This Mother of God reminds me of the woman who returning home at night says to the sitter, "I'll just look in on the children." She goes beyond the door and up to each bed. What is she looking for? That the child is not agitated, wet, anxious, cold, uncovered, fevered, in need of a touch or whispered word.
It's all an invitation to prayer. Mary's eyes are wide-awake here, totally open to me as she enters my own shadowed, inner room. Her mouth is small; no idle word, saying only what I will need to hear.
in my dis-ease and frustration,
spiritual hunger and thirst,
fear of uselessness and failure,
yet eager to begin again.
Mother of God, who looks in on her child,
where I feel an impending collapse,
where patience is tried and often short,
where I fear I have stopped growing.
Mother of God, who looks in on her child,
here unmasked,
between the rock and the hard place,
going under.
Mother of God, who looks in on her child,
restless in my complaint,
on the brink of tears,
in the darkness of my mind.
Mother of God, who looks in on her child,
in my foolish distractions,
blanketed by indecision,
poor choices,
resentments and fatigue.
Mother of God, who looks in on her child,
in the hurt of unhealed wounds,
fears un-addressed,
the energy drain of pride and stubbornness,
the un-knowing - even of my self.
Mother of God, who looks in on her child,
in my soul-room,
on the edge of my bed,
speak the re-assuring word,
Everything will be alright.
Father Stephen P. Morris
