Mary. The Theotokos. The Mother of God.
I could dive into Old Testament history. I could lay out the framework on how foreshadowing is used in the Old Testament. I could debate the importance of the Queen Mother in Israel and her powerful role. I could write about how Protestants have explained away New Testament passages that point to her vital role in life of Christ and the early church. I could even explore church history to prove that she was given royal status from the first century.
I could but I’m not. I’m just going to share my own experience meeting Mary.
I first felt a draw toward Mary when I had my first son. I remember rocking him to sleep and wondering what it was like for her to hold the incarnate Son of God at her breast. I wondered how they stared into each other’s eyes during night time feedings. And how he smiled at her when his belly was fed.
I wondered how it felt knowing that she was the only one who could soothe the baby’s cry. So many things I wondered about how she felt those first months nurturing the Christ child. What an overwhelming and burdensome joy.
I thought about her a lot. I never talked to her.
Twelve years later I had another son. My son died at 9 weeks old. I thought a lot about Mary again. She was the only person who could understand. She was the only one who could feel the emptiness in my heart. She watched her son die. I did too. I found myself longing to commune with her but fearing it.
I thought about her a lot. I never talked to her.
Another ten years passed. I attended liturgy at a few different Orthodox churches with my living son. The Theotokos was mentioned often in all of them. They were expressive of gratitude toward her and her participation in salvation. They loved her. My heart stirred.
I thought about her more. I still never talked to her.
Until Jan 4, 2024. The 11th anniversary of my son’s death.
One thing I’ve learned is that the body keeps the score of our pain. Leading up to the date, I wasn’t really paying attention to the calendar. But I did notice I was feeling more irritable and my anger was simmering just under the surface. Then the tidal wave of grief flattened me.
My body down to my DNA knew what was happening when my conscious mind didn’t. My body was marking the memorial.
Scientists have discovered that fetal cells transfer to the mother as soon as six days after conception. Those fetal cells course through the mother’s veins for decades and sometimes a lifetime. The cells in my body cried out.
I laid on my bed begging for the wave to release me. Oh God please let me go. The Father knew what it was like to experience the death of a child. “Yes,” I thought, “But he isn’t a mother.”
He wasn’t a mother who carried the Son in her womb. He wasn’t the mother that nursed him with her milk. He wasn’t a mother who had his fetal cells coursing through her body. I didn’t need the Father in that moment. I needed the Mother. I needed His Mother.
That was the first day I called upon Mary. “Help me! You know this pain. Help me!”
As loving mothers do, she listened. She comforted. The Mother of the Most High heard my prayer. She carried it to her son.
I pleaded with her to take care of my son because I can’t. I asked her to please hold him for me and kiss his cheek. In faith, I believe that she came near that day to both of us.
I realized that that was the way the Father designed it. He knew the Savior of the world needed a mother. He knew someday we would need her too.
And so to her I say,
“I have hastened unto you; O Mother of the Word, and ever-Virgin, From all distresses and dangers deliver me. Most Holy Theotokos save us.”
