The Coronation of Mary

A meditation

Now it is just the two of them. The gold has gone red and warm, filled with seraphim, and there is nothing else in the picture but a son and his mother, and two small angels at the bottom with a lute and a harp, looking up.

Look at him. Crowned already, in a dark mantle, holding a sceptre. He is reaching across to her with the other hand, and in that hand is a crown, and he is setting it on her head.

And look at her. She has bowed. Her hands are crossed on her chest. She is in white and gold, and she is not looking at the crown or at him — her eyes are down, the way they were down in Nazareth when the angel spoke. She is receiving this the way she received everything: without reaching for it.

This is the end of the whole story, and it is very quiet. No crowd. No trumpets, though the angels have their instruments ready. Just the gesture — a son crowning his mother — and her bowed head.

Now think about who she is. The girl on the terrace. The one who walked over the hills. The one who knelt on stone in a ruin. The one who stood at the foot of the cross and did not go home. She has been through all of it, and she is crowned for it, and she has not stopped being what she was.

That is why you can trust her. Not because she is a queen — because she remembers. Ask her for anything. She bowed her head once to say yes; she has not learned any other answer.