All the Holy is Hidden

Last updated on: February 18, 2015 at 1:53 pm by Margaret Rose Realy, Obl. OSB

All the Holy is Hidden 2015-02-18T13:53:38-05:00 Margaret Rose Realy, Obl. OSB

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The Blessed Mother statue is only twelve inches tall. Finding a place to store it for Lent shouldn’t have been that hard. At a Catholic Writers Guild Conference I’d bought this smaller version of the original from the Korean woman who was the sculptor.

The soft light from the candles in my prayer space enhanced the artist’s design. The hands of Mother Mary are against her chest, tipped back in a way that gives the impression of an opening lotus flower. Her head is tilted, her Asian eyes and delicate smile are directed at baby Jesus standing in the blossom of her hands.

Setting the statue on a side table, I changed over the altar. The green linens of Ordinary Time that covered my altar for a brief four weeks after Christmas are again folded away. The bottles of holy water from Lourdes, Fatima, and my grandmother’s cabinet are nestled in a draw below the altar along with silk flowers, holy cards, crocheted cross bookmarks, and a small framed picture of Blessed Mother Teresa.

Honoring the traditions of Lent, I’ve placed deep purple cloths on the altar and over the sacred images on the walls. I hesitated before covering the lithograph of St. Mary Magdalene. This saint has journeyed with me since childhood and we greet each other every morning as I enter the room to pray. I carefully drape a cloth over the print of Divine Mercy and as I do so offer prayers for the precious souls in Purgatory. My room feels empty. The absence of Other sharing my prayers is pronounced.

Everything is readied except for the twelve inch Madonna. I hold her tight to my chest as I bend down to look in lower cabinets for storage space. I continue to hold her as I walk from one room to another and then back trying to find a safe place for her to rest. Standing in the prayer room with its purple linens, Mary pressed near my heart, I realized I was tearing up.

A memory comes of when I was a child. I had a favored stuffed toy, a sleeping white kitty with pink nose and slanted embroidered eyes. From bed to sand box to washer and back to my hands it would travel. A day came when I was to visit grandmother and my Kitty was placed in a grocery bag along with my clothes. I wanted to carry my Kitty in my arms, I didn’t want to let go. As long as I held her, near and tight, I was safe.

I felt a little silly at 60 welling up with tears as I stood there holding the statue. I had a new appreciation for the self-conscious tears of a friend who was preparing to move to a smaller house. She was taking down her family pictures from the stairway wall and was feeling the absence of loving memories even before they were boxed.

My desiring to hold close a sense of safety was once again the motion of my arms. I didn’t want to let go of the Madonna, I didn’t want to be without that statue in my sight for the forty days of Lent. I wanted to embrace, as nearly as I could this side of heaven, the nearness of my Holy Mother.

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