Mary must be my Patron Saint

I look at my Nativity set that's up on top of a cabinet in the parlor. The colors are rich and the expressions are gentle. It's all about the awe. 

When Katie was in 5th grade and thought she might want to live with her dad, I found myself sitting in church and looking at Mary's altar every Sunday. She had a beautiful son, raised him well, and had to lose him. I would think that if she could do that, I could let Katie live with Joe. That time she changed her mind. 

Katie decided in 8th grade that she really did want to go to high school in Oklahoma. She told me, "If I don't live with Dad now, I never will."  Then I prayed to Mary for her to give me strength to handle it until she came home. I was thinking a year, maybe just a semester. Mary who had to watch her son be crucified would understand my plight. She would watch over my baby until she came home. 

Then... 

Then the unspeakable happened. 

How can I not look to Mary now?  She must know my grief and anguish and pain and anger and fear.  I wonder if she railed at God for giving her something so precious only to have to lost forever. 

I doubt she was the calm beatific Mary. If she was anything like me she had a hard time bathing and eating and sleeping. She may have had "grieving mother hair" like mine. 

It's easy to say that Jesus went to Heaven and is at the right hand of God. 

It's easy to believe that Katie is in Heaven now. 

But that doesn't stop my grief. The loss that is too painful to bear at times. The tears that drip on the floor as I write these words. 

Believing in Heaven doesn't alleviate the pain.