Look Closer Again. And again

Look Closer, Again
I wrote this last year.
I think this has to be an annual post maybe.
Because we cannot should not forget.
And I don't know how to say this differently.
So, I'm saying it again and again:
The faces are the same.
They are joined by new ones.
But, mostly, they are the same.

So, I'll say this as many times as it needs to be said:

Today is World AIDS Orphans Day.

These are the faces of the littlest ones.

Not necessarily the youngest, I mean, the littlest.

These are the ones it's so easy to pass over and look beyond.

But these are our children too.

We are so bombarded with causes and pictures that it's easy to get overwhelmed, desensitized, numb.

But look at these faces.

Really, look at them.

These are kids.
They are orphans.

They lost their moms and or dads to AIDS.

See them with your heart and soul.

Do something.
Give them the dignity and humanity to really SEE them....
Then say a prayer for them, donate, reach out...
...touch them, hold them, hug them if you can, even.

They are just kids...our kids....who have a future, or should.

Wit's End

So, I was lying in bed last night awake…and my mind wandered as minds are wont to do in the wee hours of the night.
I decided that it might be prudent to do a small wit check on my blog now and then.
What's that?
Am I going to tell a joke periodically to see if I'm still, or ever, funny?
Um, no.
I crack myself up, don't get me wrong, but I"m not sure that translates into blogdom.

Nope, I'm talking about that whole concept of "keeping my wit's about me."
Yeah, you other middle aged gals, you know what I'm talking about.
Yup, I'm talking about losing my wits, my ability to be sharp.
Yuh, I see you Jon and Chris, I see you nodding…..see, this is what I'm talking about.

I'm 48, I know, how'd that happen?
And, I have a fear, based on nothing of substance, that I'm gonna lose my mind, or at least my sharpness. My folks are in their very late 70's and still sharp as ever.
You would think this would reassure me, and it does to a small degree.
But I've never done anything the easy way and so I know, in those wee hours of the morning, that it would hold to form that I would be the one of my five sibs to end up with early onset gaps.
Yeah, it's a pride thing to be sure; I have always been the queen of multitasking and juggling many things.  I still do all that but ever so much more poorly.
So. It could happen.
It might already be happening (hush boys).
Now I like to think that those little mishaps of oh, not recalling the kids names properly, or remembering where I set down my keys phone sunglasses pens paper book ipad glasses keys phone are normal…
But when I find them in the fridge (hush boys) or on my head then it's a whispered worry.
It would be a clanging worry but it seems I'm losing my hearing a bit too.

Tom says I'm just distracted and not focusing.
God bless that man I love him.
But I read this book and it put the irrational fear of losing my mind right in the forefront…until I forgot about it.

So, now and then I think I might be posting about this, and other sundry sagging things about aging.
Because it pops randomly into my mind, until I forget.
Which means I want to catch it when it passes through.
You youngsters will probably want to skip these posts as they pop up; because first they will bore you but second they might scare  you.  It's not pretty, aging.  It's a heel dragging slide downhill, physically speaking.  Sure, the tradeoff in contentment and wisdom is worth it, etc etc….but even so……those wee hours of the morning can be a worry.
So, I'm doing a check now and then, a little note to compare notes; to see if I'm at wit's end….and not the "end of my rope" version either.  We all know I hang on to that rope with a white knuckle grip anyhow, that's not any news.
But a systems check? Always worth it….
Think I'll go do a crossword now.
Words with Friends, anyone??

Ordinary

Ordinary time, liturgically speaking, began a week ago.
Ordinary time, mom speak, did and then again did not begin a week ago as my kids are still home and not in regular ordinary school time: holidays, in-service days, snow and ice days have still botched up our routine days.  Much griping on my part in my heart (and more than I should out loud) ensues.

Confused? I know, me too!
Sigh...let me begin with the beauty of it, that's always best.

Ordinary time in our liturgical year is the "regular" or "Ordinary" days of the year; the days not of a special season such as Advent or Lent or Christmas or Easter.  See? They are not marked or bracketed, they are ordinary, normal, routine, whatever you like to call them.  They are the stuff that make up the warp and weft of any given life.
I love them so.

It took me a long time to learn to love them so.
My younger days had me always yearning for the next thing, the next exciting event or season.  I think that is so common, especially when young (By which I mean, shockingly enough even to myself: under forty anymore...yeah, mark that youngsters, I mean  you!).  It feels and/or seems just more fun, more interesting to be immersed in or on the brink of "The Next Big Thing;" even if that thing is simply the next holiday.  It's exciting.  It livens up our dull mundane lives that are filled with the same ol' same ol...the chores and the must do's.  Right?

