Flesh and Bronze: a Grieving Mother encounters the Holy Mother

# A Reflection by Kim Steinberg: Finding Comfort in Grief

Embracing the Sacred Space

The first time I see The Virgin Mary in the dim light of St. Mary’s chapel, I mistake the life-size sculpture for a real woman. It is Lent, 2023, and I’ve come on the heels of my son’s death to pray the Stations of the Cross, an unusual impulse I can’t ignore.

I enter the Boise church, letting the door shut behind me. I walk into the chapel, dip my fingers in holy water, cross myself, and look around curiously. The chapel is quiet, and it feels familiar, though I’ve been absent from the church for many years. Wooden pews, images of Mother Mary, carvings of angels, and the golden tabernacle behind the altar surround me.

The Virgin Mary by John Taye

As I approach the first station, where Jesus is condemned to death, I become aware of Mary’s sculpted metal form. She sits in a frontal pose, gazing directly ahead toward the altar. The morning light glints off her bronze surface, shadows hiding in the folds of her gown. She is cool to the touch, connected to the pew, as much a part of it as she is to the church.

The Lifelike Presence of Mary

The first thing I notice is how lifelike she is. The sheen on her figure and the slight smile on her face hint at mischief, as if she is enjoying surprising whoever sits near her. It feels as though she’s saying, "I’m going to position myself here and wake some people up." I’ve been sleepwalking through the world since my son’s death. I need to be woken up.

Mary’s head is covered in the traditional way, and her gown is simple, belted in the middle. One sandal peeks out from beneath her skirt. That foot makes her human. An outstretched arm resting on the pew summons one to take shelter. It feels warm, inviting, and intimate.

Despite my grief, the overall mood evoked by the sculpture is one of calm delight. Mary lost her son, then saw him resurrected. I long to share her faith and devotion. She is often depicted as pure and holy, above us, an example to follow. This Virgin Mary moves one to reflect on the everyday Mary, how she can be a part of our lives in times of tragedy and joy.

A Moment of Comfort

I sit next to her, listening to the sound of running water from the baptismal font—a peaceful interlude. I lay my head in her lap like a child, and Mary comforts me in my grief and loss, mother to mother, heart to heart.

Over the following weeks and months, I return to St. Mary’s occasionally, then more often. I see the sculpture at Mass, always grateful the artist placed her among us. Churchgoers and visitors might experience the warmth and comfort of her presence as I did that first cold February day.

The Healing Power of Community

In the midst of my sorrow, I find solace in the community that surrounds me. Each visit to St. Mary’s feels like a step toward healing. I connect with others who share their stories of loss and love. We gather in this sacred space, united in our grief and hope.

The gentle conversations and shared tears create a tapestry of understanding. It reminds me that I am not alone. Each person carries their own pain, yet we find strength in one another. Together, we navigate the complexities of grief.

Finding Peace in Rituals

Rituals, both personal and communal, play a significant role in my healing journey. Lighting a candle, saying a prayer, or simply sitting in silence can be incredibly powerful. These small acts create a sense of connection to something greater than ourselves. They ground us in the present moment.

As I engage in these rituals, I feel a shift within me. The heaviness of my grief begins to lighten. I learn to honor my son’s memory while also embracing the joy of life. It’s a delicate balance, but one that brings me peace.

Embracing the Everyday Mary

Mary’s presence in my life has transformed my understanding of motherhood and loss. She embodies compassion and resilience. I see her not just as a figure of faith, but as a reminder that it’s okay to grieve, to feel, and to seek comfort.

In moments of despair, I think of Mary’s journey. She faced unimaginable pain yet found strength in her faith. I aspire to embody that same spirit. I strive to honor my son’s memory while also allowing myself to heal.

Conclusion: A Journey of Healing

My journey through grief is ongoing. Each visit to St. Mary’s chapel reminds me of the importance of connection—both to my faith and to others. I am learning to embrace my emotions, to allow myself to feel the depths of my sorrow while also seeking moments of joy.

In the embrace of Mary, I find a guiding light. She teaches me that healing is not linear. It’s a winding path filled with ups and downs. But with each step, I am reminded that I am not alone.

As I continue this journey, I hold onto the hope that one day, I will find peace. I will carry my son’s memory with me, and in doing so, I will honor the love we shared.

In this sacred space, I am learning to navigate my grief, and I invite you to join me on this journey. Together, we can find comfort, healing, and a renewed sense of purpose.

---wix---