The first thing I think she would need is an apron. She’ll already be wearing a nice modest outfit — you can put her in a dress or capris as it suits your style. Over that outfit, though, she’ll need something more. How else is she going to battle the housework, tackle the laundry, and make dinner for your family? If nothing else, she’ll need the pocket for her iPod, her phone, and her to-do list.
One of the steepest slopes I’ve climbed in my understanding of Mary has been, “she’s perfect and not like me.” She doesn’t really blend into our modern culture, dressed with a mantle and a robe and a sash. In her crown, she seems more accessible to my princess-in-training six-year-old than to the tomboy-turned-mommy in the office.
I had to get past the trappings and imagine Mary right beside me, kneeling down to reach for that stray crumb under the farthest corner of the kitchen table. I had to think about her daily life and about my daily life.
When is God the farthest from my mind? It’s certainly not during my morning devotions. But where is God during the mundane moments of my day? I work with a number of faith-based apostolates and endeavors, so he’s obviously there. But does he go to the bathroom with me?
This is getting a little uncomfortable. After all, as I’ve been trying to teach my very outgoing three-year-old, boys go in their own bathrooms. And isn’t God a boy?
And isn’t God just a little, well, hard to think about when you’re in the bathroom?
There’s a theme with me, huh?
I’ve come to know God better through his mother. I take Mary with me to the bathroom. I take her with me to the pantry as I’m collecting the items for dinner. She tags along in the grocery store and the library and the post office, and I don’t forget her when I’m out back digging in the garden.
For me, it all starts with Mary in an apron. I put on my apron (sometimes only figuratively), and I ask Mary to help me embrace God’s will for every little moment of my day, from the quiet coffee prayer time to the sweaty toddler-wrangling to the difficult phone call. It’s her name I call and her Son I reach, through her, when I’m most ready to burst.
How does Mary help you in the details of your daily life? Do you call on her when the baby’s fussy, when the soup’s burned, when the laundry’s heaped and hopeless?
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