It’s quiet in the dark, except for the screaming. I hold my one-year-old, skin hot from fever, as he writhes against me. “No, no” he cries, little hands trying to force me away. He wants neither down nor up. I’m used to being the touch that soothes - a useless gift when everything hurts.
My back aches from bearing his weight on top of my own, ligaments shifting with the expansion of my pregnant form. I wish I could offer him the comfort of nursing, but the pain of a baby who bites on top of the tenderness of pregnancy is too much. Conflicting forces rise inside me - the desire to stop him, the guilt that follows, and the tiny, rational part of me that reassures me it’s okay.
“I’m not asking for it to not be hard,” I pray, “I just don't want to feel so alone.”
And suddenly, I’m not. My Mother is there with me, and together we hold our sons in their pain. These moments in the darkness will pass. The pain will be forgotten - the pain, but not the lesson. This is the gift of all mothers, to sit together as we hold hurts and patch wounds we cannot heal. We bear witness when the only gift we have is that of our presence.
Being there. That’s it. We have no power to change anything. Except, of course, that being there changes everything. Anyone who’s ever suffered knows that mere suffering is not the same as suffering alone. The light of a single flame, however small, is enough to soften the darkness.
And so, Mary sits with me. Mary, and Gianna, and Zelie, and Dorothy - all the holy mothers who have come before me. This is our treasure to share in, to insist on the power of love when love seems powerless. To be present in the darkness and know, even when we cannot see it, that our presence brings light to that darkness.