By André (Duplechain) Polaniecki ’03

I grew up in small-town southern Louisiana, a place that is deeply Catholic in its roots and its history. In a culture where Catholicism is the norm, ordinary life is steeped in the rituals, traditions, and sacramentals of Catholic belief and custom. “Lenten specials” are served in restaurants on Fridays, Mardi Gras is a regional holiday, Catholic priests bless anything from crops to football helmets. The Virgin Mary is particularly special in the eyes of the Cajun people and the practice of placing a 

statue in one’s front yard or dedicating a grotto to her is commonplace. The gold star present on the Louisiana Acadian flag is an official symbol of Our Lady of the Assumption. And, of course, her intercession is invoked in some areas of Louisiana every day from June 1 until November 30 to ward off hurricanes.

It was in this cultural upbringing that I first nurtured a devotion to the Blessed Mother. I prayed the rosary with my family on most days of the week, and went to Mass on first Saturdays of the month. I knew all of the Catholic teachings on Mary, and visited several Marian pilgrimage sites with my mother. I was also more than comforted that after leaving home I would be attending a school with a nineteen-foot golden statue of the Mother of God as its most visible structure.

I am fairly confident that my devotion went beyond popular piety or an emotional cultural connection, but I couldn’t easily meditate on how Mary’s life choices could assist me in my faith journey on a deeper level.

This became harder when I had my first child. How could I relate my motherhood to that of the Mother of God? How could I look to the virtues of the Blessed Mother to emulate in my own vocation as a mother? She was without sin, and was chosen by God to carry and give birth to the redeemer of the world. She raised him with a husband privileged enough to die in the company of the only two sinless people on earth. She lived in a far-off place a very long time ago. Surely she didn’t struggle with Legos constantly strewn on the living room floor, a toddler who can’t seem to stay out of the toilet, and a work phone that will ring during supper at least three times a week. It was difficult for me to look at Mary and see someone to emulate as a mother—I only saw her perfection.

And then hope came. A reflection on the virtue of hope—how we call Mary our hope, especially the hope of sinners—allowed me to realize that it was my inability to deal with my sins and my shortcomings as a mother that prevented me from truly relating to Mary as a woman and as a mother.

Our faith teaches us that “Mary goes before us all in the holiness that is the Church’s mystery” (CCC 773). What God has brought forth through the “yes” of Mary is to be brought forth in us, in me. God wishes us to attain the perfection we see in Mary—her holiness, her joy, her simplicity. She is sign to us of our ultimate vocation: union with God. She is the mother who teaches us to love and trust in God’s mercy. She teaches us to hope in God’s promises.

My vocation as a mother is most fully realized by imitating Mary’s “yes,” by imitating her gift of self. Our Holy Father, Pope Francis, recently spoke of Mary as a mother who helps Christians grow, overcome life’s difficulties, and use our freedom to live responsible lives in service to the good. These are the virtues I wish to instill in my children. I want them to know, to love, and to serve God and others. Mary has shown us perfectly how to do that by opening up her very self to the grace and love of God.

Whenever I fail to serve my family, whenever my impatience gets the best of me or the laundry piles up, I know that I can look to Mary as my own mother who is pointing me to the grace of God, calling me to holiness.