From: Nynaeve Date: 10 Dec 1999 20:10:32 -0800 Subject: NEW: Visions in Stone (1/1) by Nynaeve TITLE: Visions in Stone AUTHOR: Nynaeve E-MAIL: scully@on-net.net RATING: G CATEGORY: V SPOILERS: All Souls, Emily (duh), minor for others; know show through "All Souls" KEYWORDS: Scully angst SUMMARY: Scully's attempt to find peace after the events of "Emily" and "All Souls". DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter... yadda, yadda, yadda ... 1013 ... blah, blah, blah. Bottom line: not mine. DISTRIBUTION: anywhere, just let me know so I can arrange visitation. Spookys - go ahead and archive! FEEDBACK: Yup. Love it. Keep it all in little folders, specifically marked for each story. Respond to all of it too. DEDICATION: As ever and always, to J and A. There are not enough words in this language or any other one, for that matter, to describe how wonderful you both are. Visions in Stone I kneel. My knees press into the inadequate padding on the kneeler. I am only vaguely aware of the discomfort. My back is ramrod straight. I'm not Ahab's daughter for nothing. My hands are in front of me, clasped, knuckles whitening perceptibly. My head is bowed. It rests on my hands. I close my eyes and try, again, to pray. The church around me is quiet. No other parishioner seems to feel the weight of any sin to confess this afternoon. I am conscious of my solitude. The air around me is heavy, not only with stillness, but with that ineffable quality that pervades a house of worship not filled by its rightful congregation. A church is the only place I know that never seems lonely. It is as though the foundations, the timbers themselves, half expect God to tiptoe amongst them at moments such as these. My mother has never understood my assertion that I often feel closer to God at times like these than during the service itself. Missy, in one of those moments of connection that happen perfectly, yet heart-achingly fleetingly between sisters, explained myself to me once. "Dana, an empty church is a place where the impossible could happen. God could walk in and tap you on the shoulder, answer all your questions, put all your fears to rest. In an empty church that would be a miracle. In a full one, it would be a delusion." I smile at the memory, supposing she was almost right, despite Mom's horrified stare and claims of blasphemy. I try, again, to pray. I don't know for what to pray. I don't know for whom to pray. I don't even know where to start, which words I need. I close my eyes again, more aware as time passes, of the ache in my knees, of how my ramrod straight back is beginning to suffer a twinge here and there. Once, when we were little, Bill complained about the fact that, though usually padded and covered, kneelers are never comfortable. Charlie had chimed in, wanting to know why we had to keep our backs so straight because that wasn't much fun either, as he'd put it. Mom had explained that when we kneel we are showing our humility in front of God and humility is not usually comfortable. She had added the reason we keep our back straight is to show respect to God. After all He does for us, she had said, gently sarcastic, the *least* we can do is not slouch in His house. During the drive to church, Ahab had added to this explanation a description of religious practices from centuries past . I think thoughts of the Inquisition convinced Bill modern kneelers weren't so bad. I try, again, to pray. With a sigh, I realize it isn't going to happen. My knees protest briefly as I push myself up enough to slide back and sit on the hard wooden surface of the pew. I gaze at the stained glass window. Light falls through it, painting visions in stone. The scientist in me analyzes this phenomenon, considers the distances traveled by the light, the way the glass bends it, the elements of color that modify its wavelengths. The woman in me, the reluctant Catholic, the denied mother, the scarred and battered warrior, rests in its simple glory. Unable to pray, I allow my mind to wander. Soon I loose myself in contemplating the window in front of and above me. The scene is familiar, an element of the fabric which wrapped up my Catholic childhood. The Virgin Mother holds her son, the Christ Child, in her arms as she gazes down at him adoringly. In this window she wears the traditional blue of the Madonna. Her hair, a chestnut shade, falls in a cascade around her shoulders. Her head is wreathed by a luminous halo of yellow glass, shining brightly as the sun strikes it. Her son rests serenely in her arms, cheeks round and rosy, hair some shades lighter than his mother's, on his face a surprisingly knowing look for an infant, even such a holy