A poesy ring from the 15^th century with this inscription — “a ma vie de coer entier [sic]”(for my life with my entire heart) — is in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, England. Others like it date to the 14^th century. When I first saw one, I was captivated. Could there be any connection to the Battle of Crécy in 1346? My interest is on several levels, in part that Crécy is the original version of my mother’s surname — the name she gave me.

*

A storm is in the offing.

In lieu of a planned overnight on the Jersey shore this weekend, I drove out to the ocean yesterday for a few hours, and then turned around in order to attend the Service of Remembrance, honoring all Princetonians who recently passed.

Then: Late lunch. Groceries. Vigil Mass. And prepare to bunker down at home on Sunday, under the covers, instead of looking out at the sea.

*

Soon, my daughter will be twenty-four. Today, my son would be twenty-five.

Years after he died, too young to live, my mum said, “You’ll never fully get over it,” which bothered me, but like many of her stances, her accuracy increases with time.

*

For twenty-five years, I have been mother to an angel. This is entirely different from being mother to a living child; I know, having done that, too. Where I sit right now, I am in awe of both.

Joy is my middle name, and I know how to live up to it, but I also have a predisposition to quiet melancholy and a deep longing for the mystical.

Over all of these years, I have made my peace, mostly, with how things have turned out. I am grateful for an ongoing conversation I have across the veil with my son who encourages, reassures, and offers me faith when it is in short supply. He guides me to thin places and brings me closer to the liminal porousness between this plane and the divine.

*

Less than a week into Lent, we are reminded that we all have our own cross; our lives are defined by how we carry it. Our cross can either make or destroy us. I admit there are plenty of times when I have no idea how to keep carrying mine. This is not a fairytale.

But invariably, when I am low, some little shift will happen to lessen the weight. Messages often come through nature, synchronicities, silence and prayer — and other people, some of whom are total strangers.

A few days ago, a grieving young mother called my office at the parish asking about burial plots for her three-month old son. We spoke for a long time. After we hung up, I felt a strong sense that I am where I am meant to be, right now.

One of many things I shared with her was the comfort it gives me to know that we mamas still carry cells from each child we bear, even if our child does not get to grow up beside us.

A mama conceives. She gives birth. She loves. She carries her children in her body and in her heart — as I always have and always will — through thick and thin, no matter where they are.

*

In advance of both these upcoming birthdays, a friend sent me these words from Gerard-Marie Anthony: “God is Father as He is the giver of life, but He wants an intimate communion with us, which is symbolized through the vocation of motherhood.”

Twenty-five years ago, in the depths of agony, I could never have imagined the vast riches of spirit to come. Today, I am still opening the gifts.

*

Speaking of gifts, I found a replica of that medieval French ring that reads, “a ma vie de coer entier,” and brought it with me yesterday, the day — twenty-five years ago — when he was still safe with me. I dipped the ring into the salt of the Atlantic, saw it reflect the light of the emerging sun, wore it to campus, and then to Mass at St Paul’s. I have not taken it off since.

For my life, with my entire heart.
To both of my children.

Ainsit soit-il.
Amen.