Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe — Go to Mary

by Emmjolee Mendoza Waters

I am your merciful Mother. The merciful Mother of all of you who live united in this land, and of all mankind, of all those who love me. Here I will hear their weeping, their sorrow, and will remedy, and alleviate all their multiple sufferings, necessities and misfortunes.

“Go to Mary. She knows what you’re going through. Stand with her at the foot of the cross and she stands with you.”

My dear friend and former boss, Fr. Jude, who served as the university chaplain at Catholic University for 12 years, texted me this on October 14: the day Lance Shockley was executed in Missouri.

I had the privilege of meeting and getting to know Lance over several months. Along the way, I asked Fr. Jude to pray for both Lance and me as I stepped into this new journey. I would text him periodically for prayers and send emails with articles about Lance or a poem I had written.

Go to Mary. She knows what you’re going through. 

She knows what it means to lose her son to state-sanctioned death. She knows a pain only a mother can know, one of the deepest pains I can only imagine. She knows the heartache. She understands the suffering. Go to Mary. She understands.

In reading more about Our Lady of Guadaulpe, I am struck by the words she says to Juan Diego, a poor humble Aztec Indian. She says, “I am your merciful Mother. The merciful Mother of all of you who live united in this land, and of all mankind, of all those who love me. Here I will hear their weeping, their sorrow, and will remedy, and alleviate all their multiple sufferings, necessities and misfortunes.” 

Here I will hear their weeping, their sorrow, and will remedy and alleviate.
Here, she will hear our weeping, our sorrow.

I’ve been keeping my photo of Lance and the handwritten note he gave me during our visit in a plastic folder. Inside are post-it notes with Bible verses Lance told me to read, along with a few reflections I wrote after our conversations. I keep it on my desk to hold his presence close and to remind myself to pray.

In October, I traveled from Washington, DC to Missouri to be present at a vigil held outside of Bonne Terre Prison as the state took Lance’s life. I was welcomed with such generous hospitality by a community of sisters in St. Louis. Their home felt restful and restorative in a moment of sadness and unease. In my room, a credenza held a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. After the vigil and Lance’s execution, I returned to that room exhausted but feeling that I had to place Lance close to her. 

Go to Mary, she knows what you are going through. 

Feeling the loss of Lance, I put him at the feet of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There was also a deep sense of peace and comfort in placing Lance at the foot of Mary, because in my heart I knew she understood what it meant to lose a son. Fr. Jude knew, too, that Our Lady would bring comfort and solace to me.

Go to Mary, she knows what you are going through. 
Here I will hear their weeping, their sorrow, and will remedy and alleviate.

At the vigil, there was weeping and sorrow but there was also laughter. There was prayer and there was storytelling. There were babies, young and old, people who were family, attorneys, and friends — and there were strangers. It is here that Our Lady of Guadalupe will remedy, and alleviate all their multiple sufferings, necessities, and misfortunes.

On my way back to DC, I arrived at the airport very early. It had been a busy, emotional few days, and I hadn’t had a chance to be alone and truly quiet. I saw the sign for the airport chapel and decided to go in. The room was simple — chairs, prayer rugs, Bibles, Qurans, and other prayer resources. I pulled out the Post-it notes from my conversations with Lance and read the Scripture passages he had told me to read; they were from St. Paul, writing from prison.

I could finally take a breath and be still. There was a basket of rosaries, mostly the plastic, beaded kind you usually see in the back of a church. But there was one beautiful gold rosary. I held it in my hands and prayed. I prayed those Hail Marys, calling on Our Lady to be with me. I experienced peace and gratitude for that moment in the chapel.

Go to Mary, she knows what you are going through. 
Here I will hear their weeping, their sorrow, and will remedy and alleviate.

I took the rosary home, feeling it brought me comfort and served as a reminder to continue praying for Lance. I keep it on my desk, next to his picture. Once I was back at work and settled in, I looked again at the gold rosary. I hadn’t noticed it before, but suddenly the image on the medallion stood out to me — it was Our Lady of Guadalupe. 

Seeing her image filled my heart, and in that moment I felt a grace knowing that she knows what I am going through, is hearing my weeping and sorrow, and will remedy and alleviate it.

I texted Fr. Jude a picture of the rosary after noticing it had the same image of Our Lady of Guadalupe as the one where I had laid the photo of Lance. I shared how much consolation it gave me knowing that Lance is being embraced by Our Lady of Guadalupe. He immediately texted me back a picture of his rosary, another way of him saying, Go to Mary, she knows what you are going through. 

I have a deeper devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe now; not so much because of her story at Tepeyac, but because of this deeper understanding of her as our merciful Mother. A Mother who knows the deep pain and sorrow of state-sanctioned death, but also a Mother who hears the weeping of her children and brings comfort and solace.

Go to Mary, she knows what you are going through.
Here I will hear their weeping, their sorrow, and will remedy and alleviate.

Two weeks ago, I sent Fr. Jude a text: Love you so much. Putting you in the hands of our Lady. 

Fr. Jude passed away on Nov. 18th. Now I imagine Lance and Fr. Jude being together, under the wonderful embrace of our Lady.

Go to Mary, she knows what you are going through. 
Here I will hear their weeping, their sorrow, and will remedy and alleviate.

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