When Love Lets Go

There are seasons for me when words come easily, and seasons when they do not. After some time away from writing, I find myself returning to this familiar space during Lent – a season that speaks of silence, surrender, and the slow workings of the heart.

This week I was drawn to a piece of artwork that I came across: Christ Taking Leave of His Mother by Piotr Stachiewicz, a Polish painter and illustrator who lived in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries. This image captures a quiet moment before suffering unfolds. It is not a dramatic scene, but an intimate one. It’s a mother and a son standing on the edge of what cannot be stopped.

Lent often feels like a threshold: a space between what was and what can be. What will be. A season that does not rush us past sorrow but asks us to sit within it, to hold it honestly, and to trust that love is still at work even when outcomes are beyond our control. In this painting, Mary cannot prevent what lies ahead for her Son. She can only remain close, hold Him, and entrust Him to the Father. Her presence is one of love without control, of faith in the face of loss. And it’s one that many of us know more intimately than we ever wished to.

Coming back to these reflections now feels less like resuming something, and more like continuing a journey. My own journey is one shaped by love, grief, and what I would maybe even call stubborn hope. So, now that Ash Wednesday has passed, let’s really get into the heart of the Lenten season and what it means for us.

Lent is a season of departure. It is a sacred turning of the heart toward Jerusalem, toward sacrifice, toward love that costs something. Stachiewicz’s painting captures a moment that the Gospels do not explicitly record, but which tradition has contemplated for a long time. It is a quiet, almost painful farewell between Jesus and Mary before His Passion. This scene, although imagined, really embodies the reality of Lent. It’s an embrace that knows suffering is coming, yet consents to it out of love.

I saw this painting earlier this week, but was drawn back to it after listening to Deacon Jack’s homily on Ash Wednesday. He talked of the Prodigal Son and how there is nothing in Scripture that tells us how long the son is away, or how old he is when he returns. It’s often an aspect of the story we take for granted, almost as much as this poignant moment that existed between Mary and Jesus. One that is never written about or explained, but one that most certainly happened.

The tenderness in the painting is really very striking. Jesus has this posture about him that is both resolute and compassionate. Mary’s expression reflects sorrow, but co-mingled with almost a peaceful surrender. Their hands are clasped together and are a visual symbol of obedience and love. There is also deep stillness in the image. There is no crowd. There are no soldiers. It is an intimate exchange before the public drama begins.

In keeping with yesterday’s Gospel reading from Matthew, the season of Lent should mirror this hiddenness. We are invited into quiet examination, prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. The painting reminds us that the Passion did not begin with nails, or thorns, or blood, or scourging. It began with a decision, a goodbye, and surrender of the heart.

For everyone at St. Pius X and our family and friends walking through Lent, let this image become an invitation. Where is Christ asking us to let go? What attachments, comforts, or fears must we release in order to follow Him? And can we, like Mary, remain close to Him even when discipleship feels like a great, deep loss? Stachiewicz’s work gently reveals that Lent is not merely about penance. It is about a love strong enough to endure separation, strong enough to trust that beyond Good Friday lies the promise of Resurrection.

Mary’s goodbye was not the end of the story. She will see Him again. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually only. But risen, glorified, and alive.  We cannot prevent what lies ahead. We cannot carry the crosses of others. And we cannot change the Father’s Will.  We can only love Him and let go.

Lent always moves toward Easter, even when the space between loss and hope feels endless.