Yesterday Mr. Understanding and I joined Thing 1 for the family session at Migraine Boot Camp. Three other families were in attendance – two other mothers and one sister.
At one point, the physician leading the session looked at me and said, “I can guarantee that at some point, you have said The Mother’s Prayer.”
“The Mother’s Prayer? What’s that?” I asked.
“That’s when you say, ‘Lord, take this burden from my child and put it on me.'”
The other mothers and I all just looked at each other. It was all I could do not to bawl. The others blinked back tears as well. Nailed.
“You would rather suffer than watch your child suffer.”
All I could think, yesterday on that Good Friday, was of Mary and the mother on the phone with those twentysomethings who were killed in Brussels. My daughter’s been through hell but she was sitting in the same room as me, joyful at being together after a week’s separation.
In some – probably deeply buried – part of her brain, Mary knew there was a resurrection coming soon and with it the birth of real hope. It was what her made her wait outside the tomb with the other women, spices in hand, ready to prepare the body just in case it was still there.
Herewith concludes Holy Saturday.