Mother Mary

Fatima 3 ~ July 13

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          As the July date approached Lucia continued to be troubled by the words of her pastor that the devil might be behind the apparitions. Finally, she confided to Jacinta that she intended not to go. When the day finally dawned, however, her fears and anxieties disappeared, so that the noon hour found her in the Cova with Jacinta and Francisco, awaiting the arrival of the beautiful Lady.

          The apparition of July 13th would prove to be in many ways the most controversial aspect of the message of Fátima, providing a secret in three parts which the children guarded zealously. The first two parts, the vision of hell and the prophecy of the future role of Russia and how to prevent it, would not be revealed until Sr. Lucia wrote them down in her third memoir, at the request of the bishop, in 1941. The third part, usually called the Third Secret, was only later communicated to the bishop, who sent it unread to Pope Pius XII.

          A few moments after arriving at the Cova da Iria, near the holmoak, where a large number of people were praying the Rosary, we saw the flash of light once more, and a moment later Our Lady appeared on the holmoak.

          “Lucia,” Jacinta said, “speak. Our Lady is talking to you.”

          “Yes?” said Lucia. She spoke humbly, asking pardon for her doubts with every gesture, and to the Lady: “What do You want of me?”

          “I want you to come back here on the thirteenth of next month. Continue to say the Rosary every day in honor of Our Lady of the Rosary, to obtain the peace of the world and the end of the war, because only she can obtain it.”

          “Yes, yes.”

          “I would like to ask who You are, and if You will do a miracle so that everyone will know for certain that You have appeared to us.”

         “You must come here every month, and in October I will tell you who I am and what I want. I will then perform a miracle so that all may believe.”

          Thus assured, Lucia began to place before the Lady the petitions for help that so many had entrusted to her. The Lady said gently that she would cure some, but others she would not cure.

          “And the crippled son of Maria da Capelinha?”

          “No, neither of his infirmity nor of his poverty would he be cured, and he must be certain to say the Rosary with his family every day.”

          Another case recommended by Lucia to the Lady’s assistance was a sick woman from Atougia who asked to be taken to heaven.

          “Tell her not to be in a hurry. Tell her I know very well when I shall come to fetch her. Make sacrifices for sinners, and say often, especially while making a sacrifice: O Jesus, this is for love of Thee, for the conversion of sinners, and in reparation for offences committed against the Immaculate Heart of Mary.”

 

First Part of the Secret – The Vision of Hell

          As Our Lady spoke these words She opened her hands once more, as had during the two previous months. The rays of light seemed to penetrate the earth, and we saw as it were a sea of fire. Plunged in this fire were demons and souls in human form, like transparent burning embers, all blackened or burnished bronze, floating about in the conflagration, now raised into the air by the flames that issued from within themselves together with great clouds of smoke, now following back on every side like sparks in huge fires, without weight or equilibrium, amid shrieks and groans of pain and despair, which horrified us and made us tremble with fear. (it must have been this sight which caused me to cry out, as people say they heard me do). The demons could be distinguished by their terrifying and repellent likeness to frightful and unknown animals, black and transparent like burning coals. terrified and as if to plead for succor, we looked up at Our Lady, who said to us, so kindly and so sadly:

 

Second Part of the Secret

          “You have seen hell, where the souls of poor sinners go. It is to save them that God wants to establish in the world devotion to my Immaculate Heart. If you do what I tell you, many souls will be saved, and there will be peace.

          This war will end, but if men do not refrain from offending God, another and more terrible war will begin during the pontificate of Pius XI. When you see a night that is lit by a strange and unknown light [this occurred on January 28, 1938], you will know it is the sign God gives you that He is about to punish the world with war and with hunger, and by the persecution of the Church and the Holy Father.

