Thy will be done.

When I tried to understand these things, it was too hard for me; Until I entered the sanctuary of God. Psalm 73:17

So yesterday was pretty rough so I headed down to the big pink and brown monastery down the road, the one with the “Perpetual Adoration” sign out front, with a big “Welcome” underneath.

And I knelt there in the back row. And considered His great love, His lifted-up-to-bring-all-men-to-Him love. And the little head-nodding nun in the front joined me in perpetual adoration of the One who said, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do,” as He was being spat upon.

And I tried to join in with all of the nuns as they sang midday vespers, but mostly I just read and reread the prayer for peace. And truth. And goodness. And mercy.

And as oddly powerful as the rather small and humble Christ figure is up front, underneath the soaring arches, nothing speaks to my aching soul as much as the statue in back of Mary holding the very dead body of Jesus. How her heart was pierced in two, rent just as the temple curtain. What does it all mean? What of all the trumpeted promises? Of heavenly hosts and ancient prophets waiting in the temple shadows? All her plans and dreams lay still and broken in her lap.

And I wonder what questions pound beneath her steady gaze of love. The one who bowed before the LORD’s messenger and said, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word,” is she distraught, “How can this be?”

And yet. She waits. Not with her blankets drawn up over her head, hopeless, but she rises before the early sun and does what needs to be done.

And after the long cold night, blackest and coldest just before dawn, she finds the empty tomb.

Thus, dear Lord who gazes down with tender love, let me once again declare, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.”