one. As a child I drank in the knowledge of Christ, of his mother Mary, of his earthly father Joseph. I was taught awe and humility and wonder and respect for a God who would so bestow upon us this gift. "For God so loved the world..." was probably the first Bible verse my siblings and I learned from our mother and father. As a child, it seemed to account for so much, to answer so many questions. As an adult, I have questions it seems no religion can answer and God seems determined I find those answers on my own, if I am to have answers at all. I look again at Mary. Historical records prove that indeed this woman did live, did bear a son, whom she called Jesus, and that son did die a martyr's death on a cross some thirty-three years after his birth. And though the records are less clear on the point, it is most likely that she lived to see her son crucified. As a child I never questioned the facts, nor did I question the belief that Mary was indeed a virgin, chosen by God to bear His son for her purity and grace. I didn't question that Christ was indeed the Messiah promised by the Jewish prophets, nor did I question that he died, was buried, and rose three days later. I thought the whole story miraculous, proof of God's unending love for His most complex creation. As I grew older, I began to question elements of my religion, drifted from it, from God, for a time before discovering I had never lost my faith in God, just in the men who claim to represent Him. This afternoon as I sit, transfixed , watching the sun paint the stone bright, gaudy colors, I think, not for the first time, but for the first time with a deeper of sense, of what it must have been to be Mary, nearly two thousand years ago. A young girl, in a position that, in her days, could have meant death. She faced those she loved with the courage of her faith, with the humility of her own righteousness. In time she bore a son, a son such as none other the world has ever seen. And yet, if we believe the accounts, she remained humble, not proud, to have been chosen as God's handmaiden. She raised this child, hers, yet never really hers, born to serve another purpose, loved this son as any mother. Then she lost this child, watched him sacrificed for a greater good. That he chose to make that sacrifice, that he was resurrected can only have assuaged her grief minimally. I am awestruck again, not by the myth, not by the story of Mary as Holy Virgin, Mother of God, but by the facts of a woman, flesh, blood, and bone, who could bear such grief. She bore a son she knew would never truly be hers, raised him, knowing by prophecy that he would be taken from her and yet, she endured. I transfer my gaze to the glass infant resting in her vitreous arms. Her life, a predictable one, a peaceful, full one, changed in an instant one day in Judea when an archangel announced to her God's intentions. And nothing was ever the same. Christ. The Savior. Never hers. But the world's, even when the world wouldn't have him. Did she have others? Experts can't agree. I shake my head. It doesn't matter. A dozen children more would have made no difference. Did he come to her, in a private vision, afterwards? Did he touch her hand and speak to her? How did she let go of a miracle, given to her by God himself? Somehow, she did. And at last prayer tumbles from my lips, a low rush of words, words I've known since my childhood, words whose powerful depths I at last plumb. "Hail Mary, Mother of God..." She had faith in God and in God's promise, so she let go. There are reasons I cannot yet begin to comprehend, injustices I can do nothing to right. I was given a miracle. I found my child, a daughter I had never suspected, and I loved her. Mulder said it best. I found her and I loved her and maybe she was meant for that, too. And maybe two thousand years ago, a young mother from Palestine loved her son as simply that, her son, even knowing she would have to give him back. So, I let go, knowing I loved her. I rise and make my way out of the church. I turn, one last look at the window and the visions it paints on the stone flags of the floor. In the window Mary smiles down at her child and he returns her love. On the stones, tricks of light show me a different scene. A child smiles in her sleep, blond wisps of hair falling across her forehead. Outside, the sun shifts behind a cloud and the vision wavers, becoming a scene of muddy, muted blues, golds, and browns. It is time to say good-bye. I may *never* understand the reasons, but I cling to what I know. In the little time I had with Emily, I loved her, and protected her, and fought for her. I *was* her mother. I have faith that is enough. END