Monday Morning Catholic: Holy Cross

On our pilgrimage this summer, I photographed nearly everything.
Mary, Our Lady of just about everything.
The Sacred Heart of Jesus, aflame with love.
Joseph, steadfast and quiet. Dutiful and loving. Terror of demons.
All the Saints—St. Jude, St. Thérèse, St. John Paul II.

I captured the glow of stained glass,
a thousand colors spilling heaven’s light.
I took all the photos—
except of the Cross.

Not one.
And only now do I notice.

My eyes are always drawn there first.
In every church, the crucifix calls me.
At Mass, I lift my gaze toward it,
prayers rising with each glance.
I study its lines, the artist’s choices,
the wounds carved with devotion,
the story it holds of suffering and salvation.
I meditate, I venerate, I pray—
and yet, I never raise my camera.

Why?

I asked Lizz if she had taken any.
She had dozens.
Her surprise response to my inquiry: “Not even one?”

And it’s true.
The only photos of the Cross in my camera roll
are the ones my son sent to me this summer.

But mine? Nothing.

Perhaps it is because
the Cross is true love poured out for our salvation
that no lens can frame its weight,
the suffering, and its beauty.
The Cross is not an image to be possessed,
but a mystery to be encountered.
I cannot hold it in pixels.
I can only behold it in awe.

On this Feast of the Holy Cross,
I remember:
The Cross is victory over death.
The Cross is love poured out.
The Cross is invitation—
to follow, to suffer, to hope.

The world flees from it.
It despises suffering, despises loss.
But I do not turn away.
I gaze, I stay, I pray.
And in that gaze I find myself stilled—
humbled by the love that chose nails,
grateful for the mercy that bled,
awed that Jesus gave everything,
that I might live.

Today, after receiving the Eucharist,
I lingered longer,
eyes lifted to the Crucified One,
offering thanks in silence.

Maybe next time, I’ll take the photo.
Or maybe I’ll simply keep looking—
and let the Cross lead me deeper in prayer.

—Mary