Thread by Thread, She Came

A Letter from the Wilderness

Liturgical Season: The Apostle’s Fast

Dear Pilgrim,

I want to tell you a story. It began in someone else’s living room—but it’s still unfolding in mine.

A while ago, a woman I love and trust looked me in the eye and told me many things I didn’t know how to receive. I nodded, I smiled, I listened politely. But inside, I wrestled. I wasn’t sure I believed her. I came home with her words tucked away, not discarded—but not wholly embraced either. Still, they stayed with me. They visited me in quiet moments, like seeds tucked into the soil of my heart. I didn’t know they were growing. But they were.

This morning, I sat at my dining room table with breakfast before me. Across from me, through the doorway, is our icon wall. Jesus and The Theotokos. My eyes lingered on them, and without thinking, I whispered, “Good morning, Lord.” And then I looked at her, unsure of how to address her. “Good morning, Lady Theotokos.” A simple greeting. But something in me shifted.

Suddenly I remembered Christ, hanging on the Cross, looking at His mother and His beloved disciple. “Woman, behold your son… Son, behold your mother.” And I saw myself in John. Not just as a bystander, but as the one Jesus loved. As if He was speaking through time and veil and pain… to me. To you. We are the disciples whom Jesus loves. We are in John, too. She can be my mother too. Not in metaphor only, but in truth through a mystery that is only recently becoming clear to me. And as I let that thought settle in, it felt like she gently wove herself into my heart. Not all at once. But slowly. Quietly. Tenderly. Just like my friend said she would.

Coming from a Protestant background, I had so many reservations about Mary. About the saints. I didn’t understand how they fit into the Gospel. I worried deeply—about idolatry, about distractions, about placing anyone where only Christ should be. And I still take those questions seriously. But Orthodoxy has gently, beautifully answered them—not with arguments, but with presence. With love. With the peace of something older than my fears. Now, I can say: they both have a place in my heart. The saints. And the Mother of God. She is a mother. I feel it in my bones.

And what did John do? He didn’t leave her in the memory of a moment. He brought her into his home. Into his daily life. He cared for her. And so should we. Not because she is God or equal to Him—she is not. But because Christ Himself entrusted her to us. Because love receives what He gives. And Orthodoxy has taught me that to "care for her" is not to worship her, but to honor her. To remember her with reverence. To speak her name with affection. To ask for her prayers as we would a beloved mother who is alive—because she is. Alive in Christ, more alive than we are. To care for her is to let her presence draw us closer to her Son. To trust that she, like all good mothers, desires only for us to cling to Him more fiercely. And that she, unlike any other, knows how to teach us the language of surrender—how to say “Yes”.

God is too kind to leave us orphaned. He gives us the Church. He gives us fathers and mothers in the faith. He gives us a Father in heaven—and yes, a Mother too. Especially for those who grew up without one… or both. Especially for the weary, the unsure, the ones learning to be children again.

And as for Orthodoxy? I am amazed. Amazed at what I’ve learned. At what I’ve unlearned. At what is healing in me, simply by standing near the ancient fire.

So come. Come and see. There is more love waiting than you ever imagined.

Scripture for Reflection: ”So when Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing there, he said to his mother, “Woman, look, here is your son!” He then said to his disciple, “Look, here is your mother!” From that very time the disciple took her into his own home.” John 19:26-27