the weight of her fiat
God gives us the dignity of participating in His plan of salvation—the dignity of true choice. Like Mary, each of us must choose to give our “yes” to the invitation before us—but yes is hard. Yes has so many unknowns—and it is in the space of the “unknown” that the evil one tempts us to doubt and despair…
When the “unknowns” seem to be getting the better of me, I take a seat on the corner of Mary’s bed on the night of Jesus’s death and spend the evening with her. Join me…
Sitting on the corner of her bed, I see her walk through the door, her heart too heavy for her chest. Jesus has died. Emotionally and physically exhausted, she slowly lowers her trembling body onto her bed. With arms wrapped around tucked knees, she falls into an aching sleep where a thin veil separates joy-filled moments with Jesus—His embrace, His warm eyes when He tells her He loves her, the peace of His prayers—and the deep, choking grief recalling the moments of His death. She pondered all these things in her broken, pierced heart.
I fall asleep beside her, and together, we rest.
It's Saturday. Mary's eyes, swollen from yesterday's tears, slowly open. With the light of the new day comes the memory of yesterday, and her heart floods. Her Son is dead. She feels the weight of His lifeless body in her arms. Beneath her, she can almost feel the earth shaking as it did the moment He drew His last breath. We step outside; our shoulders feel the warmth of the sun's rays stretching into the quiet of the morning, and her stomach reminds her she did not eat the day before.
I stand beside her. The uncertainty of the day wraps around me…but not her. She weeps in sorrow at the suffering of her Son, but she does not weep with uncertainty. This is why I come and sit with her on this day, the day after Christ's death. Today is the day her Fiat rises to full strength.
In the silence, the unknown, under the weight of immense grief…She waits but is certain that everything that is broken will be made new.
I need her certainty. I'm here to draw from her strength. We sit together against a tall Cyprus. She wraps a wool blanket around the both of us, and I lay my head on her shoulder. Together we cry. Together we wait. With her hand in mine, she gives me the courage to say yes.
When I wake up again, I am lying in my own bed. I hear cereal pouring into a bowl and milk splashing onto the floor. Fiona must be making her own bowl of Cheerios again… I see the three-day pile of laundry on the floor beside the window; I wonder why I can never remember to buy detergent when I am at the store.
I make my way to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. I still feel the warmth of my hand in hers… Amid legos and milk all over the floor, she gives me the courage to say yes to the cross, the wait, the silence, the unknown, the tears, my motherhood, and His grace.
Friends, use this week’s Pray, Grow, & Serve to chat with your child about Mary’s fiat and our own choice to say yes to God. Saying “yes” to God’s plan for love and life must be done with the confidence of Divine hope—allow. Together, let us pick up our cross and follow Him.