          To prevent this, I shall come to the world to ask that Russia be consecrated to my Immaculate Heart, and I shall ask that on the First Saturday of every month Communions of reparation be made in atonement for the sins-of the world. If my wishes are fulfilled, Russia will be converted and there will be peace; if not, then Russia will spread her errors throughout the world, bringing new wars and persecution of the Church; the good will be martyred and the Holy Father will have much to suffer; certain nations will be annihilated. But in the end my Immaculate Heart will triumph. The Holy Father will consecrate Russia to me, and she will be converted, and the world will enjoy a period of peace. In Portugal the faith will always be preserved…”

 

Third Part of the Secret – Congregation for Doctrine of the Faith, “The Message of Fátima

          After the two parts which I have already explained, at the left of Our Lady and a little above, we saw an Angel with a flaming sword in his left hand; flashing, it gave out flames that looked as though they would set the world on fire; but they died out in contact with the splendor that Our Lady radiated towards him from Her right hand: pointing to the earth with his right hand, the Angel cried out in a loud voice: ‘Penance, Penance, Penance!’.

          And we saw in an immense light that is God: ‘something similar to how people appear in a mirror when they pass in front of it’ a Bishop dressed in white; ‘we had the impression that it was the Holy Father’. Other Bishops, Priests, men and women Religious going up a steep mountain, at the top of which there was a big Cross of rough-hewn trunks as of a cork-tree with the bark; before reaching there the Holy Father passed through a big city half in ruins and half trembling with halting step, afflicted with pain and sorrow, he prayed for the souls of the corpses he met on his way; having reached the top of the mountain, on his knees at the foot of the big Cross, he was killed by a group of soldiers who fired bullets and arrows at him, and in the same way there died one after another the other Bishops, Priests, men and women Religious, and various lay people of different ranks and positions. Beneath the two arms of the Cross there were two Angels each with a crystal aspersorium in his hand, in which they gathered up the blood of the Martyrs and with it sprinkled the souls that were making their way to God.}

          “Remember, you must not tell this to anyone except Francisco.”

          “When you pray the Rosary, say after each mystery: O my Jesus, forgive us, save us from the fire of hell. Lead all souls to heaven, especially those who are most in need.”

          “Is there anything more that You want of me?”

          “No, I do not want anything more of you today.”

          Then as before Our Lady began to ascend towards the east, until She finally disappeared in the immense darkness of the firmament.

          The possession of the Secret proved to be very great trial for the three young ones. Family, neighbors, followers of the apparitions, even the clergy, tried unsuccessfully to get them to reveal it. Finally, as the day of the August apparition approached even the civil government, which was secular and virulently anti-clerical, alarmed by the numbers of people taking an interest in the Fátima events, attempted to wrest it from them and in the process expose the Church as a collaborator in a fraud.

 

(Taken from https://www.ewtn.com/fatima/third-apparition-of-our-lady.asp)

 

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Lent 22 ~ Chime of the Annunciation

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          I wasn’t sure of the date today, so I checked, and saw that it was March 25.

          And it tugged on my heart.

          I ran the date through my head to see if it was a birthday or a deadline I had forgotten, but there didn’t seem to be anything.

          I continued my work. And the date continued to chime quietly and gently, like the tiniest of bells. Little baby-tugs on my heart. About two hours later, it had gone on long enough that I could no longer ignore it, so I looked up the date to see if there was a church feast of some significance.

          March 25 2017 was the Feast of the Annunciation. It hit me like a slap of water.

          In July last year, we were to travel back to my husband’s hometown, to visit a grave. We always take flowers when we go, but that day, it was special, and I wanted roses, and the best of them too. In my heart, I envisioned pink roses; I yearned for the beautiful Guadalupe Roses. They do not grow here, but I prayed we’d find something close enough.

          However, during my Morning Holy Hour that blue~gold July day, I received three tugs in a single, different direction.

          The first came through a painting I had never before seen – of a young girl pinning a rose to a statue of Mother Mary.

          And the second tug was by St Padre Pio. I cannot remember how it came about, but it was willed by God that morning,  that I should find a link to a website that was all about St. Pio and the Rosary.

          Finally, as we were leaving the house to begin our long journey, I casually looked around the tangle that is our garden, and amongst the busyness there, a lone flower caught my hurrying gaze.

          A tiny, tiny pink tea~rose.

