Mary, we crown you…
Yesterday in our small church, nestled along a winding river and muddy spring roads ripe with potholes, we crowned the Virgin Mary. As our priest placed a delicate garland of freshly woven flowers atop her statue, something ancient stirred within me—a memory, a longing, a quiet grace. The crown itself was made by one of the women in our congregation, her hands deft and reverent, threading delicate blooms and buds into a ring of devotion. There was such care in it—petals barely opening, their soft fragrance rising like incense.
The moment of crowning was so tender. Mary stood there in simple majesty, stone and stillness softened by bloom. We sang the hymns I remembered from childhood, some sung together, and some rising in my memory alone—"Bring Flowers of the Rarest," and "Hail Holy Queen." The voices of women I am coming to know, and the voices of girls now the age I once was, rose in that sanctuary, thin and bright like the fresh spring light through stained glass. It moved me more than I expected. So many moments like this happen in that little stone church.
As a little girl, I longed to be the one chosen to crown her. I remember my hand-me-down dress pressed and my scuffed shoes shined as best as was possible, hope blooming wild in my chest like dandelions. Maybe this year. I folded my hope and anxiety into my small and trembling prayful hands. Waiting. Hoping. But I was never chosen. The disappointment then was sharp, but curiously, it never turned bitter. Even in my child’s heart, I felt it: Mary held it for me. She took my longing into herself and gave back something else—quiet acceptance, perhaps even consolation. She never let me feel outside the circle of her gaze. I still feel her embrace. The crowned statues of stone seemingly animated by her steadfast love.
Now, all these years later, I find myself back in her month—May, her tender domain. Also the month of Mother’s Day and my birthday. That has always felt oddly congruent. Many times my mother and I share the actual day. So, I write this as my Mother’s Day gift to her. Crowning with words my love for the woman who bore me and continues to bear me. And like those first full faced blooms of yellow, spreading a riot of beauty for those with eyes to see, spring bursts open my heart. Blooms. Spreads. Like a lawn littered with dandelions, I also crown with words my love for all the women who mother this weary world. In big ways and in small ways. Polishing silver, preparing a meal, cleaning up a meal, tending to boisterous children in the church pew, recommending a good read, sharing a story, laughing out loud, holding and caring for the vulnerable. Leading with love. Hers in a different type of leadership. This enduring love reminds us all what makes us human. There are so many ways women stand with Mary and hold so much silently in their hearts. These sacred hearts. Broken open by suffering and yet always, always willing to love, love deeply, love freely. Even in the face of suffering. Especially in the face of suffering.
I was in the garden yesterday, grateful for the first flush of green, for the buds tucked into the corners of every branch, as if the earth herself was preparing a crown. I thought of Mary again and again, as I often do while tending to growing things. I crowed our statue of her with my Easter wreath. And as I stood and pondered her beauty, I understood that She is in the patience of germination, in the slow unfolding of the rose, in the sorrow and the sweetness braided together in the scent of lilac and lilly of the valley. Blooming and unfolding, even after a harsh and long winter. Especially after a harsh and long winter.
To crown her is to remember her sovereignty, yes—but also her nearness. Queen of Heaven, and yet she walks beside us, whispering through the leaves, blooming in our aching places, singing praise in the rising and falling of the peeper chorus, steadying the hands that reach from and toward the vulnerable.
Our Mother Mary was crowned yesterday, and in some quiet way, so were all women.