When they speak of grace

In the church, I force myself to look up into Mary’s eyes, to study the twisted agony of her mouth.  I kiss my baby’s sleeping head, bend down to press my nose to the fragrant scalp of my own son, squeeze the hand of Sam’s older daughter.  I am so sorry to see the limp curve of His only child, although I don’t actually believe in God.  But standing before this stricken Madonna, surrounded by what I love most in the world, I wonder: Was an entire religion generated from a mother’s most fervent wish that her child not be dead?  The twinning of loss and love seems suddenly to explain everything:  To devote ourselves properly to one another, we must brave love’s terrifying undertow, which is grief.  I am awed, suddenly, by our courage to love each other as recklessly as we do.  Awkward and confused, rational and godless – I am all of these things.  And yet this moment must be what people mean when they speak of grace.

-Catherine Newman