          As we travelled, my thoughts inevitably went back to my hope that we’d find roses.

          In a quiet light burst, I recalled the events of the morning – the picture, the words and the baby bloom of rose. And immediately, I knew.

          I had wanted roses for this beloved one gone Home.

          But instead, Beloved wanted Roses for our MotherThe most beautiful of Guadalupe roses – the Rosary.

          I yielded to the gentle but insistent request.

          It being a Monday, I began to recite the Joyful Mysteries. The 1st Mystery, the Annunciation, went fine, and I proceeded to the 2nd. But from a sharp and sure determination to recite the Rosary, I suddenly began to struggle with the 2nd decade of the Rosary. The words kept evaporating, I kept forgetting them.

          Over and over and over, I went back to the 2nd, then to the 3rd decades of the Rosary. 

          Over and over, each time, the Rosary header for each decade dissipated. I would begin to recite the Mystery for the decade, and I would be transported right back to the first mystery.

          The Annunciation.

          Soon, I began to feel drowsy. It was warm day, and one of beauty. Blue mists still hid and peeked out from amongst branches and grass dancing in the merry~yellow of the morning sunshine. The perky joy of the day drizzled its blessings into my spirit.

          Lulled into a deep peace, as I savoured the gold of that beautiful day, my thoughts drowsily went back to my struggle with the Rosary. My recitation kept going back to the Annunciation.

          Why did I keep returning to that? Was something holding me back? What was it about the Annunciation?

          And at that moment, I heard a clear, female voice write these words on my heart ~

The event of the Warning will begin with the Annunciation

          That was last year. I had forgotten all that. But the memory returned today, in the earliest hours of the 25th, the Feast of the Annunciation, 2017. Despite the initial shock of remembering, there is no fear, no worry whatever may come. That day last year, I was not told the year to look out for.

          But I now know it is this year, 2017. Because the Rose~bell chimed just after midnight of the old day.

          To remind me of the great day when the Archangel Gabriel announced the coming of a Miracle to change the tide of the times.

An Asking of Roses

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          I was preparing to go to a shrine early in the morning of the 18th of July, when this picture came to me. It caught my heart, this little girl, so many other things to go to like others her age, but there she was, at a little shrine, intent on giving her Mother a rose. Nothing else mattered to the young one. No storm, no gaiety could force her gaze and spirit away from this sacred deed.

          Yet, my mind remained on the rose the girl in the painting was trying to thread through the statue. I planned to place flowers at the shrine I was going to. I hoped there would be a good choice of blooms because I wanted nothing but the best.

          I thought pink roses would be beautiful.

          About to hurry on to something else, St. Pio quietly came, showed me the Rosary and whispered his old words to my heart, I always pray the Rosary.

          There were to be no rose blooms for my Mother that day. We searched the whole town, only to come up empty. It wasn’t until the journey began that the angels knit together the pearls. Just like the young lass in the painting had given Her, my Mother was asking for a Rose from me too. A rose from my heart.

          And so, I said a Rosary. Rose after rose wreathed through every bend of road framed by wild trees and a morning sky of blues and sun-tinged mists. It was my first with no intentions or petitions attached. Every Hail Mary was my rosebud for the only Mother I ever had.

          Maybe some day, I thought, I would understand why She asked for roses on this day of a thousand memories, when giving is never easy because the heart is empty yet longing.

          Then, a little orange light gently bloomed. It was the saint of the shrine I was going to, who asked for the Rosary. I had wanted to place the best roses at his rest, and he wanted them as much as I wanted to give, except that for him, the very best of roses could only be the Rosary for his Rose of Carmel.

CONSOLE ME

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          A fat jasmine bush lives contentedly by our window, and this crisp blue morning, it was laden with pure white pearls. Tendrils of its perfume circled me playfully in gentle invitation. I thought I read the floral note right, but as I proceeded to fill a bowl with the pert white blooms, two words ribboned by softly,

Console Me

          I paused for a second. The First Saturday Devotion to the Immaculate Heart of Mary prayer of reparation had been recited in the morning, but I had wished then that I could have offered Mother more, given Her something from my heart.

