"Troubled by these words, she wondered what such a greeting could mean" (Lk. 1:29)
(Lk. 1:29)In the joy of your child's birth, a shadow falls. You have given birth to a son you have waited for, hoped for, loved from the very first moment of expectancy. A mysterious moment, full of suffering and joy. But the joy darkens: this is not the child you expected, hoped for, loved. He is different. He lies there watching you, waiting...
My God, what do you want from me? It cannot be. It is not true. I am mistaken. But the reality lies before you. He calls to you: "Will you be my mother?"
No. I cannot. I never will.
Not me. I cannot do this.
A terrible and mysterious calling: the joy vanishes. All is darkness. You want only to close your eyes—not to see, not to hear, not to believe this is real. The reality stands before you. He calls: "I am your child. Do you want me?"
How can you say yes? How can you accept?
You cannot ask this of me, Lord. I have no strength. I cannot. Go away. Leave me.
But the child you have brought into the world lies there. He asks to be fed, held to your breast, washed, changed, dressed.
You cannot escape.
So by force you must let him carry you into gestures you do not want to make but must make: nursing him, even though he will not nurse; smiling at him through tears; holding him, even as you long to flee far away.
You cannot. You do not know how to say yes.
It is impossible.
Endless days, sleepless nights: everything has crumbled—joy, hope, your smile, all of it gone.
Nights without end, without rest; life without life, motherhood without love.
Have mercy, Lord. Have mercy. Do not abandon me.
Those "yeses" you speak—days and years pass—in the gestures of a forced mother, they are like steps dragged through the silent pain of one who cannot see where she is going, in the dark.
The child knows. He sees. He suffers for it.
"Blessed is she who believed that what the Lord said to her would be fulfilled" (Lk 1:45)
And then what?Your husband, relatives, friends, doctors—their voices whirl around you and your child—voices of encouragement, disappointment, silence, understanding, offense. You see them, hear them, but it is as though you do not see or hear them at all.
You stand there, petrified, alone, facing a child who is yours, yes, but whom you do not feel is yours.
(Lk 1:45)
By some strange chance, you meet another mother like you.
You do not know why, nor do you ask. She is there beside you, with her child like yours.
She speaks, she tells her story, she embraces you.
You look in wonder at her child and at her face; it is different from yours, completely different. But it does not matter.
What you are discovering has a singular value: you are not alone!
There is someone else living what you live. You, who have lost your smile, smile at that mother because they have smiled at you.
You cannot help it, even as your eyes fill with tears. You cannot but smile. It is stronger than you.
You do not understand why. You do not understand the mystery.
Other mothers join her, other children, all different from yours but all somehow like your child.
What good is talk? What good is explanation?
Words do not matter. They do not help. Comparison even less.
For the first time, you feel within yourself the joy of not being alone.
"Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors" (Lk 2:14)
You smile and sing with them—a song that grates, yet it opens your heart; a song that seems absurd because it clashes so much with what you see before you.And yet you feel yourself lifted, carried into unity with all of them—mothers, fathers, children—who, weeping and smiling together, sing a Magnificat you will never forget. "Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace among those
whom he favors"
(Lk 2:14)
You leave there with your heart at peace and in turmoil at once: you are yourself, and you are not yourself anymore. You go home; you push the little one who looks at you with his mysterious gaze.
Everything in him is a mystery. No one can explain, help, or understand: he does not speak, does not walk, does not play, cannot dress himself, cannot feed himself, cannot keep himself clean...
But you are there, you are his mother: you have done everything for him—sung to him, spoken to him, fed him, changed him, dressed him, rocked him, smiled for him. He is always with you, inseparable from you.
You have said yes, always, always—but with such sorrow in your heart, such rage sometimes, such dread as you watched other children.
Now he looks at you and you look at him differently: he is your child at last! Your heart pounds hard, so hard; your smile opens wide toward him; for the first time you speak to him differently. You are almost afraid of what is happening to you. You are alone but no longer feel loneliness: there are so many other mothers—how they smiled, how they seemed to love you, how they celebrated your child.
You sense mysteriously what is happening to you: your child is being born now. He is born again in your heart because now you love him—he is your child, just as he is.
