Through the eyes of Mary

What a morning indeed.

I've been praying the Rosary every morning lately. Well, not every morning, every morning commute in the car (5 out of 7 is about a C, you have to start somewhere). God has been lovingly granting me little insights each day. It always happens on the fifth mystery, no more, no less.  It happened for many days in a row.  I wondered if it was ok to ask for them. So, one day I did.  As anyone could have guessed, that was when I didn't get one.  In a way, God showed me by his perceived absence that I should not be saying the Rosary for me, I should be saying the Rosary to worship God. If he decides to speak back that's great, but what I need is to long for him.  You learn longing by absence, not presence.  In the same day that I didn't get an insight, I listened to a talk that explained exactly why.  And, Dr. Pitre also gave something to try in my next Rosary. Yesterday, I gave it a go. I tried to picture the joyful mysteries through the eyes of Mary.  It was very cool to try and put yourself in Mary shoes through the joyful mysteries.  Then, Tuesday came… The sorrowful mysteries...

In the first mystery I tried to imagine watching my own son's agony in the garden.  To have a child who is sick, and you be completely helpless, is one of the worst feelings you can experience as a parent.  My heart sank.  When I came to the second mystery, the scourging, I didn't just imagine my own son being flogged. Putting myself in Mary's shoes was in adequate. I put myself in my wife's shoes with Mary. The way a mother and a father love their child is different.  For my wife, their pain is her pain, their tears are her tears, their cries of agony are her cries of agony.  They are almost united, it is so beautiful.  The next two mystries came and went just the same. Jesus' agony was Mary's agony.  I saw it through my wife’s and Mary’s eyes and I could feel it through my wife's and Mary’s pain. Then, the fifth decade came. 

I imagined watching my son being murdered on the cross for my sins.  That definitely was heavy.  Just when I thought that was bad enough, it came. That is not what Mary felt at all. She didn't watch her son be murdered for her sins, she didn't have any sins. She watched her son be murdered on the cross for the sins of others, for my sins.  She watched as her innocent son endured a horrific death out of sacrifice.  She watched as the nails were driven into his hands instead of mine.  She watched as his love for me poured out of his side...

That was the end of my dry face.  I now understand the title “Our Lady of Sorrows.” She loves her son so much, and her Son love me so much.  To Mary, “Behold, your son.”  And to John, and all of us, “Behold, your mother.”