My Holy Sentinel

Greeting all who approach our door with your silent witness, you bear the heat, the cold and everything in between— all the storms life throws at us.

Flowers grow at your feet in spring and summer; silk stems to honor you in fall and winter. At times, wearing a crown of snow, you are, indeed, the woman for all seasons. You look the same. I can only see the tiny cracks in your surface when I get close— like my worry lines. You and I appear intact, yet not unscathed.

You understand my loss, Mary. I never see your tears. People don’t see mine either—my private grief—reserved for the darkness.

Others think us brave and maybe we are, but also, we are immobilized. What was once inside of us is now far away and yet more inside of us than ever.
                                                                                                   
“Hail Mary, Full of Grace,
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed are thou among women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of death.”
 Amen