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There, Mary looked older than in most images. A deeper horizontal scar crossed the two vertical marks—crooked, the way a child draws the letter A. Her long, straight nose pointed to lips held closed by strength and wisdom, just above a dimple in her chin, like the touch of an index finger. Her shoulders were hunched over from the weight of navy, gold, and rose robes, her head held in a way that said she was not unaware of her heavy halo but that it was somewhat inconsequential, a part of her identity as unassuming as fingernails or the eyebrows framing her eyes.
I stood and stared at her and knew. She was not tame but reminded me of the sun, of the furrows it carves in the dirt in unplowed fields when it is dry and dusty and has not rained, will not rain, of the dirt and sweat caught in and running through the lines in the palms of my own hands. She reminded me of wrinkles like terraces and ravines and creases in folded paper letters, of age, and that, yes, I will get older, that I will die, that I will cease to be smooth-faced and unmarked by the turning of light into night, by the exchange of the moon for the sun, day after day after day.
The child Jesus sat on her arm. She reminded me of my need, let me stand feeling it empty and filled, gnawed at, rubbed raw, pulled and cooled, and yet OK, like a bow across the lowest notes of a cello, like being on the inside of God. A woman not of the well-watered and green but for the times in life when one must draw on the remembrance of water to persevere, the times when one must parse into pinks and golds and reds the brown that seems all around. This was a woman I could pray to.
A woman not of gardens but of desert.
