It’s no secret that I’m a crier when it comes to good storytelling. While growing up, my brother used to deliver three or four tissues to my seat before each family movie night began, just to make sure there would be no tissue running interruptions. While I have no control over the tear ducts when I’m crying for others (happy tears or sad tears) it’s a different story where my own life’s emotions are concerned. I like to keep my cool in public.

I’ll never forget the last time I cried in public, however. It was a warm spring evening as I walked into the small Adoration Chapel near my home. I nodded and smiled as I passed a woman praying in the last pew, finding my own way toward the front of the room.

And then it happened – the waterworks. As I began to pray, a few stray tears turned into in violent sobs, uncontrolled and completely unannounced. At first, I thought I could hide them with a few quick sniffs and a determination to refocus my heart. But doing so was beyond my control and I reached a point where I thought, “the poor lady behind me is probably so annoyed right now.” I jumped up from my seat to grab the entire box of tissues nearby.

The past few months had been the hardest in my entire life. I was tired: tired of grief, tired of emotions, and tired of sadness. I felt like a ship on stormy seas that groaned under the blast of another storm, wondering how many more I could take before the ship collapsed?

But this storm didn’t break the ship; it simply broke the sea.

And slowly, as time progressed, the surges of tears began to lessen in length and intensity. I kept my eyes on the tiny white host, trying to give Him every tear, as I had given Him my heart.

A hand suddenly touched me on the shoulder. I turned around to find the other lady in the chapel and prepared for an apology. Before I could utter a word, she slipped a small piece of paper into my hand and said, “God bless you.” And just like that – she was gone.

I read the note in which the woman said that said her Holy Hour was offered for my intentions. She said she didn’t know what I was going through, but directed me to the Mother of Sorrows and Divine Mercy. She pointed me to the Mother of Sorrows – the woman who’s very heart was pierced with sword and the premonition of which cast a shadow on every day of her glorious Motherhood. She showed me what it looks like to keep her station at the foot of the Cross, just like Mary. She showed me that there is purpose and healing in the simple station of standing.

That is something none of us like to do, is it? We don’t like to stand and be still; we want to keep moving! When met with grief, oftentimes our first instinct is to run away or try to do what we can to “get through it” and past it. We think there is weakness in being broken.

In most cases, it is the state of being broken that can take shape into something even more beautiful than before. Like metal being forged, Our Lord works in our soul in time of grief. To be mended, we must be still. In that moment – however long or short it may be – we are being called to keep our station at the foot of the cross.

A note from a stranger that day spoke of wisdom and experience in the world of grief and healing. I felt instantly consoled and relieved at the presence of this kind soul who took the time to offer me consolation in a place where she too had been. She was strong and joyful and whole. She gave me hope that I too, could someday be strong and joyful and whole.

One year later, I kelt in the very same chapel when a familiar sound caught my attention. It was the unmistakable sound of the waterworks in full swing from the woman sitting behind me. I could hear the ebb and flow of the tears, coming and going in waves of emotion. My heart was pounding for her. I searched my purse for a pen… for I knew what I had to do.

I found the Holy Hour card and wrote: “Dear Sister in Christ, This hour is for you. I feel the power of your tears and am praying for you. Be it grief, desolation, frustration, or pain – I know what you are feeling all too well. You gaze upon Jesus and He gazes right back at you with more love and mercy than we can ever imagine. He is your courage. He cries with you and he lifts you up. Don’t ever forget that you are enough for Him and He is enough for you. God bless you! – Mary”

The woman looked puzzled as I handed her the note when she was leaving the chapel. She returned a few minutes later and walked up to me in the pew, fresh tears streaming down her face. But from the tears came a giant smile, “That was exactly what I needed to hear,” she said. We exchanged a hug and I smiled back, “Your going to be okay. You’re not alone.” We promised to pray for each other. And just like that, she was gone.

Sisters – if you are enduring a cross right now, this message is also for you! Take courage in standing by your cross. There is great healing to be found by standing there. And what’s even better is that you are not alone! You are joined by Mary – and others who know the healing that comes from being still with grief. You won’t be there forever, either. You will soon be strong and joyful and whole again.

Yours, Mary

“At the cross her station keeping, stood the mournful Mother weeping. Close to Jesus to the last.” – Stabat Mater