As you struggle up the stairs to your home, a young man approaches and asks if he can help you. "Yes, thank you!" You hardly dare believe it: you have climbed those stairs so many times, and no one has ever offered to help.
At home, you find your friend who, the moment you enter, asks if she can play with your child.
You hear yourself answer: "Of course, why not?" You had never allowed it before.
And when your husband comes home that evening, sighing from years of searching for a smile from you, and asks if the child has eaten, you hear yourself answer aloud: "Yes, well, thank you. How are you?"
In the days that follow, you discover little by little that many people are near you and your child; but you did not see them; many people you barely knew are there, ready to love him, with you, beside you, without fanfare, in silence.
"Behold, this child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too, so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed" (Lk 2:34-35)
And you say "thank you" because your child has been born in your heart. "Behold, this child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too, so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed" (Lk 2:34-35)You had kept your child hidden; your wounded mother's heart would not let you show him to "others." Fear, self-protection, confusion, dread, pride... Others do not understand; others are cruel; it is better to keep to ourselves, alone, hidden in our pain, in our shame. And this, though it hurt you, seemed natural, right. "I am protecting him," you said, "from prying eyes, from malicious criticism, from unkind remarks." And you were proud of protecting him.
Now parents, relatives, friends call you out. They invite you, want to show you sincerely, concretely, that your child is expected, called for.
So you go out. You bring him. You introduce him by his name. You are no longer afraid that they will see him as he is: here is my child!
In the world—on the streets, at gatherings, at celebrations, in church: here is my child!
The Lord has called you through the voice of your brothers and sisters. Now they are no longer enemies as they were before. They call you and you answer with joy: you are happy, you sing, you joke, life is reborn. The life that seemed to be made only of pain appears in a new light. You recover the taste for the beautiful things that surround you. You recover the simplicity you had lost: simplicity, innocence, they bring you new life.
Fiat—Magnificat—Thank you, thank you, Lord for giving me this child, just as he is. I know it will always be hard, always difficult: I will always have to feed him, dress him, wash him.
Pain will be there all my life. But thank you, Lord. You are with me. I am no longer afraid. With you near, with him beside me, the journey is easier.
The pain has been transformed: my eyes are open to him: I can love him, just as he is, and every day I discover more of the hidden treasure in him—his patient love for me has shown me my love for him and for others.
"All who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers" (Lk 2:47)
At last I can raise my eyes to you, Lord, to thank you. "All who heard him were amazed at his understanding and his answers" (Lk 2:47)One day you realize your child has grown, has become large, has pulled away from you. Slowly, yes, and how slowly. He is still himself, yes, full of needs and care—those never end—but the years have passed for him too, despite everything. He is no longer a child.
You struggle to find yourself in this new role: he is grown and he is not. You want to protect him, but that is not right. You must teach him to live alone, as best he can. And it is hard, difficult, painful; these are moments full of uncertainties, doubts: am I doing right, am I doing wrong? He needs me, but he does well with others... I must help him, but he must not notice... I must push him forward without asking too much. Hope he will progress without expecting miracles. Trust in him... And yet he still needs me. How can he manage alone?
So many questions to face, so many mistakes, so many failures.
He asks to be treated as grown, but he is not. He wants to do things alone and he cannot.
Lord, help me. Do not leave me!
Then suddenly, when you least expect it, the call comes from circumstances: you are forced to let him go alone. Mystery, fear, anguish.
You are forced to let him go. He is leaving you.
Where? How? What will become of him?
Your son, like every other son, does not belong to you, as you believed. He is bound to you more than others are, but he does not belong to you. You must let him follow his calling, once again mysterious and frightening.
Do not be afraid! Oh, how easy to say and how hard to live!
The Lord is with you. The Lord is near those whose hearts are broken.
The step is hard and difficult, but once again joy mingles with suffering because you find your child bent on "guiding" others, on "teaching" his message of innocence to those who have lost it, on bringing his light to those who know it and want to see it in him.
"O Mary, who by your fiat gave us Jesus, who by your help enabled me to see the face of your Jesus in my child. May your example lead me to sing now and always, humbly, MAGNIFICAT!
"O Mary, who by your fiat gave us Jesus, who by your help enabled me to see the face of your Jesus in my child. May your example lead me to sing now and always, humbly, MAGNIFICAT!Mariangela Bertolini, August 15, 1978