Well, yeah, to a point.
But just as you will burn out any fine tuned machine by always keeping it revved to the max, so to I believe we burn out our very selves (Fine tuned machines that we are or should be) if we live on high alert at all times.

 Now, don't get me wrong.  I do this.  Some might say (Hsssh, mom, John, I hear you) that I do this (still) all or most of the time.  I have more than many times been accused of being "kinda intense."  Sigh.  I guess I am.  Even when I don't try to be.  I like to be busy, I am high energy, I like to "have things going on." Or, I used to, I know it.  I still do, I admit it, but now I am learning to see and mark and soak into the beauty of the "ordinary."  It's the simple things, stupid....oh dopey Me.
The wisdom of the Church is that we are given this Ordinary time to settle and soak in that.
To remember and touch again that simple self that we are, that really is under all that stuff, all the noise, all the hurry. 

 It's under the chaff, if we but blow with a settling breath....ah there it is again: me.
And when I settle again, I can listen and I can hear God himself whispering to me again.
I can do better. 
...pray better.
...see better.
...listen better.
...give better.
...love better.
I can be a better mom, wife, friend, daughter, sister, lover, thinker, helper, pray-er, me.
Not that I do so...which is why I so need and have learned to love and exhale with ordinary time.

So, there, that is the beauty of it all.  Right there, in the ordinary day before me.  If only I can stop and slow and soak in it.  And therein lies the test, eh?
As goes the liturgical year, we are living in Ordinary Time.
As goes my household and the lurching four different school systems of my kids, we are not.  Not yet.  So, my challenge, which I fail, oh, daily, is to stop and see that even this lurching "school on, school called off" calendar still is part and parcel of ordinary life.
I tend to think it's not.  But when I do that, I am lifting ordinary life right out of it's pocket and trying to make it something it's not: something like a perfect glistening glowing photo spread.  That's a mistake.

  Ordinary life is by definition, kind of a mess.  It needs so much: constant endless tending.  It is this very tending, this ordinary work on a perpetual basis, that forms it's core...again, the warp and weft of the weaving that IS ordinary time.
Even the snow days.

New Monday: Pre-K

  So.
My Gabey went to Pre-K today.
I can hardly believe it.
No, really....
I hadn't planned, last summer, to send him yet.
And I've never been a huge "gotta go" kinda gal with pre-k programs.
And last August, when school began, he wasn't ready for anything other than time home, with me.
So that is what we did.
It was great.

But lately, that time has morphed into a strange "at loose ends" time with him.
Not for me. I rarely have time with loose ends....or, more precisely, I'm busy sweeping up and tying up those loose ends all day every day.
No, what I'm talking about is my Gabey.  He ended up....at loose ends.
He went from being content with me, following me around, helping me, hanging out with me, learning colors with me...to spending the bulk of his day wishing for something he couldn't get.  Asking for it.
As soon as we dropped off the kids at school, he began: "Can I watch tv?" No. "Is it lunch?" No. "Can I have a cookie?" No. and, the most frequent question of all...asked countless times a day, "Is it time to go pick up the kids?"  Um, no, sorry honey.

Now before I get flamed, I did all the enrichment stuff. We worked on colors and shapes and went for walks and talked about birds and looked at acorns and read books.
I can do the mom thing, I can.  I did.
But my other "mom thing" also means dragging him along on many many doc appointments for the other six kiddos who are still at home {dentist, orthodontist, therapists, dermos....and so on, just do the count, it adds up and keeps me driving...}.  Not exactly enriching stuff.  So - he's been restless.  My gut told me, it's time.  That and his electric radar for any other kids around when we are out and about on errands; his racing them in the vet's waiting room, waving at every kid in the market, striking up kiddie convo's at the orthodontist.  It started to be clear that he was ready for a wider social life than me.

So, last week we visited our school's pre-k program.  It's excellent; the best in our county, with an wonderful teacher I've long admired.  (No, she doesn't read the blog, I can't score points here, shame on you...however, she IS the best pre-k teacher in our area, hands down, fantastic! No way is that a shameless plug....really...).
He was a little nervous to start his visit day.  It helped that his big brother and best friend on the planet was across the hall (like...close: you could shoot a rubber band over if you were inclined...not that my boys would think of that, ahem, because that would get a yellow card...).

