Recently I began a novel (let’s see if I finish it!) entitled, “ The Red Horse ,” by Eugenio Corti. Originally written in Italian, the story begins shortly before World War II and carries the reader through the war itself and then, its aftermath. In one scene, in the first fifty pages, a woman is home alone and the mailman arrives with a message informing her that her son must report for military service. Her mind begins to flitter from one place to another, upset that no one else in the family is there with her when she receives this awful news. Then, she recalls memories of her son from infancy until the present. Overcome with emotion and anguish, she feels as though she were suffocating. The author continues, “Her eyes sought the image of our Lady on the wall: a popular picture in which blue predominated, the color of a sky. The beloved face of the Mother of God, and even that color was powerful enough to calm her a bit. Lucia then began to move her lips, to pray, blaming herself for not having done it before. From whom would come comfort but from him who could ask us for anything and instead asks us above all for love, pity, and compassion for our fellow creatures? That he existed was shown no less by the Church than by her own experience. We are not alone: there really is someone who cares for us and our beloved, and at times, in the most decisive moments, we feel his intervention, a reality that comes to be perceived with great clarity, even if later it is difficult to explain it to others with words. But not always is there this intervention, only at times . . . She focused her attention on a postcard stuck into a corner of the picture. It showed our Lady with the dead Christ on her knees, a reproduction of a marble sculpture. The text said it was in St. Peter’s in Rome, and it was from Rome that Giusina had received the postcard, sent by her sister Candida during a memorable pilgrimage a few years before. The image reminded the mother with terror that when the supernatural mingles with human things the outcome may be painful all the same, since they killed the adored Son of our Lady herself.” In those few lines, the author doesn’t attempt to “do away” with the mystery of suffering by providing a fantastical assurance that, “Now everything will be fine.” He doesn’t provide an escape route for the reader. Instead, he describes the mystery and places us in the middle of it. In the midst of suffering, we can turn in prayer to the Mother of God. We can have confidence that the Lord is with us, that he cares for us, and loves us. We have all experienced, at one time or another, His intervention; an intervention that we have absolute certitude about, but for which we lack the capacity to adequately describe to others. And yet, there are times when we feel He did not intervene in the manner we would have wanted. This also is true. And, it is true that He Himself suffered and died in the most horrific manner. Sometimes, especially when confronted by tragedy, suffering, and evil, we desire exacting answers. What should I do now? Why me? Why them? Will this person be okay? Will I live? How will I get through this? What we want–what we often demand–is an unambiguous solution that resolves everything. The truest answer, however, is to live in the mystery itself. It is to meditate upon true things, even though no one of those things provides an immediate and definitive resolution to the questions of the heart. No logical syllogism or catchy phrase will suffice to quell the storm. Although there is always suffering present, these past days I have heard so many parishioners share with me various trials and tribulations that weigh heavily upon them. These are only the ones I am told about. There must be a great deal more. For those of you who are heavily burdened, I want to assure you that there is One who loves you, cares for you, and is close to you. You are not alone. You are at the foot of the Cross and it is precisely in this place that the Blessed Virgin and her Son embrace you. Your Brother in Christ, Fr. David Barnes