Woman, Behold Thy Son

Mulier, ecce filius tuus.

Woman, behold thy son.

Those are Jesus' words to His mother Mary as he hung in his last hours on the Cross. The Catholic teaching on this poignant moment in Scripture recorded by "thy son", St. John, (John 19:26), is that Jesus' use of "woman" and "son", instead of their names, was to underscore the point that Mary is to be a mother to all whom Jesus loved and called his disciples. In this singular moment, Christ gave all his beloved to his Mother for her care and protection. It is here that Catholics find their devotion (note I do NOT say worship) to she who is "full of grace", and they often plead for her intercession to her Son for a modicum of that same grace.

It has never been lost on me that all of this takes place at the foot of the Cross. Nor has it escaped me that only the disciple closest to Jesus and his graced mother were there to bear the horror of the Crucifixion. Only they were there amid the pain to witness the greatest event in all of human history. The lesson is quite simple: Jesus wrought the supreme act of salvation through the pain of death offered to His Father for the sin of all mankind. Suffering is not for naught. And for those who are closest to Him, who participate in His suffering by offering their own suffering as a gift, there is a unique gift of grace. It is here one finds another Catholic tradition: the "offering it up" of little sacrifices.

It is amazing to me that Mary, by grace was able to stand and watch all the Passion unfold and not rush in and try to stop it all from happening. Every mother hopes to have the strength to raise her children to succeed at the tasks willed to them by God. Yet, figuring out when to act and when remain still is the challenge. Turning to Mary's example from that first "yes" at the Annunciation to her tears at the Crucifixion, can be the constant reminder of what we can accomplish with His grace, if we just cooperate with it. If we look for what is God's will and ask for the grace to accomplish it, it will be done.

You can imagine my joy in 2002 when the stick turned blue on the Feast of the Annunciation. To hear in my head that I was going to be a mother again was wonderful. To have this child due around Christmas, gave me the unique position to walk Mary's walk with this pregnancy. It was not an untroubled journey, nearly spontaneously losing my precious passenger at 10 weeks and wondering at 16 weeks if the little one had survived the accidental electrical shock I got from a light switch. As my firm was bought by a company, I took the severance and looked forward to a period of rest from corporate life and a chance to redirect my energies to my family. Fervent was my prayer for this little one, who I was convinced was a little girl and should be named Mary Rose, despite the many complaints of my family. But that was not to be. Instead, at the end of a uncharacteristically long and difficult labor on yet another profoundly Marian feast day - The Immaculate Conception on 8 December - the tiny little boy named Christopher Martin (for Christ and for Mary) was laid in my arms. And every day since, he has been "bearer of Christ" to me. Some days it is those little tastes of His Heavenly banquet - that sweet total bliss that kisses you like an early morning cool breeze. Other days it has been the Cross and I swear I feel the sword prophesied by Simeon pierce my own heart.

I am a firm believer that "mother's intuition" is grace; promptings of the Holy Spirit to listen to what was written into our humanity the minute God made us women. On his first day of life, not unlike any mother after an arduous labor, I asked if my son was okay. The response then was "he's just little". But so began the long series of events where my heart kept saying... something is not right. Unable to nurse, acid reflux, late to sit, late to crawl, late to walk, slow to gain weight, eczema, head slightly misshapen, curving toes, long fingers, sinus infections, food allergies, and most importantly, not talking. As each one of my concerns was dismissed by well meaning doctors who looked at me like I was paranoid, I tried to just enjoy the happy moments. We lovingly teased that Christopher was destined to be pope someday, because at 9 mos he would love to bob forward and kiss the carpet as if he were venerating the soil of the motherland. He particularly loved music, and would often stop his play if something melodic was playing. At 2, with a vocabulary replete with nouns and a few verbs but no phrases, he loved trucks like most little boys and was content to play with them for long periods of time, putting them all together like a long train. All the while, something still didn't seem right and we debated having the next child, thinking, "this seems so much harder than the first three."

