Mary And Her Son

Every year on Good Friday I think about the events of the day as told to me in my catholic school education. I was raised catholic. I went to catholic school from Kindergarten through 10th grade. It was in 10th grade that I started to have a lot of questions about this faith, most of which were not answered directly. I had a good “religion” teacher at this time, and she entertained me, for the most part. However, I was bucking the system, and this was above her pay grade.

The following year began an evolution for me. My wings were beginning to sprout and I was well on my way to ascending out of the religious hold I was in from the time I was a small girl. I was eager to learn about other spiritual beliefs. It felt rebellious! Guys from old neighborhood started calling me an “atheist,” weird cuz I actually wanted to know about more gods and goddesses. It wasn’t a disbelief in any god, it was a hunger for the knowing of all of them.

Thus I proceeded. I read books, but was admittedly lost in the vast amount of information out there. I talked to people, mostly those my own age, and we were all sort of in this place of unknowing, but very much on the precipice of knowing. It began to feel a lot like Mother Nature was the right answer. The adoration of the beauty of nature was easy. She went through all the cycles of life, death, rebirth, and it felt like the right answer. She wasn’t judgmental. She required a live and let live mentality, and that’s what I wanted. To live and let live. I didn’t want to impose my beliefs on others, and I didn’t want others to do that to me.

Comfortably, I moved further and further away from the catholic religion, and into a spirituality that made me feel at home.

In this separation of church and me, I held onto some of those deeply ingrained stories that I heard on repeat my first 15 years of life. One in particular is the story of Jesus’ crucifixion. It’s a brutal story, one that makes me feel a lot of emotion. The most notable connection in this story is the one I feel with his mother, Mary. I am a mother, also. I feel tremendous pain for a mother who watches her son be abducted, persecuted, and put to death.

Mary accompanied her son on his journey from birth to death. Going by the story I was raised with, she gave birth to him in a frigid manger. She held her baby close, snuggling him, nurturing him, loving him. She gave him to the world, to let him live his mission. His was a righteous mission. To preach a loving word, to spread peace, and to heal. The story gets murky, and we don’t know much about Mary during the time that her son became a toddler, a small child, a teenager, then a man. I can fill in the blanks as a mother. She was by his side, supporting him and believing in him. Like all of us mothers, she encouraged him to follow what he believed, and to do so proudly. She was proud of him, and her love knew no bounds.

When she was alerted to his abduction, she ran to his aid, but could only stand idly by while her son was held with hateful hands. She bore witness to him being lashed and degraded. Every lash he withstood was hers, the pain leaking tears from her eyes. She met his eyes, providing him the only bit of love he felt amongst a crowd pleading for his death and anguish. Every lash was hers. She jerked forward, held her head in her hands, and wept. Ever the source of strength, she comforted and held the friends of her son.

When he was given a load that was unimaginably heavy, she walked with him. She would’ve carried his cross for him, if she was allowed. She followed behind, knowing that she was accompanying him to his death. Full of fear, she followed remembering him as a child, cherishing every memory she had of him along the way. He sees her, and through his pain, he can feel her love.

She remains with him through his journey. When he takes his final breath, her mourning begins. With the help of his friends, he is taken from his cross, his wounded body finally in hands that bear tenderness. She holds him one last time, flashing back to memories of the first time, then lays her son to rest.

I make up the rest of this story by imagining that, after his resurrection, she continued to mourn for the loss of her son in his physical form. Though her heart was likely comforted by the savior he was found to be, there was still something missing for her. Meals together. Hugs. Laughs. Celebrations. Those days together, side by side, a mother and her son, on this plane. As their spirits reunited, I’m certain they were elated, and I'm certain that they continue to be in each other’s company. However we imagine that to be.

Staurolite – Stone Spotlight Bonus!!

Staurolite is a dull lustered mineral, usually dark brown and often comes in cruciform pattern. Staurolite, also called Fairy Crosses, have folklore behind them related to the events of this blog post. It’s believed that the Fairies were there the day Jesus was crucified, and they mourned for him. The tears they cried dropped to the ground, and formed these crosses, hardening into place, birthing these stones. Staurolite is helpful for grounding and physical well-being, linking with realms of Fairies, the Devas, plant, and animal consciousness. This stone contains the invisible link to the “fifth direction” which is the vertical inner direction by which one experiences and navigates the other worlds (The Pocket Book Of Stones). Staurolite can assist us in grief, as it help alleviate anxiety, and can help rid us of self-destructive habits.

Pictured below - image of Mary taken from LIFE magazine, and 2 pieces of Staurolite from my collection.