When I was fourteen years old, I was brushing my hair and putting on lipgloss in preparation for my first day of freshman year. My gray skirt was smoothed down, my lunch box packed, and my picture taken by the front door. I arrived at Notre Dame Academy with a shake in my legs and hesitation in my voice when I answered a teacher’s question.
Over two thousand years ago, when Maryam Nazarene was fourteen years old, she was braiding her hair and putting on lip tint in preparation to be a young wife to the man her father had accepted. Her tan head scarf was smoothed down, jug filled with water, and her freedom taken at her front door. She shakingly dropped to her knees and said yes to her God with confidence, but confidence didn’t erase the stutter in her voice.
Before Our Lady was Mary Mother of God, she was Maryam of Nazareth, a young teenage girl, tan from laboring in the fields, with callouses on her hands from working diligently in the kitchen. I imagine Maryam learned to embroider her plain tunics with flowers and loved to dance in the fields with her friends. I imagine she had a favorite lamb in her family’s flock and got excited when she finished weaving her first bracelet. Maryam was ready to dedicate her life to marrying Joseph and bringing honor to her family—until something unplanned, but so much more honorable arrived. A conversation with a being she’d only ever seen in mosaics changed her entire life, and the life of everyone, everywhere, forever. And even yet, Maryam dared to lift her head and look into the eyes of Gabriel the archangel, bravely speaking a question before giving an answer: How can this be, since I have no relations with a man? That was the night Maryam Nazarene became the Virgin Mother of God.
Often when I hear talks about Mary, the focal point is her famous “yes.” We’re taught to “say yes like Mary did, with no fear. Say yes, say yes, say yes.” Whenever I hear that, I think about little Maryam of Nazareth, her confused question, and the consequences of her actions. If she was found out to be pregnant, and Joseph hadn’t been as kind as he was, Mary would have been put to death for a crime she didn’t commit. Little had she known, her son’s suffering would mirror that same decision. Truly, I can’t imagine the terror that struck Mary’s heart in the moment she had decided to say yes. Unlike those lessons ever explained, Mary didn’t just “say yes,” she agreed to possibly be spat at and called names in her village. She agreed to possibly be exiled from her family. She agreed to possibly be stoned to her death for her love of God.
There are so many symbols of biblical figures that exemplify struggle: Peter and his anger, Thomas and his doubt, Moses and his insecurity. But there is one I would like to add. Mary and her fear. Mary has no sin, she is pure in every way. Yet even she was afraid. Our Lady shows us that having fear is not ungodly. Hesitation is not ungodly. Curiosity is not ungodly. Mary survived thirty-two years plagued with the overwhelming fear that her son was going to be murdered. She would love him and raise him and teach him, but that inextinguishable fear would always be there in the back of her mind. Maryam was just a little girl. She was brave, but I think to call her fearless takes away from who she is.
I have struggled with overwhelming, inextinguishable fear my entire life. There’s not a moment I can remember where I wasn’t afraid, whether that’s of darkness, failure, open water, spies, blasphemy, planes, aliens, horror, nightmares, volcanoes, parasites, disease, and honestly I could go on forever. For a long, long time, my fear had completely defined who I was, and it’s damaged my self worth irreversibly. I’ve felt like my fear makes me lesser, it makes me stupid, and it makes me a sinner. I only had one painful thought when it came to my fear: My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
But everyday I walk into school and I see a statue of the Virgin Mary. And I turn and I see another, and another, and another. I’m reminded of Mary’s life as a girl, and the constant fear she must have felt. Did she get nauseous like I do? Did she bite her nails or jerk her head? At the end of the day, we’ll never know the exact details of her life. But what I do know is that Mary was a teenage girl, just like me—one who probably liked to hang out with her friends and do art for fun. But more importantly, she was a girl who was afraid. Every time I’m terrified, I feel Mary’s hand on my shoulder and the comfort of knowing that I’m not alone. Mary has been my guidance to living a life according to the Will of God when my world is still shrouded in fear.
Right now, I’m a Eucharistic minister for Notre Dame. That might not sound revolutionary, but a few years ago, I was terrified of taking the Eucharist, let alone distributing it. None of that would have been possible without knowing that Mother Mary was at my side, proudly smiling at me no matter what I was or wasn’t afraid of. It was her that encouraged me to push past my barriers and open my trembling hands to receive her son once again, even if I was crying while I did so.
I would be honored to be able to place a garland of flowers on Queen Mary’s head during May Crowning. And yes, I’m terrified to walk up and speak in front of so many people, but I trust that Mary will be with me every step of the way and beckon me forward with pride. I want to feel my miraculous medal on my collar and speak with a voice of confidence at that podium. I want to shakily put that crown on the head of Mary, smiling because I know that I’m being steadied by Our Lady. I want to stand up there and look into the eyes of every girl who’s ever been afraid at Notre Dame Academy and crown the girl who began it all for us.
I am simply a girl.
Maryam of Nazareth was simply a girl.
But Maryam had trembled and stuttered and still said yes.
And I truly, completely hope that I can be a girl who feels afraid of everything, even placing a crown on the Virgin Mary’s head, and still says yes.