When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. - The Beatles
As some of you may know, it is a big week for Our Blessed Mother Mary. On Monday was the Feast of The Immaculate Conception and on Friday is the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Especially pertaining to Monday's feast, the Immaculate Conception is a Holy Day of obligation, the feast day for our nation's consecration to Her Immaculate Conception, and my parish's feast day as well.
The liturgical band that my roommates and friends are part of had extra practices for the beautiful Marian songs and I was all excited to celebrate such an important feast day with my new parish named after Her. Unfortunately I do not know if it is because it was on a Monday and people had to work or because people didn't know about it, but only about 25-30 people showed up for the noon and evening Masses combined. To bring about a deeper devotion and awareness of Our Lady, I'm doing a Youth Group night on Sunday on Mary, discussing dogmas, feast days, apparitions, and prayers to Her.
It made me meditate on my own devotion to Her and to God. Though I work at the church all day and do other ministries at night, my spiritual practices have changed. I've been overwhelmed in so many ways being here and I can't seem to find a way out of that state. Where is the quietness of my soul that used to find itself able to hear Them? I've gotten myself to be so busy and my time occupied with so many things and so many new ideas about life that I have been unable to digest them, and at times unable to make clear and rational decisions.
And then something miraculous in its simplicity happened as I was writing this blog entry. I'm not sure where I was going with this post, but it has defiantly taken a turn...
There is an elderly man who comes into the church when he is in town named Peter. He only knows a few sentences worth of English and I only know a few words of Yup'ik, so our conversations are between our eyes, smiles, and warmth towards one another. He is such a gentle soul and so tender with Our Lord. When he prays, he either sings or plays his harmonica. Witnessing him makes me feel gentler.
Then today he sat on the bench that is in our small narthex outside of my office. He started singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" in Yup'ik. For whatever reason I left my office, grabbed a hymnal, and started singing the same song in Latin. Then he started singing "Silent Night" and I sang it with him in Spanish. We didn't know what the other person was saying or singing, but we understood what each other meant through the song and how we sung it. He looked at me with his good eye, for the other is permanently closed, and as we both started to slightly tear up, we started to laugh. I said, "Quyana", which means "thank you". Then he got up, smiled, and left.
There was so much about that moment: the universality of the Church, the real language of God which is Love, etc. which were all present. But what struck me the most while we were singing was, when I looked up at the icon of Our Lady across from where we were sitting, I felt Her there. Not just like an unseen person standing in the room, but Her essence immersing itself in every space. Sitting next to Peter I thought, "brother". I felt brotherhood. For we were singing in front of Our Mother. She is always there, in front of us and in front of the cross. And now I think then, where am I?
The Pieta
Blessed was the night that Purity cried,
For it was the day that my Savior died.
Clouds rolling over, covering up the sun,
Blood weeping down His face,
With sorrow nowhere to run.
Counting down the minutes when Trust is here to stay,
She fell to her knees,
And watched Life fade away.
Her tears line His footsteps, shadowing over the past.
The immaculate grief of a mother,
Pierced through Her at last.
Taking Him in Her arms, She felt the breaking in Her chest,
Knowing it had only just begun,
The never-ending test.
Wrapping Him up with memories, She placed Him in the tomb,
As She does with all Her children,
To save them from their doom.
So always I call out to Her, begging for graces upon the morrow,
Because She is more than the Mother,
For it was the day that my Savior died.
Clouds rolling over, covering up the sun,
Blood weeping down His face,
With sorrow nowhere to run.
Counting down the minutes when Trust is here to stay,
She fell to her knees,
And watched Life fade away.
Her tears line His footsteps, shadowing over the past.
The immaculate grief of a mother,
Pierced through Her at last.
Taking Him in Her arms, She felt the breaking in Her chest,
Knowing it had only just begun,
The never-ending test.
Wrapping Him up with memories, She placed Him in the tomb,
As She does with all Her children,
To save them from their doom.
So always I call out to Her, begging for graces upon the morrow,
Because She is more than the Mother,
She is the Night of Sorrow.
(I wrote this poem for Her June 2007)
