Mary

Today is the first day of May. Where I grew up that meant a whole lot of demonstrations, since it’s the International Workers’ Day. But May is also the month of Mary. For that reason, I decided to make Madeleines, Proust’s French Madeleines. However, this year I wanted to do something different, so I made Spanish Magdalenas instead. They aren’t shell-shaped like the French cookie, but are baked in muffin trays. They have a subtle lemony taste to them and are, I read, typically eaten for breakfast in Spain, with café con leche. Recipe here. Have a good weekend!

Mary wasn’t around when I grew up. Not that there was much religion at all, but whatever there was – light a candle for Advent, open presents at Christmas, eat eggs for Easter – for sure there was no Mary.

She had been thrown out during the Protestant reformation in Sweden. Perhaps they had meant to keep her, Mary hardly did any harm, but as a female figure she wasn’t deemed necessary to save. I guess.

As an adult, after I converted to Catholicism, I never much cared for Marian devotion. Or rather, I didn’t understand it. I already had a mother; it wasn’t like I needed another. Also, Mary seemed a bit lame.

It was our 5^th grade teacher who took us to visit a Catholic church. We had been reading about Catholicism in school. Sweden is a Lutheran country, and in the small town I lived back then there weren’t many Catholics, so they didn’t exactly have a church, it was more like a big room in a private villa. There were a whole lot of things in there. That’s what I remember. A whole lot of things. Crucifixes in all sizes, paintings depicting dramatic scenes from the Bible and pictures of all kinds of saints, candlesticks, sculptures. And rosaries in silver and gold with colorful gems in them, and a mysterious wooden booth and a mysterious sweet-smelling smoke, but I don’t remember any Marys. Although there must have been at least one.

In school, I always liked when the teacher talked about other religions, and my favorite ones were Hinduism and Catholicism. They were mysterious and different. They had elephant-headed gods and blue gods and Gregorian chants and stigmatas and “signs” flashing across the sky. Spooky, fascinating stuff. The Lutheran church I was used to seemed empty and cold in comparison. 

When I was 13 or so, I discovered Joan of Arc. She was a revelation. I’d never heard of saints like her before, an armor-clad, brave girl with a sword. She was more like a superhero than a saint, and way cooler than Mary.

Mary didn’t come into my life until everything else had been pretty much given up and emptied out. It was a time when all seemed utterly hopeless. I felt very much alone. You know those endless nights that somehow blend into days and you don’t sleep and there are no more tears to cry and you wonder how you’re going to be able to go on? Your head aches from thinking. That’s when Mary came.

I had a friend in this Mary business. She too was lying sleepless at night; she too felt everything was a hopeless mess. So we started talking. We talked and we talked. I don’t know how we came upon Mary, or how she came upon us, but suddenly there she was. And my friend and I got very excited; we could both feel her presence. These are things that you can’t really talk about because they are so remarkable. It’s almost like saying:

“Hey, Jesus is out there walking on the water! I can see him from my bedroom window!”

But we were strangely joined in this, my friend and I.

It was like a game we played. Skype was constantly on, because my friend lived in another country. I would send a message:
“Now!”

And we’d fall to our knees and pray.

She’d send a message:
“Now!”
And we’d fall to our knees and pray.

The Memorare nine times. Always.

Some months later, maybe four, Mary pulled through. I used to go to this tunnel where there was a whole lot of graffiti and the graffiti said: “Love, love, love!” I thought that was a “sign”. Not like those signs flashing boldly across the sky, but nevertheless a sign. From Mary.

My friend was the first to receive a miracle, but only a week or so later, I received mine.

Shortly afterwards a woman in our town told my husband:
“When I see your wife, it’s as if there’s a woman walking next to her. All the time walking next to her. Who is she?”
My husband said he had no idea what she was talking about. It sounded downright crazy.

But later, when he told me about it, he clearly had thought it over, because he said:
“Maybe it’s your dead grandmother walking next to you?”
“Oh, no,” I shrugged. “That’s not my grandmother. That’s Mary.”