Again this morning in church we were positioned directly opposite the icon of the Most Holy Theotokos, and as I made the sign of the Cross, it occurred to me that I was outlining, on my body, the principal instrument by which her Son had been tortured and killed, with her looking on all the while. The Cross was the metaphorical sword that pierced her heart. And yet - miracle! - to make the sign of the Cross in front of her does not offend or insult her or hurt her feelings. Indeed, she no doubt made it on her own body more often than I do, and perhaps still does. For her, as for us, the greatest sorrow has become the greatest treasure and joy.
Saving A Democratic Man
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