Fortunately, Christopher was content to entertain himself, because my pregnancy with Karolin laid me flat with morning sickness so horrendous, I actually took medication for it. At his 3 year check up, the pediatrician started to take notice as Christopher was still not potty trained and was still behind in language, although progressing. We agreed that we would see a speech language pathologist after the baby was born if he didn't catch up. That visit to the SLP began a chain of events that resulted in a diagnosis that changed every few weeks. Speech/language delay, then Pervasive Developmental Delay, autism, and ultimately a rare genetic disorder where a small chromosomal component q29 is missing on one of his 3rd chromosomes. No I wasn't crazy...something was wrong to include one more thing no one had said... mental retardation.

Part of me died that day. I am pretty sure now that it is just the part that was full of dreams and expectations for the little boy, who as a baby savored Gregorian chant, and at 2, loved to celebrate Mass on the coffee table. Yes, the child I felt was so blessed was indeed blessed, but was also marked for a life of struggle. As a former elementary school misfit, I was crushed to know his crosses would be the burdens of trying to relate to people, feeling and giving love, having friends and even living independently. For a woman of Italian heritage, nothing is more painful than to know your child will have difficulty with foods and family banter around the table. I was angry with myself. All that repetitive behavior was telling me something wasn't right and I just missed it or let doctors dismiss my concerns. And I was angry with God... really really angry. It was quite apparent now to me that the reason for my MA in theology was not because I was to teach. No, I needed a profound understanding of my faith, if I was going to pick up this Cross. As it was, no less than 4 priests spent many hours that next year aiding me in finding all that He had written upon my heart. Physician, heal thyself. Theologian, embrace your faith.

Since that day 3 years ago, so much has changed both for Christopher and for me. Unlike many children with autism, he is verbal, although his language is disordered and he has trouble staying on topics because of hefty attention deficits. Many of the old fears and "stims" have faded, and while the vocabulary is not complex, he can often tell us how he is feeling. I feel particularly lucky as I seem to still be the recipient of his most intimate conversations. On our vacation this summer, as we were walking out of the first of the nine hotels we needed to visit to make the trip, he looked right at me and said, "staying in a hotel wasn't scary, but fun". A true gift when a mere two years ago we suffered several nights in a hotel for my sister's wedding. As it appears from testing that Christopher is not mentally retarded, a fact that will need to be confirmed by more testing, his novel case will be prepared for publication in the medical literature. It is a breath of fresh air to be contributing to the hope of others instead of looking for that hope.

New expectations and new dreams always follow the death of old ones. While Christopher may never be ordained a priest, which in catholic mom lore gives you a leg up on Heaven, he has continually born Christ to me in some rather priestly fashions. I still remember in his heavily tantrumed days, I was also teaching him the words to "Away in A Manger". I hung on those words, "...Baby Jesus, no crying He makes..." and continually calmed him telling him he needed to "match Jesus". Imagine my amazement when on one occasion, Christopher broke through his tears and told me, "yes, Mommy, the Cross." It didn't take an MA in theology to finish that sermon. "Pick yours up and carry it, Mom.

More recently we were in the car approaching a stop light alongside a school bus for a small non- denominational school near our home. Christopher piped up, " Mommy, I want to go to a Christian school." When I inquired why, he flatly replied, "So that I can learn about God." Two weeks later we were crawling in traffic to get to his first vacation Bible school class, certain to miss most of it. I was devastated and really wondering why God wouldn't see fit to get this child of His to this opportunity to deepen his pure simple faith. Christopher willingly sang the Divine Mercy Chaplet (don't worry, it's a comparatively obscure Catholic devotion) with me, giving us moments of peace, if not thinning traffic. It was hard to diminish his elated "it's working , Mom, keep praying." with, "prayer makes us patient with the traffic, it doesn't necessarily move it out of the way."

