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My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowly state of his servant. Surely from now on all generations will call me blessed. (Luke 1:46-48)
Their images
merge before my eyes, the mother of life and a child on my television screen.
On one hand, Mary,
the Mother of Our Lord, raises her eyes to the gentle heavens and speaks in
startled gratitude of the grace given to a humble spirit like herself. ‘You
have looked upon me … me!’
I see no
pride in her face, no defiant self-assertion. She wears the sincere, innocent joy
and astonished gratitude of those who have tasted the utter gratuity of God.
For she, who is small, seeming of no account, carries the beauty of eternity,
the world’s true light, in the dark warmth of her womb.
On the other
hand, there is this girl, a tiny slip of a child not yet in double figures, on
my television screen. Garbed in a cascade of white chiffon, she positions
herself on a bench and tilts a harp to her shoulder, preparing to play in the
finals of a national competition. Her harp is smaller than the rest, for she is
by far the youngest. Her fingers barely reach the low strings.
But she
doesn’t begin her performance, not yet. Something essential must be done first.
She repositions the harp, setting it upright. Folding her small brown hands,
she lays them in the cloud of white chiffon in her lap, bows her head and
prays.
She does not
do this once, but before each composition she performs, playing her heart out.
And I wonder,
what is she praying? Does she ask for help to do her best? Does she seek a
breath of peace to calm her nerves? Does she ask for the Holy One to bless her
and her performance? Does she give thanks for being graced with the skill and
desire to make music? Does she express gratitude for just being there, for
making it to the finals?
The innocence
of this child in prayer—asking, seeking, giving thanks or whatever else was
pulsing through her—merged with the image of Mary. She was Mary, and Mary was
her.
Both of them
humble and full of grace, they both bear the wonder of divine beauty within
them. Each, in their own way and moment, birthed that beauty into the light of
day … that we might see … and hear … and feel our hearts melt in the warmth of
that which is most true and loving.
‘All
generations will call me blessed,’ Mary sang, praising God that she should bear
Christ, the heart of God, into the world.
I suppose
I’ll never know what the girl in white was feeling and praying. But I hope,
like Mary, she knows how blessed she is. She bears the treasure of God’s own
life in the innocent beauty of her heart … and most certainly in the grace of
those little hands.
