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I woke up this morning and went downstairs to start a pot of coffee. Once I pushed the “brew” button on my coffee maker, I followed my usual routine and began opening the window blinds to let in the day.
Still a little sleepy, when I opened the blinds on the window above my kitchen sink I was shocked at what I saw. Looking outside, my heart sank – if only for an instant. The grotto was empty.
Now at the end of this long, hot summer I had recently asked my husband to touch up some of the paint on the grotto where our cherished statue of the Blessed Mother sits. The paint had started to chip and fade, the result of monsoon-like rains and extreme heat.
Though he always has a long list of honey-dos my husband knew this was important to me, so he got to work on it right away. I did not, however, know that he had already moved the statue.
I was both surprised and then immediately pleased at my own reaction to seeing the empty grotto. Not yet having had my coffee, and still a bit groggy, my first thought was, “She’s gone!”
Then, a split second later (in my dreamy state) my mind flashed to, “Did she leave us?” I wondered if the rapture could have occurred overnight and we were among those “left behind.”
Thankfully, it took me less than a second to “wake up” and realize that my dear husband was starting the project of refurbishing our little shrine.
After realizing what had happened I was grateful for the tremendous loss I felt in not seeing her. At that moment, it struck me how much her presence in our lives means to me. Following that, was the realization of how horrible it would be to be left behind.
I remember an instance years ago when a friend who visited our church asked me why we worship a statue, referring to the statue of the Blessed Mother on the wall near the altar. I explained that we don’t worship Mary; we pray to Mary to intercede to Jesus on our behalf. The statue is a mere representation of the Virgin Mary.
My youngest learned that lesson firsthand.
Our then-four-year-old son was playing near our back yard shrine and he accidentally knocked over the statue of Our Lady. When she fell against one of the stepping stones we had placed in front of her, part of her forehead chipped. My son, thinking the statue WAS Mary, began to cry so hard that he couldn’t catch his breath. I had to wrap him in my arms and explain that Mary was in Heaven and she was just fine — that this was just a statue of her. He calmed down, but I will always remember that special moment.
Instead of buying a new statue, I gave my own father the task of trying to patch Mary’s forehead. He did a pretty good job. Today, when I look closely at “the scar,” I think of both my father and my son with sweet memories.
I admit, I can’t wait until my husband places Mary back where she belongs. Close to us.
(Update: Sept. 22, 2025)
Thanks to my husband, our grotto restoration is complete.
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