 He was paired with a nice little boy buddy to show him the pre-k ropes for that visit day.  I was nervous. I hung out in the library, being mostly useless during the quiet morning of book fair.  After his day was done, he pitched a huge out-of-character fit in the office.  I was sure he was tired, overwhelmed.  But as we got in the car to head home, I learned otherwise: he was bent, just ticked off.  He wanted to stay.  He wanted to stay in school and not go home yet.  Oh!  He calmed and told me again and again about the class, the kids, the rug, the reading, the parade (lining up), the tools (toy tools), the girl (curly hair, quite the talker).  He asked to go tomorrow.  That has been his new question, usurping the others: "Am I going to school now?" Meaning, whenever we get in the car, regardless of time of day.  He asked me, relentlessly, "Can I go to school" after his visit.

So, yes, my Gabey, you can go to school.

And so today he did.
And, yes, I had to blink back the tears when I kissed him goodbye and told him I'd be back later.

It's my first time in the house, alone on a school day, for over eight years.  Read that again: eight years...gosh maybe longer, I'd have to really sit down and chart it out to know precisely.  I hardly know what to do with myself.  So, I'm procrastinating a bit.  I'm gonna start by cleaning.....And, on a make me smile and breath easy note, the school JUST called and said "He is having an awesome day and smiling and happy." I love this school.  For just this reason, they call the kinda nervous moms to let them know their littles are doing great.  Nice.

Eight years, and it's a new Monday.
It's good. It's weird.  But it's good.

Savory

To "Savor."
To "Savour" (for the fancy times).
To discern and taste and notice and appreciate the different tones and tastes and textures. 

It's often applied to food, sweet and savory; baking sweet temptations and desserts versus savory dishes for meals or, as my sister-n-law would call them "amuse-bouche," (because she is chic and Parisienne and actually does cook like this).  As savory it's an actual herb of course, and thus it's about cooking, not so much baking dessert.

{This is how my dinner table looks, most nights.  

Because we only dine in style....ahem.}

I had a brief exchange with a friend on this yesterday.  On the savor, how, why. And it got me thinking. How she does it, instinctively, and I look to her to remind me.

I am a cook.  I am an occasional baker, but really I'm a better cook. I'm better at the "wing-it" mode of cooking rather than the precise measuring and weighing and timing of baking.  I like to throw ingredients into a dish to see if they work, or kind of eyeball the amount and hope for the best.  Sounds kind of haphazard...and it can be. But often it turns out pretty well, because I've done it for a long time and know what spices and tastes work together, meld, accentuate, and so on. 

But I think it's not purely coincidence that I am a better, more interested, cook than baker.  I think there is a connection to my preferred mode of cooking and  my skill there, and my big ol' family.  As with so  many other things in our lives, they are connected.  Maybe it's only taken me well over twenty years of raising a family to figure it out...or at least to make this connection.

But, I'm digressing.  I was talking about how to savor.  Yes, in cooking. But more, much much more so, in life...we need to savor.  As a mom, I need to savor.  And "savor" is the right word because being a mom is not only about the sweet. Sure, ya get the desserts: the nose rubs and sunny naps and angelic late night tuck ins.  Those mash notes that make you blink and swallow from the sweetness.  They are, perhaps literally, the icing on the cake, the sweet plump chocolate covered berries in our days. 

But the savor is where you find the richness.  Those melded flavors and notes, the textures in a day...they are what make the "dish," your family and the days take shape.  If we savor our days then I think we appreciate them more.  Of course we do.  It's in the very common usage of the term.  To savor it to notice, to look, mark, feel, recognize, appreciate the layers. 

I don't savor enough.

On the good days, I do.  Oh, how I do.  I can some days savor so that it makes me buzz with the neon backlit sharpness of this rich crazy hectic life.  I can try -and fail - to blink back the tears and swallow the catch in my throat as I open the holy card and note sent me from my college son.  I can catch a glimpse of my daughter and see her momentary portrait in the autumn sun, and know that I have to etch it, quick before the dappling shadows shift. 

On the tough days though, I don't.  I forget.  Or I get overrun a bit.  Or I let me loud bossy sweet tooth start calling the shots again - craving only the icing and the sweet melting sugar of dessert on my tongue.  I don't want to see the savory in the tough bedtimes, or the complicated homework sessions or the explanation of just why she is grounded.   I forget to hear the notes of rich in the loud clamor as I call many kids from all corners to dinner.  I forget to see the golden texture in the clothes flung on the floor and the rumpled beds with quilts pulled half off. 

