Click

In its early years, Ms. talked about "click" moments, where you suddenly shift perspectives on something, seeing it in a whole new frame.

I went to church yesterday twice, to two very different services, both very moving in their own ways. I left church last night teary-eyed, after nearly sobbing during one song. My mind kept flashing to the Pietà diptych we have in our living room. My favorite of the two is the unfinished Pietà on the left. Michelangelo was working on it when he died. I think it's much more honest, or realisitic, and rustic. Today, though--and last night--it's the famous one (below) that I keep seeing.

How did Mary stand it? How can you watch your son die? My son was sitting next to me clutching my hand for 25 minutes last night. He took my hand, to comfort me, a first. But I think he was looking for comfort too. And all I could think about was what it must have been like for Mary, a widow. Poor, beaten down, under suspicion, afraid...and heart sick. Sick. Seeing her son, whom she knew was not a dangerous criminal, die a slow and agonizing death, as naked and bloody as he was when he was born.This morning while reading one of my recently-discovered favorite blogs, I found Sister Claire Joy meditating on the same thoughts. Today's post ends this way:

Why didn't you do anything, God? Because he asked me not to.
I beg your pardon? That's correct. Do you really think I was indifferent? That I didn't watch the whole thing in horror myself? I would have done anything for my son. Whatever he asked. I would have destroyed the world with fire and started over. But he asked me not to. He asked me to forgive them.

"Father forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Click.