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Console Me

          The bush and its cream jewels waited expectantly. Only then, did I understand the invitation I had sensed.

          And so I tried. With every wee flower I picked, I made a small prayer offering to the Immaculate Heart.

For lost souls,

For grieving mothers, grieving fathers,

Those left behind after crashes, accidents, left to weep and mourn,

For Parkinson’s sufferers, Dementia, Alzheimers,

For old people, loneliness, sadness, fear,

Breast cancer sufferers, all cancer sufferers,

For Eva,

Susan

Sick children,

Worried parents…..

          With every cream white that went to its repose in my bowl, a small quicksilver prayer was sent to the Mother of Angels. The wildgreen bush had bequeathed its prayer pearls for her Queen this day, but in peaceful anticipation, are many more prayer buds to crown the Queen in Blue, in days to come.

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SEEK REFUGE

12247-summer-flowers-wallpaper-hd[1]Bubbles of joy in music filled hearts. Not a care, not a worry, not a fear. Happy skips in the playgrounds of gaiety. Flower blankets blooming beneath the love of the unblighted sun.

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Food aplenty, open displays of feasts. No gnawing hunger, no fear of an empty larder. Raucous pursuits, a different joy every day. Freedom to scale any hill and mountain. No restraining leash tethered to pains and needs of those around us. Everything we want is there for the taking.

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Golden sunrise of hope, clear skies. Not a tear, not a shadow. We skip and dance past imprisoned souls, Live life to the fullest, we call out. Seize the day, we chime to teary eyes, Join in our song of camaraderie, we sing before we breeze on.

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Happy sojourns, success in every form, at every turn in the road. Eyes unseeing, ensconced within our walled-in sphere of accolades and shallow mirth. The still in the winds we sense not. The gathering hush comes slow and stealthily.

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Muted tinkle of warning. Ribboned our way by a wind chime stirred by the first rain winds. For an instance, our skip is stilled. We look up from our preoccupation, irritated at the intrusion.  We might see the burgeoning waves on seemingly distant seas. What’s new? That’s life, – we  reason impatiently. Then, we turn away. A crow call of nothings, we shrug and damp down the sparks of messenger whispers.

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The Storm hits from behind, a wild and feral fury unleashed. We latch our doors and cower in shock. Our houses are pummeled. Every pocket wherein we stored our hopes and faith torn and rent to shreds. In fear we flee the houses we occupied, tearing down streets where we built our other abodes, seeking open doors, ready welcome, comfort and refuge. Panic surges and overwhelms.

No door, no welcome.

No comfort, no refuge.

We crumple to the ground. Our life in ashes lie. Knifing through us, a wrenching grief of loss of the familiar. Mater dei, Mater dei, the cry slips from us.

An ember of light flickers to life within us. Sepia-stained memories of an ancient Call. Am I not here, I, who am your Mother?

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Stumbling to our feet, we search for hallowed ground, seek the Mantle we once knew. Grateful collapse, our knees we bend in humble homage. Winds screaming all around, yet, an oasis of Comfort in holy remorse and repentance. Refuge found.

 

ROSE OF GUADALUPE

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Today, St Francis purposefully led me to Our Lady of Guadalupe. She had come to me twice before, this year, but I did not see, and chose to graze elsewhere. Today, I am at Her feet, because St Francis told me to rest the eyes of my heart on the Rose of Guadalupe. In these past hours, through the birdcalls and lilting family melodies, I have come to know more about the Rose of Guadalupe today than I ever did before. And yet, I sense I have not come even within whispering distance of Her true essence; there’s so much more beyond the pink veil.

Like before, I stand uncertain, unsure of what to do.

I think about Her.

She appeared on a hill, heralded not by trumpets, nor by choirs, but by birdsong in the early rose of dawn. To make Her presence felt, She perfumed the air of Tepeyac with the welcome chorus of feathered joys, to be heard only by a saintly soul seeking heaven in his every day.