But at the moment, the memory that comes to the forefront of my consciousness is the one that just yesterday came full circle. Shortly after Christopher was diagnosed, we made a family trek to the National Museum of American History, someplace we thought we could escape the summer heat and have all the kids from teenager to infant enjoy an outing. I had really wanted to show Christopher the transportation exhibit with all the trains and cars. Imagine my devastation and horror when he started running out of the exhibit, screaming with his hands over his ears, terrified by the immensity of the vehicles on display. As we made our way out of the museum, we passed a young child in a wheel chair and at that moment, I could have traded Christopher's autism for a withered leg. Somehow lifting a child over thresholds and stairs seemed so much more doable than mediating your child's social existence with the world.

I couldn't quit that day and life isn't a football draft and trading free agents. It is living fully what God has given to you and trusting that what you have is exactly what you need. As we made our way down to the National Gallery of Art and its calmer environment, Christopher found his place. That ziploc baggie of goldfish crackers flying from one hand, and scampering in a wayward pattern along the curb and landscape, he shared his snack with any wildlife creature who cared a nibble. And there were giggles and laughs.

Yesterday we were back in the NMAH, and I wondered what to do about the trains. We visited the hands on invention exhibit and Christopher gleefully set up an albatross of pinwheels spinning wildly in the makeshift wind of a fan. Despite the crowds he stuck close to me as we admired the Stradavari's, and I had to smile as he identified all the string instruments, noting the differences in tone that they each add to music. I could have wept as I stood in Julia Child's kitchen... the icon of food, family, and fun. Christopher and I chatted about how she was very much like Gousteau in Ratatouille, as she too believed that "anyone can cook." And then as we prepared to leave, I had to take him... and we went into the train exhibit. I held his hand the whole time, and he did react to the piped in "train noises", but we talked about how it wasn't real, that the train couldn't move, and this was a safe way to see something really close. We wandered the rest of the exhibit and a few times, he said "we need to find the exit", which when we did, he promptly said right into my face, "Mommy, it wasn't that bad." A little taste of Heaven.

I suppose one has to wonder why this post and why now. After all, this blog is usually full of my physical aches and pains as I try to maintain some level of fitness. Well if truth be known, it is mostly to give myself a little homily again. After spending numerous hours back in the doctors' offices this past week, it has been a lot of reason without the faith. Ratio non fides. It has been a lot of the scientific analysis of what is wrong with Christopher, what is broken, what cannot be fixed. I'm not sure which was worse - the neurologist who said there was nothing to do for him and "just enjoy my son" or the doctor who seemed insistent on including the fact that I declined prenatal testing during my pregnancy as if that would have been the smarter thing to do. So much of what Christopher isn't, so much of what Christopher will not be. All that utilitarian focus that makes our world one that embraces eugenics as a tonic for suffering. Yes, I needed to write this to put the faith back on the balance of reason. To put the soul of Christopher's differently- abled body back in the forefront of my consciousness.

To do that, I've been going back to some things my priest friends shared with me. One, a good hearted German soul from a huge family of 13 (to include a disabled sister), helped me focus on what Heaven will be like, and specifically on all the catching up Christopher and I will be doing there. Of course this was followed by a harsh reminder that my despair over all of this could very well squander my chances at Heaven. So get it together, sister.

Once a priest in confession asked me to meditate upon how much God must love and trust me that he gave Christopher to me. Just imagine how he might not be as safe if his dear soul had not been born of my womb and entrusted to our care. So many disabled children are abused, a horror beyond imagination.

The other was a young Irish priest, who was willing to take me on in my weakest moments and buffet back my vocal anger at God. He flat out told me that I needed to build the virtue of gratitude, one step at a time. Every time I crossed the threshold to Christopher's room, I was to offer a small ejaculative prayer of thanks for this incredible soul. Just do it, each and every time. He was certain that such a small gift on my part would be rewarded with the grace of a well spring of peace growing in my heart.

And so I try to do, every time I pass into that room painted in Mary's color... blue.

Mulier, ecce filius tuus.
Woman, behold thy son.

Deo gratias.