(Impressive, no? This was actually part of a "prank war" 

between my two oldest boys...but still,you get the idea...)

It all goes with living in the moment.  My least able skill.  I stink at this.  I dwell on the past, I fret over the future; from far in the future to tomorrow. I do so the the detriment of living in the now, the today, the moment.  We are called to do this in our Faith.  The saints are those who did it well.  But if we do it, or keep trying, perhaps we will see past the harsh notes that stem from our misguided selfish wants.  Perhaps if we, ok I,  really try to live in the moment for what and where and how it is, then we, ok I, can really stop and savor it.  And see, AGAIN,  that I have been presented with a rich buffet of taste and texture in this big ol' busy family.  Sweetness, oh my yes.  And Savory, oh my yes.  And they compliment each other so well of course. 

The cook in me knows this.  And also knows that the best cooks are always taste testing and tending.  Just like a mom....or a dad.  Just like a parent. Funny, that.

"Savour."  "Savor." Either way you spell it, fancy or simple, I really like that word.

My Precious

So, you might have been expecting a post about my truest 'mostest' precious: my kiddles.
Well, ya, should be maybe, but not today.
Because this post is about another underlying obsession, one that turns me into my own Gollum.
Yeah, that Tolkien, he knew what he was talking about...
See that picture up there? That's me, perhaps in a truer image, nice to meet you. 

Because "my precious" is my "Control."  Or, to be more accurate, my desire for control.  In fact my pursuit of my precious and my need to hang onto it makes me bug eyed and screeching all too often.  It makes me angry and resentful, often times of things that haven't even happened yet.  It makes me snarl in even mere anticipation of somebody or something snatching that control, my precious, away from me.

Even if that thief is a small kiddo with big brown eyes and sticky hands.
Even if that thief is a cute guy with a beard who is a good kisser.
Even if that thief is a hurt kid with a megawatt smile but from hard places.
Perhaps more so, then, because with that one, my precious was wrenched from me long ago....I just didn't really know or admit it yet.

Sigh.
Sometimes, I think it's true what Gollum said, "Once it takes hold of us, it never lets go."
And then I am left to weep and wonder how to proceed, to move on and I know that there is no other way than through that stomach hurting dark and the fear that comes with losing that precious, that control.
I have to let go.

But my Gollum just can't seem to.
And I snarl and I snap at anyone, sorry Tom, who suggests the same.
No, it's not pretty.

But the crazy thing is, as all you other moms know, especially those who are parenting hurt kids, you lost that "precious" when you first stepped out to try to parent.
Really.
I lost that tarnished ring so long ago I must be crafting my own lame paper mache ring of precious, every day.  So, why do I hold on?
Fear.
It always comes back to fear:
...fear of being taken places we don't want to go.
...tired fear of being taken places we don't want to go.

Therein lies the trap of course.
Because when we snarl and grasp and gasp so tightly, trying to hold onto our paper mache 'precious"... ok, when I gasp and grasp so tightly, trying to avoid being taken back or through another hard place....well, I'm already there.  Too late.

So, this one's for you honey....I'm gonna try and pitch my my paper mache dented soggy smudgy ripped useless "precious."
And let go.
Again.
But with hope for being able to keep my hands open so that instead of holding onto the poison ring, I can hold, instead, onto the small hand that slips quietly into mine.  

When your boy comes home.

It's a happy week.....and I'm a happy mom.
because my boy is home from college, for the week only, but I'll take it.

 Here is what you remember when one of your son's come home again, these things that so easily you forget in the hustle and crazy of everyday life:

That it feels so good to hug him, to feel him solid and sure and there; instead of crackling over a dropping cell phone connection or a glitchy skype feed.

That you never do expect to feel that blink of tears,
or that gasp of recognition, "There he is!"
just because he's walked into your kitchen with a big eager grin.
That that big grin and quick step to hug you means everything.

That he looks good - that he's growing up even as you can see the small changes now, in your kitchen, but that it is settling on him well.

That  you really think its a great dance to see the hubub of siblings all talking at the same time and twisting around each other to get plates and milk and it doesn't matter that it's late and the kitchen is getting messy again and the windows are dark and it's way past bedtime.
That standing around the kitchen counters and between the bags and stalling bedtime is just the best thing to do on a late Sunday night, when a boy comes home again.
That you really really enjoy watching him eat cake and soak in the hubub of his house, again.

