Flesh and Bronze: a Grieving Mother encounters the Holy Mother

A reflection by Kim Steinberg

The first time I see The Virgin Mary in the dim light of St. Mary’s chapel, seated in the second pew, 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, walk into the chapel, dip 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, golden tabernacle behind the altar.   

The Virgin Mary by John Taye

It’s only when I approach the first station, where Jesus is condemned to death, that I become aware of Mary’s sculpted metal form, a frontal pose, gazing directly ahead toward the altar.  

The morning light glints off bronze, 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 first thing I notice is how lifelike she is, then the sheen on her figure, and the slight smile on her face, a hint of mischief as if she is enjoying surprising whoever sits near her, like she’s saying, "I’m going to position myself here and wake some people up." I’ve been sleep-walking 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 peeking out from beneath her skirt. That foot makes her human.  

An outstretched arm resting on the pew summons one to take shelter. Warm. Inviting. 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.    

I sit next to her, 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, that churchgoers and visitors might experience the warmth and comfort of her presence as I did that first cold February day.