A Letter to Mary

What thoughts do I bring to mind as I sit here thinking about you?

   I think of a flower — a white flower delicately fragrant — a lily perhaps, or a rose.

   I think of a sweet smile on delicate lips.

   I think of pink cheeks and blue eyes and long shiny hair.

   I think of someone, oh, so very feminine.

   I think of something soft — something joyous.

   I think of pinks and blues and golds and silvers; like sky and clouds, sunsets and moonlight and star shine.

   I think of something quietly restful and soothing — a lullaby perhaps — or the hushed voices of a myriad of unseen birds sleepily chattering at twilight.

   I think of a fragile teacup resting on a cloth of rare old lace; of a peacock’s blood, ruby of measureless worth, blazing with a mysterious fire within.

   I think of rosary beads lovingly caressed one by one by old, old fingers;

   Of a rainbow’s promise against a stormy sky;

   Of cool pristine waters meandering over white pebbles; 

   Of minnows darting happily about in a lucid pool on a summer’s day;

   Of the coo of an infant in his mother’s arms;

   Of soft baby fingers touching a mother’s cheek and her instant responding caress.

   I think of a church full of people on a Sunday morning and a choir singing “Ave Maria.” But, most of all, I hear the hushed expectancy of the beautiful words: “This is My Body, This is My Blood.”[1]and a heart brimming over with selfless love.

   I think of a heart pierced with sorrow too deep for words.

   I hear a cry of anguish at the foot of a cross and a broken heart at the door of a tomb.

   I think of Glory, Glory, its Easter morning! Rejoice! He has risen! Alleluia!

   I think of how, out of your Immaculate Conception, Jesus IS! And how, from you to us, He is our Gift supreme — our Holy Bread, our Living Water.