The day I saw Mary in action
Liturgical Readings for 10/27/2022
The first reading today continues Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. We have Paul telling us to wear the armor of God. We should be wearing it at all times. I try to sleep in mine. I have a nightcap, read a little in bed, and roll over on my breastplate to hit the hay.
Seriously, don’t take it off. To walk closely with God is to walk against the world. The more in step we become with God the more out of step we fall with the surrounding world. The world desires conformity. It steals our time and tells us we will never be good enough.
Ephesians 6:10–20
Paul must have been attacked all the time.
Luke 13:31–35
The Gospel reading today is from Luke. We have the Pharisees again telling Jesus to flee the area because Herod wants Him dead. Maybe they didn’t want to see Jesus get hurt, or maybe they were telling Jesus this in spite. Jesus responds with no worry. He is doing what God sent Him to do.
He speaks out His mission again despite the world pushing back to make Him stop.
“How many times I yearned to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, but you are unwilling!”
There will come a day when all will say, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.”
Today was my day. Today, I saw my Lord. I saw Christ because someone chose to follow Him when the moment called for it.
I serve in adoration every Thursday. I take my lunch break and go and sit in the chapel and stare at the holy sacrament. It’s my time with the Lord. I pray a rosary and with the remaining time, I sit quietly and read or contemplate whatever comes to mind. Today, I sat and stared at the small statue of Mary, the Mother of Jesus to the left of the monstrance.
I rarely go to Mary first. As a former Protestant, I go to Jesus directly and I will sometimes give Mary a shout-out towards the end of my time in prayer. I understand who she is as a Catholic. I respect her, but I still struggle with deeper connection to her and I continue to pray that I may know develop a stronger bond with her. As I sat today, thinking about our blessed Mother, the chapel door opened and a middle-aged woman made her way down the aisle in the direction of the host.
In adoration we work in teams. We have partners that attend during our scheduled hour. I didn’t recognize this woman as a regular attendee. She walked as though she knew she needed to be there, as though she had an appointment. As she walked I noticed a slight limp in her step. She wasn’t much older than me, but I could tell that life had been much harder on her and her body seemed emotionally battered. She was tired.
I watched as she turned left at the alter and headed toward the Mary statue. She stopped and stared at Mary for a moment. There is typically a rosary that hangs from the statue’s hands. I have never seen anyone move this rosary in the months that I have attended adoration. The woman waited for a moment, and then reached out almost as if she had received permission and removed the rosary. She made her way back to the front row and I watched her struggle to make her way down to the ground. Clutching the rosary and wincing in pain she bowed down to the floor and began to pray.
I continued reading my book, casually glancing up to see this humble display of prayer. I was in awe of her devotion. Suddenly I heard short and small gasps of breath. The woman had begun to cry. I could feel a wave of pain enter the room. She wept. I am so glad my adoration partner was aware because I didn’t have the courage in this moment to move toward the woman. There she knelt, eyes closed in prayer, and I was frozen in this feeling of sadness as it covered the room like a dense mist. My adoration partner walked down the aisle and knelt next to the woman. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder.
I hit my knees in surrender, the grief now piercing my thoughts, the scene in front of me was brokenness. The very reason Christ came. God had been waiting for this woman to come to Him in this very moment. If only the rest of this world would drop to it’s knees in prayer, needing the attention of our creator, what a much better life we would all share.
There on the ground, these two strangers prayed side by side. Social status, financial status, history, and even language barriers did not matter. When the woman felt a hand contact her shoulder, she looked up, bowed in thanksgiving, and began to weep harder. She needed this moment, this human touch, this moment of release. God was giving her comfort.
“Can I pray for you? Can I pray for someone for you?” my partner asked the woman.
I could see that the woman understood very little English as she struggled to find the right words to respond. She muttered one word which spoke volumes in that brief second.
“Family”
I could hear the brokenness and despair in her voice. Her family was hurting and she was here searching for God. In the still moments that adoration could offer in front of the blessed sacrament, the Eucharist looked down at the woman in tears. The host of our Lord saw that woman.
We prayed for the woman until she was ready to move up into the chair. I wiped the tears from my eyes. The small voice in my head continued to whisper,
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
It continued to repeat over and over again. In that moment, I realized what I had witnessed in adoration on this day. I saw a hurting woman approach Mary for grace. I saw Mary leading the woman to her place in front of the Eucharist.
I saw Jesus kneel down with this woman and pray with her.
I saw the blessed mother of my God doing what she was called to do in this world. She was leading me to her Son.
I saw Mary praying for this woman. I saw Jesus Christ loving this woman and ministering to everyone in the room. None of this would have happened if everyone in the chapel, in that moment, had not surrendered to God’s will. For a brief moment, I saw God’s plan in its entirety. My relationship with Mary, my blessed mother has changed forever. She answered me and showed me the glory of her son, and my God.
