A Final Night Shift

A little Easter bonus…

Miriam walked in the dark along paths edged with budding rhododendrons, azaleas, and unspiraling ferns, beneath giant evergreens. She remembered warmly a little boy who had asked her to intercede for his mother as she lay near death after the birth of his tiny sister. Both mother and child had lived, and years later the boy, by then Father Ambrose Mayer, had built this Portland place of peace and refuge, the National Sanctuary of Our Sorrowful Mother, as a sign of his gratitude. Arriving at a stone grotto carved into a 100-foot basalt cliffside, she settled onto a kneeler before a white statue replica of Michelangelo’s Pietà that depicted Mary holding the body of her Son after His crucifixion.

Her thoughts focused on the statue and beyond it to her experience of that devastating moment. She ached anew with the anguish of holding her Son’s lifeless adult body upon her lap. But the pain didn’t stand alone, for alongside it was boundless gratitude for the sacrifice her Son had made to redeem all her children.

His was no quick death. He had suffered intensely on that final day: whipping, beating, humiliation, a piercing thorny crown shoved down upon his brow, dragging a heavy beam—not to be honed into something sturdy and functional like He and Joseph had built—but wood of torture and death, and then, oh then—she still could hear the terrible blows—the pounding of spikes to peg His hands and feet to the cross, His groans as the cross was lifted and dropped into its hole, the draining of His strength over three hours while she stayed within His gaze, before His forgiving words, His release of His Spirit, and the final thrust of a spear that confirmed He was dead.

She could feel the tears trailing her cheeks as they had countless times when she commemorated His suffering and death. She remembered following His footsteps on the Way of the Cross, or the Via Dolorosa, in order to ponder the mysteries of His death. She wept for the wounds people today continue to inflict on her Son: the commandments they break, their refusal to center their lives around the One who loves them, their selfishness that hurts the ones around them. She cried for the pain her beloved children experienced at the hands of her other, also-beloved children.

Yet, she forced herself to remember His resurrection! For as surely as He had died, He had also risen.

The dawning sun brightened the sky above the Grotto and drew her gaze heavenward. His resurrection was the culmination of those three agonizing days when her Son was lost to her.

He rose and returned to her!

At this thought, her soul leapt within her and her joy resurged. For as deep as her sorrow had been—and still was when she pondered His suffering—her joy was even greater. He lived! He had conquered not only death, but sin and evil. That was the purpose behind His suffering, and what a joyous gift it was to all who welcomed it, who welcomed Him into their hearts. The thought reminded Miriam of her countless children who do strive to follow God’s path.

Exultation encompassed Miriam, and she lifted her love to her God and thanked Him with her whole being. God—Father, Son, and Spirit—God was infinitely good. God was all Love, and she was entirely His. All her children were God’s, and she would work tirelessly for them to realize that, so they could share in her Joy.

A young priest passed behind Miriam on his way to celebrate the first Mass of the day. He had been struggling with depression and loneliness and had knelt a few feet behind the praying woman to ask God to give him strength.

He watched Miriam raise her arms and listened while she sang with great elation:

My soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God, my Savior…

for He has looked with favor on His humble servant.

From this day all generations will call me blessed,

the Almighty has done great things for me,

and holy is His Name.

He has mercy on those who fear Him

in every generation.

He has shown the strength of His arm,

He has scattered the proud in their conceit.

He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,

and has lifted up the humble.

He has filled the hungry with good things,

and the rich He has sent away empty.

He has come to the help of his servant Israel

for He has remembered his promise of mercy,

the promise He made to our fathers,

to Abraham and his children forever.

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,

as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever.

Amen. Alleluia!

The sun crested the grotto edge, temporarily blinding the young priest. When he shaded his eyes with his hand, the woman was gone.

Yet, such ecstasy had risen in him as he overheard her words that simply recalling the experience overcame any emergence of darkness in his mood for all his remaining years of life.