Sitting in Mass this morning, I was overtaken with emotion. It wasn’t what the priest was saying, or what the reading was, or even the atmosphere while I sat and listened and sang and knelt with fellow parishioners.
It was the thought of accepting another’s sacrifice.
From Where I Sit
I sat there in the pew, our bouncy almost-three-year-old between the BHE and me, clutching our son and trying not to noticeably cry.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary and her sacrifice.
Mary was half my age and clutching her own tiny baby boy, knowing the fate that awaited him. She knew about today’s reading, about the in justice of Jesus’s sentencing and the pain of his crucifixion.
Love and Acceptance
This young mother, this uneducated teenager, had accepted that she was to sacrifice her son, that her tiny bundle would grow and have followers and die a horrific death for those followers.
And all she could do was love and support Him as any mother ought.
I kept thinking how I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t let me son walk into that life. I could not say “yes” to God’s demand if He were to ask me to give up my son.
The World Be Damned, I thought, snuggling my slumbering babe.
But Mary did it.
Maybe that’s another reason I’m Catholic: not just by birth, but by choice.