On Marian devotion

Her name was Mary. Perfectly proportioned, symmetrical, lovely to look at. She was older than him. Actually about 2036 years older. From the cross her Son had told him that she was his mother. She was the second Eve. The first Eve had sinned. The new Eve had not and attained great favour with God the Father. Her son had so wanted to please The Father that He had undergone torture. Now he was nailed with  cruelty to wooden beams set at right angles until he died. Death was probably by suffocation. The angle that the arms were pinned to the cross beam made it very difficult to breive. 

Of course seeing her only son die like this had been it's own unspeakable torment. Soon after her son was born a religious had prophecied a sword pearcing her heart. It was coming true. Mary was beside herself with grief. But like her son she had forebodings of this event. But that didn't change the reality of the moment. She knew exactly what her son had meant when he gasped in between laboured breaths to his favourite disciple John, the only one beside His mother, who had not been afraid of the Romans and remained at the foot of the cross. "Behold your son, behold your mother": he had said to them and us, it echoed down the ages.

He belonged to the authentic Church that the same Jesus, who had writhed in agony on that diabolic instrument of torture had started, and which from the first understood the true meaning of those words. He also accepted that the same Mary had been assumed into heaven, body and soul, and crowned Queen of heaven and Earth for all eternity. He knew that there was nothing peculiar about a Son and mother being respectively King and Queen. This was the way of the Hebrews from time eternal. The Queen of the King was his mother, not his wife as is common today. He also knew that both Queen and King were in their glorified bodies. He knew he would have a glorified body too; but that would be after the return of Jesus as King on Judgement day at the end of this world as we know it.

At first he had been puzzled by the devotion shown by many religious to Mary; assuming it to be driven be the need for female companionship amongst celebrate men. A kind of Greek Goddess Athena substitute. But he had heard time and time again the advice to pray the Rosary from holy men and women. And he did. Sparioducally at first. It was hard. Even Popes reported difficulty with this devotion. Repetitive and boring. The mind easily wandering.

He had courageously one evening even sat by his sick wife's bed and prayed it, expecting ridicule. None came. Soon she would be reminding him when it was time to pray the Rosary. It became a daily event. Five decades. Often she would fall asleep. But he knew it still mattered. He still remembered the first evenings. The air was electric as though the saints in heaven were listening , barracking him on. Later he would be aware of sweet scents, especially when his mind was focused. She had told us at Marjorie "I will give you an indication that I am near".

He had carried this tradition on after her death. Often now he would say two or even three rosaries a day. He liked saying them especially at the cemetery, dedicating them to all the souls in purgatory, or before Mass, where he would change seating. Two before the statue of Mary, one before Joseph, and two more before the statue of Jesus revealing his sacred heart.

One evening he decided to dedicate his heart to Jesus through Mary. He abandoned his soul this way many times in the future, often being accompanied by waves of ecstatic love. Mary was increasingly becoming the biggest part of his life now. He felt grieved when flowers on her statue were jaded and limp, as he might for his own wife and mother's graves.