Advent 2017 Journal #8: Walking with Our Lady of Guadalupe

Our Lady of Guadalupe

Come, all ye Holy Landers, Walkers, Readers, and Lovers. Come all ye who don't walk near as much as they'd like, who don't get around to reading like they should, and who want to love but find that people are much easier to stomach when they're disguised as a social cause. All ye Holy Landers, who change diapers, grade papers, and work with your hands, but nonetheless find yourself on a Road, your hearts burning within - come - and remember that Jesus disguised himself on the "oh-so-ordinary" road to Emmaus, that Our Lady of Guadalupe came to St. Juan Diego on his "usual" route. Today is December 12th. This is Advent. There are no ordinary roads anymore. We are sauntering to the Holy Land.

Come, all ye Holy Landers. We do not saunter alone. Luke and Cleopas were not alone on the Emmaus road. St. Juan Diego was not alone on Tepeyac Hill. We know this now. They did not. That is, until they did - until Jesus broke bread and Mary surprised poor Juan. It doesn't seem like we're walking anywhere when we're going about our daily chores and it doesn't seem like anyone is with us when we're so damned powerless all the damned time - but we are walking and there is someone here. When I'm at my best, I believe that, and even when I don't believe it, I believe it. Things can get a little paradoxical on the Road.

"No estoy yo aqui que soy tu madre?"

"Am I not here, I who am your mother?"

This is what Mary said to Juan on her fifth visit. It comes as a surprise to me, a Protestant turned Mennonite, to learn that I have a second mother. It's also a bit of a relief, given the tenuous mental and physical health of my earthly mother. That Maria will be here for me after my mother dies is a small comfort. Perhaps one day it will become a very, very big comfort. I did, after all, write a Day of the Dead meditation. I think I'll ask Our Lady of Guadalupe for some prayers, ask her to remember my family. I'll find some roses for my mother. They will guide Maria to this place. "Mary is a woman who fights to give flesh to the Gospel," says Pope Francis. Well, I want some Gospel flesh. We all need Gospel flesh. My mother needs Gospel flesh - literally.

Her legs hurt, especially with the cold weather. She doesn't do much walking these days. There's all different kinds of walking. Cardio walking. Woods walking. Walking on the moon. Walking for a cause. Walking across the street. Walking with a limp, which my father did for years before his knee-replacement. Power walking. Tip-toe walking. Walking the dog. Bob Seger wrote a song about strut walking. Jackson Browne wrote a song about quiet walking. There's walking this way and walking on the wild side. There's walking 500 miles, walking to New Orleans, and walking on broken glass. There's walking alone, there's walking not alone, and there's walking like a man. There's even walking on water, which I believe even when I don't believe. There's also a "cakewalk," which is what my mother called cancer.

"Cancer was a cakewalk compared with this disease."

"This disease" being anorexia. She had cancer. Now she has anorexia. The English language has a lot of synonyms for "sad." Sorrowful, mournful, harrowing, chilling, agonizing, painful, dreary, bleak, disheartening, dispiriting. All of these touch on it. But there are no words for how I feel about that line. Even my feelings can't quite register the darkness I see there. There's something so despairing, so dreadful, so terrifying about that line. Something in between our feelings and our words. Maybe this is what older writers and Jesus and Mary and Juan and Luke called the demonic. I believe in the demonic. Even when I don't believe in God or miracles or Advent, I believe in the demonic. The demonic loves paradox, but it's always sneaky, always in the most corrupt of all possible directions. That's why I'm calling on Maria tonight. To come and walk with me on my ordinary road. To help me find some unexpected flowers. To give the Gospel flesh.