I tend to organize my thoughts around the calendar . . . seasonal writing, I suppose you could call it.
This works for me, as the older I get, the more I must follow my friend Melissa’s advice on life: Simplify.
It’s an organizational tool perfectly suited to the aging brain and body, as well as the writer pitching monthly columns.
In April, I shared my newborn epiphany that many things (big and small) have showered me with grace in recent years.
It’s now May; who better to write about than the Mediatrix of that Grace? She clearly had her hand in all of it, even if I was too obtuse to grasp that at the time.
Striving for a connection
You see, I’ve never been able to feel close to her. Ever.
I’ve always prayed to her and believed without doubt in her intercessory power and protection for us against evil.
I grew up with the daily Rosary, May crownings, and gathering violets and buttercups for her Fatima statue in the living room.
I truly know she loves me, but have always been sure said love had to be coupled with a disapproving glance; I was much too imperfect . . . much too much of a sinner to really be loved unconditionally by her.
I recognize that this is transferring my own imperfect limitations on the perfect Christian, and make no pretense that there’s anything correct in doing so.
It’s just an honest admission of how I’ve always felt. I imagine my strained relationship with my own mom had a great deal to do with this; effusiveness had always been elusive there as well.
When I recently shared this distance from Mary with my cousin, she said, “Really?? Oh no . . . she’s such a tender and loving mother!! Ask her to show you her love for you.”
I’ve taken that advice, and I (ever the control freak) have even given our mother a few suggestions as to how she could show me that love.
I’ve a plethora of intentions in need of answers, and while I’ll be thrilled with even just one, in truth, I am hoping for a motherlode.
Prayer and memory
She hasn’t wasted much time. As I struggled with direction for this column, she unexpectedly took me by the hand to a very specific memory in my life: Me, my mom, and the Sorrowful Mother Novena.
In my childhood days, the Sorrowful Mother Novena was said every Friday after noon Mass at St. Patrick Church in Dubuque, Iowa; Mom and I never missed it.
I can still see Father making his way around the “mini” Stations in the church, and hear his lisp as he said the prayers.
My mind’s eye can see the incense rising in the sanctuary, as this devotion always closed with Benediction; I am certain this was my first exposure to that.
Not only did Mother take me back to the memory of her novena, but she filled me with snapshots of our whole girls’ day out.
Mom said I would hop in the back seat (remember, it was 1966), and flop myself half over the front one to chat while we made our way into town.
No doubt I was clad in one of my sweater/skirt combos or a little sheath dress . . . bow in my curled hair . . . Mary Janes and lacy anklets on my feet . . . a fashionista in the making.
Singing was also part of the drive, and non-musical Mom figured she was free and clear to karaoke in front of a tot.
Spoiler alert: Her tot was gifted with an ear like a tuning fork, so at one point I piped up, “Mommy, you don’t sound very good when you sing.” I’m guessing “out of the mouths of babes” was overrated from her perspective forevermore.
Always the foodie, I often asked, “Are we also going to lunch?”
We frequently did, and I recall brownies like none other from the Packet Room restaurant in Roshek’s department store.
Mom always asked for the corners because she liked crunchy edges, but my half-in, half-out, permanent-teeth-in-the-making were partial to the soft middle.
We rounded out the adventure at the candy counter, grabbing lemon drops for Amy in the nursing home.
I’m sure it struck me even then how good it felt to do something nice for someone who had no capacity to give back — though sweet Amy always made sure I kept a few lemon drops for myself.
The booklet from Mother’s novena was among Mom’s things when she died in 2010, pages worn and ink faded from fervent use.
Seeking aid for the crisis du jour in my life, I dug it out a few years ago to teach me the Seven Sorrows Rosary again. I’ve been saying it ever since.
Truth be told, I hope Mother fancies herself as the gift that keeps on giving.
For now, I thank her for bubbling up a warmth in my heart for my own mom.
It’s suddenly much easier to love myself, complete with flaws and failures.
There’s a peace and a joy in that you can’t really contain.
I think I’ll pay it forward.
Ask Mother to show you her love for you.
She will never disappoint.
Maria Burns is a lifelong Catholic and writer who lives in Madison.