I heard a homily once in which the priest told the story of how he’d once asked a group of children to tell him about the nativity at Christmas. Some of the children noted the camels and donkeys, others the crib and stable, some got excited about the baby and his mother. One child seemed confused and, when called on, asked, “What about the part with the nail holes in his hands?” The priest went on to meditate on how profound that question was. We often forget that the Christmas story is all about a child who is born to die and a mother destined to sorrow.
From the moment of his conception, Our Lady already knew her child would cause her grief. This is why her acceptance of the vocation is so heroic. She knew her son wouldn’t grow up like all the other little boys, get married, give her grandchildren, and come to visit for Sunday dinner. From the very beginning, she was already losing him.
The feast of Our Lady of Sorrows, celebrated this week, is a reminder that her mother’s heart was pierced. It’s no accident that the crib she placed him in was a feeding trough, a stone manger shaped suspiciously like a coffin. His life was destined to be consumed on our behalf.
St. Robert Southwell writes about a vision he had on Christmas Day in which he sees the Christ Child all aflame. Jesus turns to him and says, “My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns,/ Love is the fire.”
Increase love
Whenever I wonder if the cost of parenthood is too much, I return to that poem of Southwell’s and remind myself why it’s worth it. The purpose of bringing children into the world is to increase love, which is the greatest contribution anyone can make to the goodness and beauty of existence.
Love isn’t free, though, it entails sacrifice, meaning parenthood embraces the joy of birth and also the sorrow of sacrifice. Mothers hold their children tight only in order to let them go.
The sorrow Our Lady felt in the extreme, all mothers experience in their own way. We invest so much in our children. We feed them, hold them when they cry, educate them. Entire weekends are spent at volleyball tournaments, spending-money goes for piano lessons and new clothes and extra groceries, Friday nights are no longer for hanging out at the bar or going to a concert but are spent at home, baking brownies.
All those sacrifices ... and then the children grow up and move out. They go to college. Maybe get a job in another city. Meet a spouse. Suddenly, they aren’t around anymore and all the domestic focus of their mothers has no outlet. The relationship inevitably changes. Maybe empty-nest syndrome sets in and the sorrow of motherhood becomes inescapable. The kids can’t always be young. Families change and grow. From the moment they’re born, we’re preparing our children to leave.
There’s a very real feeling within mothers of being left behind. The kids are growing up and off to new adventures, but she remains in the home she so carefully crafted for her family. She keeps vigil for any sign of their return, even if only for a visit.
After Jesus' death, tradition has it that Our Lady was taken into the home of St. John where she lingered for a little while before the full weight of love pressed down on her and she relinquished her earthly life in order to rejoin her Son in Heaven. St. Francis de Sales believes she literally died from love.
Bittersweet
In our home, the oldest of our children are just now beginning to mark their first departures from home. College has started, they have their own jobs, money, boyfriends, and schedules. It’s fun to watch them mature into successful, independent, happy young women, but I would be lying if I denied that it’s bittersweet. I’d love to somehow slow down their progress and keep them closer to home for longer, simply because I enjoy having them around. But to do so would be selfish, so I remind myself, yet again, that the nature of love is to die for the sake of the other and I must make my little sacrifices (which feel very large to me).
My wife and I won’t hold them back. Instead of holding them in our arms as we did when they were young, we’ll hold the sorrow of watching them leave. Our family is close-knit and I’m grateful that the kids still seem to like their mother and me, so I hope to have regular family visitors and many family dinners and vacations together in the future, but it’ll never quite be the same.
For me, with my full-time career outside the home, I suspect it’s slightly easier than it is for my wife. Her full-time vocation is home-making, home-schooling, and mothering. She will feel the absence more keenly than I will. A mother cannot escape the sorrow of her vocation. But that doesn’t mean motherhood isn’t the most beautiful, fulfilling vocation in the world.
The secret, I think, to making peace with the sorrow is in paying close attention to how Our Lady handles it. Shortly after the Annunciation when she learns she’s pregnant, she takes a trip to visit her relative Elizabeth. After greeting her, Mary recites the Magnificat, which is the perfect, poetic expression of the heart of a mother. It’s in becoming humble that a mother achieves greatness. Even if she herself seems to be left behind, the Magnificat flips the usual expectations upside-down.
By letting her children go, they aren’t scattered away from her at all. Rather, they’re drawn more deeply into the unity of love, a tie which binds no matter where the children are or where life takes them. Love is the whole point. It’s the blessing of generations and the principle by which sorrow is transfigured into pure happiness.
