“Dogma is an instrument for penetrating reality. Christian dogma is about the only thing left in the world that surely guards and respects mystery.” – Flannery O’Connor

It was a chilly February night, the cold of the rod iron bench pressed against the small of my back, and I breathed an impatient sigh. I didn’t know what to pray or how practicing intentional silence for over forty days was even going to be possible. I blurted words up towards the trees and flung them in the direction of the brick building.

Help me know your mother, God. I want to love her as you do. I want to love you as she does. I don’t think I know what it means to ponder something in my heart, and I’d like to know what that means, in practice.

On the second night of my silent journey, I walked to the parish, and instead of passing by the statue of Mary, I walked over to it. A light was shining on her, and I sat off to the side on a stone bench. Again, I prayed.

I want to know your mother. I want to know what it means to have hope. I ran my fingers over the stone in my pocket. People who have hope live different lives. People who have hope live different lives. My mantra continued.

Now, I do believe God speaks to people, whether it is through another’s verbal or written words or perhaps through our intuitive responses. I try to be cautious of “God told me” moments. Truthfully, I am a bit apprehensive when other people’s “God told me” moments are brought up in conversation. I can be cynical about God moments. However, I really do trust that God indeed speaks to our hearts.

People who have hope live different lives. My fingers traced the etching on the stone. As I looked in the direction of Mary, while seated on stone, holding onto the stone within my pocket, I felt God impress on my heart to get down on my knees in front of the stone statue.

Uh. No, God.

I want to know your mother, but I’m fine just sitting here. Sure, I’m seated by this manmade statue, but that’s just because I think concrete objects can be useful during times of prayer.

Quiet.

Heart pressing in again, a voice, while not audible, was loud within me, “If you want to know my mother, get close to her.”

Friends, it is at this time that I’m beginning to see a golden calf before me. The stone of hope in my pocket somehow explodes into stone tablet Ten Commandments. I’m seeing pictures from storybook Bibles of people bowing down before idols. I’m watching my dad pulling out flannel board pieces and creating the scene of Elijah and Baal. I’m beginning to become unnerved. My protestant roots begin to wrap around the mysticism that I’ve come to love in the Catholic tradition.

God wouldn’t possibly ask me to get down on my knees in front of a statue. Or would He?

Heart pressing in again, a voice, while not audible, was loud within me, “If you want to know my mother, get close to her.”

Unmoved. Still seated on the stone bench, I begin to reason with God.

Jesus, I do want to be close to your mother, but I’m not talking about being physically close to her or an icon of her. I just want to be close to her heart.

Quiet.

My wrestling heart gave way to a wrestling body, and I stood up and moved to the foot of the statue. I got down on my knees. My face rested on top of the pebbly walkway. And warmth swept over me. My breath caught in my throat and I was undone.

Heart pressing in again, a voice, while not audible, was loud within me “To know Mary is to know Hope.”

Yes, Father God, yes. I set the stone of hope next to me. I looked up at Mary and I began to pray the rosary. Black beads slipping through my fingers one by one by one. As I prayed she pointed me to her Son, as she always does when I pray the rosary, but this time it was different. As I prayed, I began to feel her hope. Or maybe she was interceding on my behalf so that I would know hope through the Hope of the world. What happened that night was something of a mystery.

On the third night of silence, I went to the parish, but something was different. The light that was previously shining over her was out.  

Mary was in the dark.

My steps became timid. I swallowed the reality of pain and suffering, unsure of how hope was supposed to go down with it. Then, I spoke to her.

Oh Mother, you know the pain of darkness. The Light of the World dwelled within you and among you, and I think that in your mother heart you knew the darkness was coming. I believe you had heard prophecies, and yet you still had hope for the world when you said, “Be it unto me according to thy word.” Please teach me about that, Mama Mary. I want to have the hope of your Son in my times of darkness. I want to share that hope with others.  

The black beads slipped through my fingers one by one by one, and the statue faded into the night.

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