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She chose to appear to a simple, humble man who loved God more than anything else. Who walked solitary paths to attend Mass. One who loved family and knew with a keenness, the grief of loss, worrying and aching for loved ones.

Our Lady comforts Juan Diego

When Juan Diego’s human love for his ailing uncle surpassed his love for his heavenly Mother, no sullen anger from Her. No strident demand that he forget his pain. Instead, She reached into his human sorrow, placed hope there, and wiped his tears away. She kept Her promise, took away the illness of his uncle who had given up and awaited the angel of death, giving him sight of purpose of days ahead, saying, I am She who crushes serpents.

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In a life surrounded by serpentine values and hidden snares, Her words a promise for those wearied by battles, then and now. We are not alone,

We are not forsaken,

We are not forgotten.

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She worked the Miracle of Pink Roses, to thaw the frost of doubt and weariness in pilgrim hearts. The perfume of that hope reaches us even today, spurring us on to hills and valleys we must traverse, although we fear, because of uncertainty in our weakened hearts. Over, and over, She tells us, I am the Mother of the Impossible. Fear not, fear not, fear not.

Grieving Mother, Aborted Child

Grieving Mother, Aborted Child

Her mantle over us when we storm heaven with prayers, sacrifices, vigils, and yet see the crimson tide threating to overwhelm. She is there when despair stands too close as we contemplate defenseless children abandoned by reluctant parents, for every child saved, too many more lost. Where is the hope, where is the hope?  Our cry presses Her heart.

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Mother of Guadalupe, Defender of the Unborn. She had shone the Light of Her Son into Aztec hearts that had hitherto only known shadows, converting them from the bloodlust that had kept them chained to the worship of darkness and blinded them to the jewel-glory of children. Once more, hope echoes down the tunnels of time. Their cries I have heard. Save the Unborn, I will, for I am their Mother. Hope springs anew.

She is here, She is here. Tell the Children, tell their Defenders.

Mother for all, young and old, strong and weak, lost and found. She meets us on rutted trails through the gathering shadows, a Hand reached out when the thorns of life snake across our everyday journeys. No promise broken, no hope in ashes lie. Clothed in the majesty of the sun, She comes again, as before.

She sees us hurrying past.

She sends messengers of nature to bid us pause.

And She says to us now, as She did then, “My dear little one, where are you going?”

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TRIUMPH OF THE HOLY CROSS ~ Sept 14

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Years ago, when my eyes first traced the words – Triumph of the Holy Cross, I naively imagined the coming feast would bring me joy and revelry. As it turned out, from that first year, every time I saw the feast approaching, I remembered all we had hoped for but ultimately lost. My heart ached every time I heard the proclamation that the Cross would bring joy and that it was a sign of hope.

To me, it brought neither.

Yet, I knew that the struggle to comprehend the true meaning of Christian joy was due to my experience of pain, and not a rebellion against the truth. My feelings were an impediment to the acceptance of the doctrine of the Cross. Although I instinctively knew it was true, I couldn’t see the truth of it manifested through what we had gone through. I didn’t doubt the truth of my cradle faith, but I hurt because I could not proclaim it in sincerity in my life. And I desperately wanted to not hurt because of it.

Every time, every year the feast made its way up my calendar, the eyes of my heart watched it in wary curiosity, willing God to lift the veil and let the truth shine through, so the pain would dissipate.

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This year, on an impulse, I made the sudden decision to mark the feast. I had had enough of waiting by the wings. I began to recite the Novena of the Exaltation of The Holy Cross. It was my way of telling God, I want to know. Lift the veil, Lord.

Some days into it, I heard a voice say, Blow the Spirit of My Mother into the realms. A fleeting voice. Light. Leaving no mark within me. No compulsion that I follow its leading. An invisible beckoning to part the veil, to go beyond the veil.

I chased after the voice. I called out and waited for its answering echo. I listened out for it, day and night, trying to make out its cadences from among the cacophony of other competing voices.

Blow the Spirit of My Mother into the realms.

I turned the phrase over and over in my mind. Many dear souls tried to help me fathom its meaning. But every honest suggestion bounced off me like silver raindrops sliding into the earth. Nothing stayed long enough to resonate.

