iscah bathe the Babe and Mary washes herself. Joseph pulls a clean robe from their travelers' pack and soon Mary and the Babe are clean, warm and dry. Iscah sits with the innkeeper's dog at Mary's feet and watches as the holy family embraces God's mystery. Joseph passes her the jar of wine after he and Mary drink. "Thank you, child, for helping us," he says as she drinks to the wonder of it all.

I'd like to think that the family had a few hours of rest and sleep then. That Joseph lay down with Mary, and they snuggled the Babe between them to keep him warm. That Iscah returned to the inn, but the dog remained, faithful in his watchful duties. And that...as they slept, the great star hanging high over the little village of Bethlehem began to guide the world to this Babe. From lowly sheperds to great kings---all were called. Life for this holy family, indeed for the whole world, would never be the same.

The Mystery Begins...

The morning feels mysterious--wrapped in darkness, fog, quietly illuminated by the gleaming candles. Snug and warm, I ponder the wonder that comes tonight. I think of Mary & Joseph who will be this night in Bethlehem....

They awaken to begin the last day of travel... weary, dirty, cold. Does Mary feel any signs of the impending birth? Or is she so exhausted that she doesn't feel anything at all? In my mind, they begin their trek walking alongside the donkey who carries their supplies for the journey--blankets, a skin of water, some bread. By day's end, Mary's labor has begun, and she can no longer walk. Riding their donkey now, each contraction causes her to grab his mane tightly; her water breaks as they enter Bethlehem in the dark. Wet,cold, trembling with exhaustion and fear, she's uncomplaining, but Joseph knows he must find her a place to lie down for surely his child will be born before dawn. He knocks on door after door. As each opens he catches a glimpse of the warmth and conviviality of the families gathered inside; he watches as other travelers relax, laugh and eat. For him and Mary, though, there is no room--except in the stable. Will that suit? It doesn't, but there are no other options, and Mary's time is very near. I'd like to imagine that the innkeeper took a moment to help them get settled, that he knew Mary was about to give birth, so he tried to make their meager lodging a bit more comfortable. Perhaps he left a lantern, a jar of wine, an extra blanket? Perhaps he told Joseph, "Come to the inn whenever the Babe is born, and I'll send a jar of warm water to bathe the Babe and for Mary to cleanse herself. My servant girl, Iscah, will help." I can see Mary slowly slide off the faithful donkey and sink to her knees on the stiff, prickly straw covering the stable floor. "Oh Joseph," she softly cries, "has God given me a burden too big to bear?" Then she remembers the words of the angel Gabriel, and her heart fills with God's warmth, her 'soul magnifies and her heart rejoices' because tonight--very soon--her Babe will be born, blessed by God. Joseph cares for the donkey while Mary spreads the blankets. As the darkest hour of the night wraps them in quiet, the only sounds are Mary's muffled cries and the soft breathing of their stablemates--the cow, the sheep, the innkeeper's dog who has come to stand guard. A tiny black cat peers down at the scene from her perch on a rafter and purrs; the chickens ruffle their feathers and settle again on their roosts along the wall where the cow eats her hay. As Mary's moans become more frequent, all awake to watch and wait....

Practical Advice from Mary

"Practical Advice from Mary" is the title of today's reading in the Fr. Thomas Keating book "The Daily Reader for Contemplative Living." I've been using this book for my daily devotion in conjunction with my Centering Prayer practice; I've found each meditation to be rich with meaning and new insights. This meditation was no exception. Fr. Keating references verses from the first part of John 2:1-11. It's the familiar story of the wedding feast at Cana where Jesus turned stone jars of water into good wine. As verse 11 says..."This, the first of his signs....manifested his glory; and his disciples believed in him" What Fr. Keating draws my attention to, though, is that Jesus' mother, Mary was also there. Her presence and her words seem almost an after-thought as John tells the story, but it was she who said to Jesus... "They have no wine." And it was she who uttered the most important words in these verses when she said to the servants... "Do whatever he tells you." Across the centuries she speaks to me today with her very practical mother's advice...'do whatever he tells you.' I have to ask myself what is Christ telling me to do? What is Christ telling you to do on this day?




This Virgin is found in Conques placed high in the vault of the Porte de la Vinzelle where she blesses pilgrims as they leave the village on their way to Santiago de Compostela in Spain.