A Personal Walk With Mary Along the Stations Of The Cross

ERIKA ANDERSON, Staff Writer

Published: March 14, 2002

It never failed. Every Ash Wednesday and every subsequent Friday during Lent, I would get a call from my mom.

"Don't forget you can't eat meat today," she would say.

"Yes, Mom, I know that. I do work for the Catholic paper, remember?" I would always retort sarcastically.

A couple of weeks ago, the staff members here at The Georgia Bulletin were given an assignment to write a Lenten column.

Immediately I panicked. As a reporter, I pride myself on being a spectator of the superior order. I try to see all, to hear all and to experience all while remaining somewhat anonymous at the same time. And now I had to write about the meaning of Lent in my life? Then I realized the answer was simple. I'd write about my heart. I'd write about my mom.

The Stations of the Cross, a staple of the Lenten meditations, have always touched me. I'm particularly moved by the Stations that portray Jesus' Passion, death and resurrection from Mary's perspective.

The day before Thanksgiving last year I stood in a garden at St. Mary Star of the Sea Church in Longboat Key, Fla., and ran my hand over my grandmother's name on the memorial wall. My heart ached with tears I tried to hold back in knowing that other raised letters on the plaque would soon spell another name.

My dad, my younger brother and I had come to Florida to fulfill my mom's final wish by placing her ashes in the memorial garden along with her own mother's.

As I stood there I thought about my mom and my grandmother, the two women who had taught me more about my Catholic faith than all of my CCD teachers combined. It wasn't by having the Catechism pounded into my head that I learned from them; it was by witnessing the way they lived their faith in their everyday lives from which I gained the most knowledge.

It was the way my grandmother never hung up the phone without saying "God bless," and the way she was never without her rosary. It was the way my mother bravely fought her battle with cancer by praying the Novena of St. Peregrine. And yes, it was even the way she would call and remind me not to eat meat on Fridays during Lent, despite my Catholic work environment.

As a cool breeze from the Gulf of Mexico began to wash over the memorial garden, I wandered up a wooden footpath and was surprised to find the Stations of the Cross in such a natural setting. It began just outside the garden and wound its way through the trees, with the final station depicted as a large cross on a dock sitting on the Sarasota Bay.

In Mary's Way of the Cross, written by Father Richard Furey, CssR, the author gives a voice to Mary as she follows her Son up the road to Calvary, praying for strength, quietly weeping and feeling engulfed by helpless sorrow.

Unlike Mary, as a single woman, I don't know the pain of losing a child. I do, however, know the pain of powerlessly watching the most important person in my life suffer and die. Like Mary, I too have wept silently, wanting to be strong for those around me. But unlike Mary, who was steadfast in her faith, I have to admit that since losing my mom almost a year and a half ago I have sometimes wavered in mine.

While watching her Son suffer, Mary was comforted in knowing His greater purpose. I, on the other hand, have questioned God's reasoning in taking my mother from me. I realize this is a selfish response, but as a 27-year-old adult, who sometimes teeters on the edge of being a little girl who needs her mommy, I suppose it's a natural one.

However, during this Lenten season, I have thought a lot about my Catholicism, which I believe is at the center of all that I am no matter if I am struggling with grief or not. My mother was a beautiful, selfless, nurturing woman, but most importantly, she was a woman of great faith.

Jesus' mother Mary showed us, in her example of faith and trust in God, confidence that her Son would rise from the dead. My faith teaches me that those who live with Christ will also be raised on the last day. Like Mary, I should trust in faith that I will see my mom again.

That's not as easy as it seems.

Many times I ache to see my mom--not later, but now. The assurance that she is in a "better place" usually only brings me a slight sense of comfort. But I realized the other day that I do see my mom every day.

I look in the mirror. I see her nose. I see her stubborn will. I see a girl who can make up a song at the drop of a hat, like her mother could. And yes, even though I may be struggling with it, I see the faith that she gave me--the faith that made up her entire being.

This Lent, I am not only reflecting on Jesus' Passion, death and resurrection, but on my own as well. I have been through the passion--struggling with my mom's sickness--and a part of me died when she did. But my prayer is that I am now in my own resurrection, and that my faith--the faith she taught me--will help me to rise again with my God.