Motherhood

As the saving events of Holy Week and Easter draw closer, the Church gives us this marvellous little reprieve as we stop and enjoy Mothering Sunday. We often think of three mothers. Mother church, Mother Mary and our own Mothers. Today I want to reflect on Mother Mary and our own mothers. First Mother Mary. In Holy Week there is one encounter with her that we can be sure of. John in his gospel tells us in no uncertain terms where Mary was when her son died. She was there at the foot of the cross. This much we know for sure. There are two other little encounters that have grown up as traditions, but are not recorded for us in Holy Scripture. They do however ring true as entirely plausible if not probable. One is that Mother Mary met her son on the hot, dusty road to Calvary. There is no Biblical account for this. None whatsoever; but there is a certain something in us that says

“Yes, well I can see how that is a strong possibility”. While Jesus might have been embarrassed and wanted to spare his mum the hurt, a Mothers love is so potent that Mary of course would want to be there. Where else could she be? Where else would she be? We could say that perhaps it might have happened like this. That she pushed through the jostling belligerent crowd, wanting to see, wanting to touch, wanting to hold, to protect, wanting to … well just wanting to make it all stop. “I called to him through the shouting voices. He stopped; our eyes met. Mine  full of tears and confusion, his full of pain and anguish”. Then his eyes said to me “Courage, there is a purpose for this”. As he stumbled on I knew he was right. So I followed on and prayed silently.

The other encounter of which there is no account, but which makes perfect sense is a meeting between Mother Mary and her Risen son. Jesus appears to all sorts of people after his resurrection, but there is no mention of him meeting his mother. We could say that it happened like this. Perhaps Mary had gone out early in the morning to get water from the well. Or just as she was about to close her eyes in another attempt to try and snatch some elusive sleep. And all of a sudden there He is. Beautiful, radiant, triumphant, his eyes full of tender love. His gaze one of gentle reassurance. A minimum of words, but then no words are necessary.

And this is also true of our own mothers no matter where they are, or what their foibles, or what their gifts. There are some things that we know for sure about our mothers. That they gave birth to us, they fed us and they pray for us; consciously or subconsciously they will always want what is best for us. But there are also things which kind of make sense and which we can only guess at. How frustrated they were at our recalcitrant behaviour as we tried to figure out where the boundaries were. The stab of pain when we fell out of the tree or scraped our knee, or had our tonsils out and our romantic hearts broken. All these things we kind of  know, but we were never told.

And perhaps that's OK. Perhaps that is the way that it is supposed to be. Perhaps there are some things that we can discover and comprehend, only as we take our place in the next generation up. Perhaps there are some things about the mystery of motherhood that are so personal, so intimate that they do not belong on public record but are quietly treasured in those deep places of a Mothers heart that Our Lady knows oh so well.

So on this mothering Sunday we remember Mother Mary. We give thanks for her courage at the foot of the cross and we rejoice in the things that we do know. We ponder the things that must have been, and yet we are not told. And we look forward to that day when we rejoice with her and her son. When the mystery of Motherhood is not necessarily bandied about for all to see and broadcast, but rather is quietly revealed and understood, but most of all, enjoyed. Then we will know that we have been loved, that we are loved and that we will always be loved. Then we will comprehend in its full mind blowing joy, the mystery of motherhood… the truth we dimly know.