I knew a monk once who, every time he stood up at liturgy to read anything written by a Church Father about our Blessed Mother—he began to cry. The first time it happened, I was a novice, and it so surprised me, I wasn't sure for a few moments what to make of it. Poor man—it was really distressing watching a grown man come apart like that at the lectern in the center of the church with all the monks sitting pensively in the shadows, to see him finally lower his head, motionless for a moment, and then shuffle back to his choir stall. He had put himself through this ordeal more than once. He was not a monk who would say "no" if asked to do a public reading. Of course, it embarrassed him terribly to start choking up in front of all the brothers and our guests. Even so, after each incident, he convinced himself it would never happen again and that he would be fine next time. A year might go by before he had to do a reading about Mary. You would see him step up to the lectern, looking strong and self-assured. He would be fine the first minute or two, and then, about half way through, he would come to a line like: " . . . her acceptance of the incarnation was the acceptance of death. Her blood she gave to Jesus, only for Him to shed it . . ." and he would break off suddenly. For a moment or two, he stood perfectly still, struggling mightily with himself, summoning every ounce of self-control to get just the next line out—an attempt to forge ahead failed miserably as his voice broke and made sounds the monks found actually alarming. He abruptly turned away and returned to his place in choir, an oppressive silence lingering in the nave of the church. The first few times this happened, it was excruciating for me, but after a while, I found myself watching him calmly and reflectively during these ordeals. Studying his slightly stooped figure, partly illumined behind the wooden lectern, I was surprised to find I envied him. It is strange. I love Mary. Since I was a child, I have been aware of her gently, maternally present, watching over me. Accounts of her exquisite sensitivity to God's Spirit by whom she conceived the Word in flesh move me—but not to tears. My affection for Mary has never overcome me, never made me look foolish in front of a bunch of people. Today, we are celebrating the Solemn Feast of Mary's Annunciation, and the image of the monk returns to me. Watching my brother standing there overcome by feelings of tenderness for his mother Mary, I wonder: "It is harder for her to get her arms around me, to enfold me in her embrace, harder to win me over to complete surrender. He looks so fragile, so shattered standing there with tears welling in his eyes. But he is hers, completely given over to her, heart and soul. She has drawn him to her bosom where he will be happy and at peace forever. He appears weak. Can it be said a man so abandoned to Mary, so entirely possessed by her is weak? I am not so given. I am more self-possessed. Does that make me strong?"

Father Raphael