Walking the Stations of the Cross with Mary

A while back I had been asked by a member of the Spiritual Life Commission at my parish if I would be willing to lead the Friday night Stations of the Cross on one Friday. I willingly accepted and this past Friday was my day. The Stations are held at 7 pm which is when I am usually getting my little boys ready for bed, so I don't normally have the opportunity to attend. I really wasn't sure what I needed to do, so I went early to check in with the sacristan and find out what my role was. I knew that I would be reading the Stations but that Fr. John (our pastor) would be there or perhaps Sr. Cathy, our pastoral minister.

I was wrong - my role was in fact to lead the Stations. It was me and two altar girls and that was it. I had the role of the priest in the little booklet I was given to use. As I walked the stations with these two young girls, I was struck by how far women have come in the Church since I was little (and I am only 31!). Granted we still have a long way to go, but when I was young, women had only just started to be accepted as lectors and eucharistic ministers and there were no such things as altar girls. It just struck me as amazing that here I was, a lay woman leading a religious prayer service in church with two young girls assisting. It was a good feeling.

That wasn't the most profound revelation of my night, however. While I was waiting in the sacristy looking over the Stations of the Cross booklet, I noticed a bronze plaque hanging on the wall and I went over to take a closer look. Now, I have been in that scaristy at least 100 times and never noticed it before, yet on this particular night it struck me with such force. On it was written "These died for God and country. Pray for us." Underneath were the names of thirty-nine men who had died in World War II. It was the inscription at the bottom, however, that made me catch my breath. It very simply said "Holy Name Moms." My eyes started welling up. These names written in cold bronze were these women's sons. This was what these mothers offered as a final tribute to the little boys they had nursed, and rocked, and loved with all their hearts. How painful it must be to bury a child. God willing, I hope that is something I never have to experience.

But it is something that Mary experienced. Her son did not die a hero's death in war, but rather as a criminal facing the death penalty. Even with her tremendous faith, her heart must have been breaking in a million pieces. Yet, there she was, walking the road to Golgatha with him and standing at the foot of the cross. She was there at his birth and she would not let him die alone. He was still her little boy.

No matter how our hearts break in our parenting journey, Mary has experienced it all. Jesus gave her to all of us as our Mother. She is there to hold us up, help us be strong and continue to have faith.