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On the 14th of September, I sat in an empty and silent church and stared at my Lord on His Cross. It was not an easy journey to make to the church, so I wanted to make the most of it. I got busy offering Him my prayers and supplications. I looked carefully at the Cross and willed Him to speak to me. I waited. There was a peaceful quiet around me, but nothing more. After a time, I decided to leave.

As I moved to get up, I was suddenly assailed by a powerful sense of gratitude for His gift of faith to me. Thankfulness flooded my spirit like never before. I had long suspected that what bit of faith I had was not of my making, but a gift from above.

But up to then, I had never before felt such a deep conviction of that. In that moment of light in the church yesterday, I was bent over in a gratitude not mine for all God had blessed me with. It was something I knew all along, and yet, it seemed that some inner eye had been opened to the gift of spiritual insight.

As I finally made my way out of church, I felt an unseen burden lifted off my shoulders. I did not know what that burden was, but I felt light within.

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Stepping into the sunshine, ready to go forth with a spring in my step, I became aware of a sudden developing aridity in my soul. In a split second, I had moved from white to dark. It felt as if my soul was drying from the edges inwards. Nothing around me had changed. And yet, some darkness had slipped in. An unseen wind borne and strengthened on gusts of fear and panic began to howl silently inside me. From the positive emotions of a scant few minutes before, this sudden change was a storm I never saw coming.

I went into pretend mode. I tried to not panic. I carved a face of normalcy and went about my day, while the storm clawed at me on the inside. I tended to house chores and cooked dinner, all the while frantically trying to discern what I had done wrong to have visited this on myself. A hundred questions. No answers.

But I knew, like the faith I carried in my heart, this secret growing desert within my soul was not my doing. It had formed unbidden in me several times in the past. It was not unknown. It was a small moment in the desert Christ stayed in for forty days. It was the desert of hopelessness, doubt, sorrow of the loss of heaven. It was the desolation of the perceived closed door of heaven. No spiritual leadings in that desert in me. No voiceless prompts to charity and rightness. No comfort, no solace, no peace. The aridity was heaven’s door sealed to me so I would leave the comforts I had grown used to, to search anew for Truth.

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It was a journey I could never not make however much I despised it. And yet, I cowed in fear because it was a journey of the soul but without clearly sensing my Lord’s guiding Hand. It was a journey of obedience through bitter darkness and fear, not being able to see in front of me. This was a journey that called for only faith and obedience. And yet it seemed unsurmountable.

As the storm inside me crashed and raged in a widening circle of tempests, I grew more and more desperate. It reached a hideous peak.

Then, a prayer slipped into me. A prayer I have never before prayed.

Mother, into Your hands I commend my spirit.

Like the faith I had, like the dryness in me, this prayer too was not my doing.

But I grasped it like one drowning. I didn’t question it. I didn’t analyse it. Over and over and over, I prayed the prayer, throwing myself in abandon into the depths of it.

Mother, into Your hands I commend my spirit…

Mother, into Your hands I commend my spirit…

Mother, into Your hands I commend my spirit.

And the miracle began. I felt something take root and bloom within my soul.

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The black ice began to melt. The darkness edged away. The storm swirled slower and slower and slower.

Mother, into Your hands I commend my spirit.

I didn’t know that prayer and but my spirit did. It was my Savior’s words from the Cross. He gave me His words and turned me to His mother to place my spirit, my will in Her hands.

Stunned, I realised whose voice it was that I had heard that day ~ Blow the Spirit of My Mother into the realms – it was Jesus’ voice.

And when I answered with a trusting beyond me, Mother, into Your hands I commend my spirit, I stepped out of the darkness. I parted the veil.

In that instant, I knew the Triumph of the Cross.

EVE OF MY HEART

Eve of my heart. Loyal, even when I wasn’t. Patient in silent wait as I ran far to get away. A hand reached out to comfort and caress, to support and hold up. Never to hit. Never to pinch.

