Thread by Thread, She Came

Dear Fellow Pilgrim,

I want to tell you a story. It began in someone else’s living room, though somehow I think it had already begun long before that. Perhaps stories like these always do. Perhaps they begin quietly, beneath our noticing, before we ever realize something holy has set itself in motion.

A while ago, a woman I love and trust looked me in the eye and told me many things I did not know how to receive. I nodded. I smiled. I listened. But inwardly, I wrestled. Not because I wished to reject her words, and not because I thought her wrong, but because some truths arrive like guests we have no room prepared for. We open the door politely, then stand there uncertain what to do next.

So I carried her words home with me. Not embraced fully. Not discarded either. Just tucked away somewhere inside me. And still, they stayed. They visited me in quiet moments, appearing softly at the edges of ordinary days—like seeds pressed beneath the soil, hidden and still. I did not 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, stood our icon wall: Jesus and the Theotokos. My eyes lingered there for a moment and without thinking I whispered, “Good morning, Lord.” Then I looked toward her and hesitated—not from fear exactly, only uncertainty. “Good morning, Lady Theotokos.” Just a simple greeting. Just a few small words. And yet something in me shifted.

Suddenly my mind wandered to Golgotha—to Christ upon the Cross, His eyes turning toward His mother and then toward His beloved disciple. “Woman, behold your son.” “Son, behold your mother.” I had heard those words before. Many times. And yet this morning they arrived differently. As though I had been standing outside the scene all these years, watching from a distance—and suddenly found myself inside it.

I saw myself in John. Not merely as a bystander. Not merely as someone reading a story. But as the disciple Jesus loved. As though Christ were speaking not only across a hillside two thousand years ago, but somehow through time itself—through veil and mystery—to me. To you. Because perhaps we are in John too. Perhaps we are among the beloved. And perhaps when Christ spoke those words, He entrusted more than I had ever realized.

As that thought settled quietly within me, it felt as though she wove herself into my heart. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Thread by thread. Quietly. Tenderly. Just as my friend once told me she would.

Coming from a Protestant background, I carried many fears and many questions—questions about Mary, questions about the saints, questions born from love and caution and a sincere desire to protect what belongs to Christ alone. I worried about idolatry. About distraction. About placing someone where only He should stand. And I still take those questions seriously. But Orthodoxy, in its gentleness, did not answer me first with arguments. It answered me with presence. With beauty. With peace. With something older than my fears.

Slowly I discovered that the saints did not stand between me and Christ. They stood beside me. And she did too. Not drawing my eyes away from Him—only toward Him. Like all good mothers do.

Then I thought of John. He did not leave her in the memory of a moment. He brought her into his home. Into the ordinary places. Into daily life. And perhaps we are called to do the same. Not because she is God, and not because she is equal to Him—she is not. But because Christ entrusted her to us. Because love receives what He gives.

Orthodoxy has slowly taught me that caring for her is not worship. It is affection. Reverence. Remembrance. It is speaking her name with tenderness. It is asking for her prayers as one asks a beloved mother who is still alive—because she is. Alive in Christ. More alive than we are. And perhaps that is what moves me most.

Because 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 have known absence. Especially for the weary. The unsure. The ones learning, little by little, how to become children again.

And as for Orthodoxy? I find myself undone. Undone by what I have learned. Undone by what I have unlearned. Undone by 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