Seeing Mary in My Husband
by Sarah Reinhard in Marriage on Monday, June 28, 2010 6:00 AM
In my earlier life, I never wanted to be a mom, but I think my husband has always wanted to be a father. He was a father figure to his younger siblings (and still is) and loves children in a way I admire and that inspires me.
I think he’s probably the reason I love the Blessed Virgin Mary so much too. Of course, if I pointed this out to him, he would say something to the effect of “Aw, shucks” or, more likely, simply smile and change the subject.
He was the one, after all, who introduced me to Mary. He’s the one who continues to live under the Blessed Mother’s shadow, an example to me of many of the virtues Mary embodies and that I feel most challenged to embrace.
Silence is Necessary
My husband is the strong, silent type. I’m no longer surprised to find out that he has driven a long distance for business with the radio off, with just his thoughts and prayers to keep him company. I don’t question him when I find him in a room, sitting and thinking (or praying?).
There’s something to be said for silence, especially immersed as I so often am in the noise of the world around me, from social networks to small children, from writing projects to podcast episodes, from long discussions to email correspondence.
Sitting – or standing, or simply being – in silence heals me. It renews me. It prepares me for the work of my day (or night).
I think Mary must have spent a lot of time in silence, and not just because of the time she lived in. Major happenings have a way of instilling silence into our hearts, and she certainly had her fair share of big life changes.
From the Annunciation to the Crucifixion to the Resurrection, and all the everyday miracles in between, Mary must have used the silence to recoup and reflect. Perhaps she just turned to God, unsure of what, if anything, she was to do.
Think First, Speak Last
He’s the poster introvert, married to the extreme extrovert. Where I do my thinking out loud, he never ceases to shock me with the things he’ll share, seemingly out of the blue. I can never predict when he’ll come up with something – something he’s been pondering for months or perhaps even years – and I have to rework my whole understanding of his world.
I’m not sure if Mary was an introvert, but I’m sure she lived the reality of thinking before she spoke. Her words, after all, would carry weight. She represented more than just herself; she was the Mother of God, the one who raised Jesus, who knew Him more intimately than any other person.
We read in Luke 2:19 that Mary “kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart.” I picture her heart as a sort of memory box, one she dipped into every so often, looking at the strange happening or everyday occurrence with a new appreciation or understanding, perhaps sharing some wisdom with the early Church.
We don’t hear much about or by Mary in scripture. I take this as a lesson that I need to put into practice, as my husband does: be careful what I say, and say it after I’ve thought about what it will be. (Someday, I hope to be good at this.)
Be Gentle
I recently read, in the Small Steps for Catholic Moms Companion Journal a quote from Father John Hardon:
Gentleness is the virtue that restrains the passion of anger.” It was a great ah-ha moment for me: this, at last, explained my husband’s calm approach to life, his seeming oblivion to the anger that threatens to explode in me: he is gentle.
Father Hardon continues:
Where anger flares up, gentleness calms down. Where anger is a bursting flame, gentleness is a gentle rain. Where anger asserts itself and crushes, gentleness embraces and quiets and soothes.
Thinking of Mary as gentle does not make her weak any more than it makes my husband weak. In fact, when I see him soothing a troubled child or tenderly disciplining one of them, I see how much stronger he is, in so many ways, than I am.
He is confident enough to be gentle. He seems to know intuitively something that I’ve struggled years to learn: anger does not solve anything.
And so, in his gentleness, with a daughter or with me, I see a glimpse of Mary’s face and feel her great love for me. In his arms, I understand how love can reach even to me.
—You’ll find more of Sarah Reinhard’s life and writing at SnoringScholar.com.
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