Listened to my litany of peeves and grouses every day of my life. Held me close in prayer. Kept my secrets. Never taunted. Never mocked. Humiliation was not her way. Neither was force or coercion. With her, no fear, betrayal or abuse.

Helped me build my marriage when I was bent on destroying it. Taught me how to cook, and to laugh when I couldn’t. Held me when the children didn’t come, but insinuations did. Patted and burped babies when they did come. Taught me that the best perfume was found in the folds of a baby’s fat neck, the softest pillow against a wee one’s fine down head.

Then, one day, she looked to me in silent question, and I didn’t know how to say no, because how do you refuse a mother who watched her son die a violent death just because He loved? All I know is what she took, she keeps safe. I gave up to my mother because all she asked of me was to love. And when the grief mists refused to subside, she sent me tangerine butterflies in the rain to teach me death has no power over us.

Many journeys through caverns and valleys where the sun was not welcome. On a great search and wanting to be alone, although I never was, for Mother stayed close.

Lessons of trust and yielding finally learnt. I’ve finally come home to my Mother.

 

 

finding my MOTHER’S ears

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Once upon a time, 30 years gone. I scrunched up my eyes and thought of nothing else, and prayed to a Woman from the depths of my heart. No intermediary needed, no scolding voice harshly reminding me to pray. No threats of eternal damnation.  No picture painted of a furious God. Just me and the Woman.

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From the old open windows where the sun streamed in gold and breezes poured their breath through, a deep joy silvered in and took my child-heart captive, and rendered all other pleasures nothing.

mother-mary-with-child-jesus[1] The Woman let me know my prayers had found Her ears.

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14 years gone, sobbing and clawing against the door of frustration. I sought the Woman again. Hitting myself over another woman – the one who birthed me, yet strung me on a leash and whirled me wild. Convinced I was in the wrong. Buying into the NPD-inspired myth that the child is always to blame. Anger. Confusion. Helplessness.

Comfort her, Mother, I screamed silently. Comfort not me for I hurt her. Comfort her and only her. I scrunched up my eyes and thought of nothing else, and prayed to the Woman from the depths of my heart.

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In exhausted sleep amongst purple shadows, I saw a scene where all was blue. Blue of heaven, blue never before seen. I saw smiles, and gentle answers. No harshness. No accusations. Peace.

mother-mary-with-child-jesus[1]The Woman let me know my prayers had found Her ears.

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8 years gone, a million questions, a deep, black fear. Eyes dry, throat in a choke-hold. A sick child.

Heal this blessing from my womb, Mother. Our Lady of Mount Carmel, heal my child. I scrunched up my eyes and thought of nothing else, and prayed to the Woman from the depths of my heart.

white-rose-bud[1]

Fresh dewy eyes, cheeks pink and velvety soft. Made whole and healthy before the good bye.

mother-mary-with-child-jesus[1]The Woman let me know my prayers had found Her ears.

a-faded-rose[1]

6 years gone, a friend’s pain pierced my mist of grief. Hidden tears poured out from miles away. A wedding band twirled in hours of wait, a husband missing from the side. On one side, an empty seat in the Christmas pew; on the other, a cantankerous, ungrateful mother carping about everything under the Yuletide moon, oblivious to an aching heart pining for a husband gone.

Place her pain upon my shoulders, Mother. Flood my heart with her grief. I scrunched up my eyes and thought of nothing else, and prayed to the Woman from the depths of my heart.

white-rose-bud[1]

Miles away, kneeling in my pew, shivering in the cold, rainstorm air. A sudden searing warmth upon my shoulders and back. Like an unseen cloak, to shield against wet mist from the open church doors. Mass over, on the way home. I reached for my phone. Her words a wonder: He’s here. Beside me. My hand in his grasp, tears in his eyes.

mother-mary-with-child-jesus[1]The Woman let me know my prayers had found Her ears.

 

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Roses fade and rain mists gather

A straying heart, wandering mind

Empty pursuits, blessings forgotten

But in stillness she awaits Her child’s prayer.

Never fading nor misting

Never straying nor wandering

But ever in eternal readiness for Her child’s seeking.