That you love to cook for your kids who love to eat.
That is a treat to cook a Halloween supper a week in advance; upon personal request.
That brisket cooking on the stove is a smell of love and happy.
And that homemade chili and cornbread, pumpkin pie and goofy little mini wrapped hotdogs wrapped mean home.

That even bandaging him up, now all big and growing up as a man, is still a privilege and a way to be a hands on mom {and he is kind enough to ask me to do it}.
That bandaging up his elbow will make me think of all the reckless hurts he's had, that I've bandaged, on this daredevil boy and maybe make me blink hard for a minute.
That making the house a home for this week is important and it's not only for this boy, on his return.....
But it's important for the family.
It's important for his brothers and sisters to see that welcome and that soaking right back into the family.
It's for me.
It's where the joy is...in the small things...the things that matter in that quiet sink in sort of way.

So today I remember the beauty in the red pot simmering on the stove,
in the bowl of apples,
in the bandages,
and in the folding of clean shirts.
And I see it fresh, for a moment, in the heart of this home, his home, that he returns to with a grin and a sigh and a "It's really really good to be home."

Yeah.  It is.

Not the fun one.

By which I mean: me.
I am not the fun one.
That would be Coffeedoc, Dad, Tom.
He is the fun one.

He is the one who travels the world and gets twitchy when he's been home for more than a few weeks.
He is the one who drives fast, be it boat or car.
He is the one who takes the kids tubing and tries to dunk them with donut circles in the chop of the wake.

He is the one who makes silly voices and tells silly stories during dinner.
He is the one who makes gross out jokes during dinner.
He is the one who will buckle and snap endless coats and ski boots to get the kids on the mountain.
He is the one who will take them to Monkey Joe's so they can run and slide and shriek to their heart's content.
He is the one who will jump out of a plane, or hike up the hilltop to see what is there.

I am the one who could stay home forever.
I am the one who savors the different light of the seasons.
I am the one who stays off the lake while they flip off the tube, to make dinner after they come home wet and cold and laughing.
I am the one who stays with the baby while they see the Imax movie, ostensibly because it's too much for the baby...but really because the swooping bigger than life high definition 3D makes me queasy.  It's too much for me.
I am the one who plays bananagrams and counts it as big fun.
I am the one who makes yogurt in a slow cooker, for pete's sake!

He is the fun one.
He is the fast one.
I am the slow one.
I am the one that holds to bedtimes and routines.

{football at ND, last year}

This weekend, all the girls are with dad at Notre Dame.
They have gone up to see their brothers and a game.

My boys, yesterday on campus.

They will get to bed late, and eat way too much junk food.
They will yell at the pep rally and shout over the band.
They will see the drumline way way after bedtime, staying up until far into the night.
They will roll their eyes at his silliness and bad jokes.
They will alternately giggle and fume over his benign neglect of their girly natures.

{football game last year, ND}

I will fret that the change in routine will throw a few of them off kilter.
I will fret that the lack of sleep will be a catalyst for meltdown by multiple girls.
I will worry about them coming back rather undone, frazzled and unable to recalibrate into the instant return to daily life and requirements.
I will wonder if medicine was taken and how the moods are swinging.
I will brace myself for the impending meltdowns upon re-entry.
I will see the texts to me, complaining and fussing, and deflect them with "be nice, have fun."

But, because after twenty-one years of being a mom, I am learning.....
that they will survive this weekend away without my 'stick in the mud' tending,
that they might even build new memories that will make them laugh til they cry....someday,
that they can live off of some junk food and be happy for my cooking when they get home,
that they can learn to be cranky and out of sorts and still survive,
that getting to bed crazy late is not the end of the world,
that Dad is not Mom.
And that he is the fun one.
And that there is time for that too.
And that their world is better for it.

I am not the fun one.
I am glad that he is.

For any mom

drawing by Kate Kollwitz, 1903

Today is the day we remember Our Lady of Sorrows.

Oh, there is so much to this one...

As a mom, this resonates with me.  

Ok, maybe as an older mom it resonates.

