At the recommendation of a holy priest, I began saying seven Hail Mary’s daily while contemplating the Seven Sorrows of Mary. My birthday is on the Feast of Our Lady of Sorrows, a fact that bothered me in my youth and sometimes still does. I have, over the years, occasionally felt a great sense of beauty in that day being the day of my birth, but I also forget it’s magnitude as well. I was due on September 8th, the Nativity of Our Lady, and always wanted to share a birthday with her. For some profound reason yet to be determined by me, God asked my poor mother to wait one more week for my arrival. Since that decision was requested from Our Lord, I shall for my whole life, seek the meaning of His determination and have a devotion to Our Lady of Sorrows.
In an effort to follow the recommendation, I began my 7 Hail Mary’s in the evening. I set a timer to remind me at 8:30pm. The idea is that the children are in bed by then but that’s less a reality than I’d like. The first day I said my seven Hail Mary’s I forgot one of the sorrows. It was the Flight into Egypt. I hope I don’t forget it again as it would be quite difficult to up and away with your infant child in the middle of night before coffee and car seats were invented.
But the sixth sorrow, Taking Down of the Body of Jesus from the Cross, hit me hard. I envisioned Our Lady, in her shift, her mantle, and a whole variety of excess fabric, accepting her fully grown adult son into her arms. I imagined he was heavy. The Pieta depicts a 14 foot tall Mary, as she’d need to be to that tall hold an adult man in her lap such as she is, but the reality is that she was likely shorter than him. His body, lifeless, was probably quite limp and heavy. That limpness must have had a particular pain to a mother who craved for her child to sit up and reach for her. Her clothes must have been covered in blood. She probably didn’t think about it at the time and just moved to hold her son. I wonder if her hands felt the stickiness of the blood that was both fresh and dried. It probably got under her fingernails. I wonder if his head fell back in an uncomfortable jerk as only a lifeless being can do. I wonder if his eyes were open. Did she close them? Did someone do her that favor and ensure they were closed before giving Him to her? I bet she cried. I bet her tears mingled with his blood. The blood on his shoulder, his back, maybe his arm. I am sure she smelled him. His sweat, his blood, his dirt. You know that smell of little boy? The smell of sweat and dirt after they’ve been playing outside and come in to bring you a flower/weed they picked just for you? I call that the smell of sunshine. It smells like warmth and happiness to me. I wonder if she smelled that warmth, I imagine it was a warm day, and was reminded of his childhood. Sometimes I hold my son’s hand and think of holding his hand when he was a toddler. I relish how soft and small it was. I bet she remembered. I wonder if she sobbed or was a silent cryer. I wonder if she asked God in that moment what He was thinking. One of my favorite things Jesus did was ask God to let this cup pass from me. I love it because it showed his beautiful humanity. He was scared. Like, “I don’t want to do this, Father” scared. But he was obedient. Mary was obedient. But as she held her son, I wonder if she asked God what the plan was. I wonder if she wondered, “What’s the plan here? Doesn’t seem to be going to plan.”
The Seventh Sorrow is laying Jesus in the tomb. But you know she had to go home after that. I imagine her at home in a dugout, I don’t know why she lives in a dugout dirt-floor home, but in my mind she does – not very historically accurate. She gets home and sees blood on her hands, on her veil. On her arms and down the front. I wonder if she washed everything. Blood mixes with water and makes it look like so much more blood. Did she throw that bucket of water out? Did she water her garden with it? Where did it go? After all, it was LITERALLY the Blood of Christ. The original blood poured out for us. I bet Mary going home with blood everywhere was a sight for people to see. I wonder if she went home alone or if others took her and helped her get cleaned up. I wonder how long it was before she got the blood out from under her fingernails, or looked at that cloak she wore that day without thinking of it being blood stained. Did she get the blood out? I wonder if she saw it and remembered. The moment of sorrows wasn’t over. She took it home with her and carried it through, most likely the rest of her life.
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