Alice Watson reflects on Mary, Motherhood, and the mystery of Christ.
- What was
Dieric Bouts, Madonna mit Kind (ca. 1475)
He is eleven days old and we take him to Church. I am broken. Not yet learnt how to reform, or realised that it might even be possible. Swallowed up by silence, and doubt, that nothing can make sense any more.
I feed him in the vestry, I’m afraid he’ll fuss, of the looks, the milk that won’t be controlled, how he coughs and splutters and how I don’t really know what to do. How I don’t really know who I am. How I don’t really know. Squished between the discarded decorations and the sign for the fete, I look up and in a dusty old picture I see you. Did you know what to do, birthing your own Lord, Word made flesh. Your flesh. How you held in your arms a little ball of universe, and sprayed milky stars across his skin. In chaos and in love. What trauma did you know too?
He still feeds long after the bell has rung, after the rows of shuffling feet and crossing hands have made it back to their pew. But the curtain swishes, and the veil is lifted, and the body of Christ (amen) And the blood of Christ (amen). How long until the Blood is my blood, and how long until it’s his? For His blood was once yours, no purification needed, only grace. So very full of grace.
- And is
Kate Hansen. 2010. ‘Gladys and Elizabeth’
He is eight months old and I run back from classes to feed him. Leaving behind the patriarchs, and the evangelists, and the dead German theologians. There are quite a few of them. I don’t read many women in these early days. I am tired and I pretend I’m not. I drink too much coffee. I keep up. Sometimes. Sometimes barely. I think of you as my hands move around the beads, or as my mind moves around them as I will him to sleep.
At night I whisper the Magnificat to him. Half promise, half threat, half dream. Cast the mighty down. Raise up the lowly. Did you do the same, night after night, rocking chair revolutionary. Is that how he became his Mother’s son?
I don’t go to Walsingham. I stay home and nurse. I think you’d approve.
- And is to come
Icon of the Mother of God of the Inexhaustible cup.
And so this is this. Time passes, and I am moulded, formed, softened by the love that has flowed through my ducts, toughened by the fire that burns in my veins. Perhaps not tough enough. Still.
I learn of loss, of fear and trembling. I learn of trust and of acceptance. I learn of laughter and of lament. And I learn a little something of the mystery, and the wonder of transformation. Of pain transfigured to strength, scars to art, nights of tears to mornings of joy. And of the power that can transform blood, to milk, and to blood again.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for all of us who cry, who mourn, who are shamed, cast down, who carry heavy burdens. And for all those who lift them. Now and at the hour of our deaths. Amen.