As a mom of sons who've gone to college, who has just sobbed goodbye to them...

as a mom of kids who come from hard places and  have endured hardship and trauma...

as a mom who has held other mom's babies and children across the world in dark hot smelly orphanages, waving flies off their face as I feel their damp bottoms but also their arms clinging to my neck, or see them lying limp in my arms just gazing out - disconnected...

as a mom of kids who have struggled with different needs, some of them very hard and/or intense...

as a mom of kids who've gone through life-threatening events and as a mom who has sat vigil bedside in the PICU....

gosh as a mom who has lain awake countless nights worrying over  her kids...

over things big or small....

As a friend to moms who have lost children...

as a friend to moms who's kids have been in the PICU, or hospital too....

as a friend to moms who have had kids go through the hardest scariest time in their lives and/or those of their parents...

goodness, as a mom who WATCHES THE NEWS, for pity's sake...

....this memorial is for us.  

Because this Blessed Mother, she is us.  

She is every mom.  

She is the mom giving  her portion of food for her hungry child.

She is the mom sitting bedside by her sick child.

She is the mom who weeps sending her child off, to work, to college, to a new life in a new country.

She is the mom who wishes she could hurt so her child doesn't have to.

She is the mom who carries them, bodily, but also in mind and heart....all day, every day, all night, every night. 

She is the mama.

She is us.  

She gets it.  

And she helps us carry it all....all those things that no one but a mom can fathom, truly...well, she does.  

As I wept and wept a few weeks ago, worried over my son, him moving out and having to say goodbye to him in a new place that didn't feel like home, at all, to him or to me...my other son said this: "Our Lady of Sorrows mom....the litany, it will help."  I said, "She didn't send her son to college!" (I know, I'm a selfish idiot)  He smiled and said "Yuh, she watched him be crucified."  

So...with that, I give you this, it helped me then, and it is a reminder that she is not just the remote Mother of God.  

She is everywoman.  

Everymom.  Us.

 Litany of Our Lady Of Seven Sorrows 
By Pope Pius VII

Leader	Response
Lord, have mercy on us.	Christ, have mercy on us.
Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, hear us.	Christ, graciously hear us.
God, the Father of heaven,	Have mercy on us.
God the Son, Redeemer of the world,	Have mercy on us.
God the Holy Spirit,	Have mercy on us.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,	Pray for us.
Holy Virgin of virgins,	Pray for us.
Mother of the Crucified,	Pray for us.
Sorrowful Mother	Pray for us.
Mournful Mother	Pray for us.
Sighing Mother	Pray for us.
Afflicted Mother	Pray for us.
Foresaken Mother	Pray for us.
Desolate Mother	Pray for us.
Mother most sad	Pray for us.
Mother set around with anguish	Pray for us.
Mother overwhelmed by grief	Pray for us.
Mother transfixed by a sword	Pray for us.
Mother crucified in thy heart	Pray for us.
Mother bereaved of thy Son	Pray for us.
Sighing Dove	Pray for us.
Mother of Dolors	Pray for us.
Fount of tears	Pray for us.
Sea of bitterness	Pray for us.
Field of tribulation	Pray for us.
Mass of suffering	Pray for us.
Mirror of patience	Pray for us.
Rock of constancy	Pray for us.
Remedy in perplexity	Pray for us.
Joy of the afflicted	Pray for us.
Ark of the desolate	Pray for us.
Refuge of the abandoned	Pray for us.
Shield of the oppressed	Pray for us.
Conqueror of the incredulous	Pray for us.
Solace of the wretched	Pray for us.
Medicine of the sick	Pray for us.
Help of the faint	Pray for us.
Strength of the weak	Pray for us.
Protectress of those who fight	Pray for us.
Haven of the shipwrecked	Pray for us.
Calmer of tempests	Pray for us.
Companion of the sorrowful	Pray for us.
Retreat of those who groan	Pray for us.
Terror of the treacherous	Pray for us.
Standard-bearer of the Martyrs	Pray for us.
Treasure of the Faithful	Pray for us.
Light of Confessors	Pray for us.
Pearl of Virgins	Pray for us.
Comfort of Widows	Pray for us.
Joy of all Saints	Pray for us.
Queen of thy Servants	Pray for us.
Holy Mary, who alone art unexampled	Pray for us.
Pray for us, most Sorrowful Virgin,	That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.
Let us pray.
O God, in whose Passion, According to the prophecy of Simeon, A sword of grief pierced through The most sweet soul Of Thy glorious Blessed Virgin Mother Mary: Grant that we, who celebrate The memory of her Seven Sorrows, May obtain the happy effect of Thy Passion, Who lives and reigns world without end. Amen.