Those Who Mourn

by Yvette Buller

There are seasons in life when grief settles over us like a fog — not dramatic, not loud, but persistent. It dulls the edges of everything. Prayer, which once felt natural, can begin to feel like speaking into an empty room. The words dry up. The silence stretches. And we wonder, quietly and sometimes shamefully, whether God is still there.

He is. But sometimes He sends someone to remind us.

“Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4)

Christ did not say perhaps they will be comforted, or eventually, or if they pray hard enough. He said they will be comforted. That promise is not passive. It arrives. It catches up with us — sometimes in the most unexpected of ways.

This is the story of how it caught up with me.

Eyes Closed, Heart Open

Have you ever experienced a guided meditation? If you have, you may already know the particular kind of vulnerability it requires — closing your eyes, quieting the noise, and simply following where the Spirit leads. If you haven’t, I want to invite you in gently, because what I am about to share may be the most personal thing I have ever put into words.

Not long ago, I participated in a guided imaginative prayer experience led by Sr. Miriam James. I had no idea what the Lord had in store for me when it began. I simply closed my eyes and followed her instructions. What happened next I later wrote about in my journal during Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. It came out as a letter to the Lord, and it went like this:

Dear Lord,

I imagined myself walking up on the levee in Metairie at Lake Pontchartrain. I’m wearing a light jacket — it feels like early spring. The sun is out, but there is a slight breeze with a little chill coming off the lake. As I walk, the Holy Spirit brings to my heart an area that has been distressing me.

As I continue walking, I notice that I hear someone behind me. I turn and look over my shoulder, and I see a beautiful lady. She is serene and noble and warm. She begins to speed up her pace until she is beside me. I recognize her as Mary, the Mother of Jesus — and my mother. On the opposite side of me is my earthly mother, grinning widely toward Mary.
I begin to think about the fact that, although I was an adult woman when my mother died, she was not around for my formation as a woman, a wife, and most importantly, as a mother. How could I have been better at those things without her by my side? And although Mary has always been there, I didn’t recognize her. It seemed she was too far away.

As she walks with me, she is kind and loving — reverent, humble, and noble. And there is my mom, still silent, still grinning, holding on to my arm. Mary is the woman I long to imitate — faithful, humble, receptive to God’s will, and full of grace. She is the one who cherishes me and sees me.

From that place, I share with her the area of my heart where the distress lives. She is not overwhelmed by me, or frustrated, or in a hurry. She just receives me with gracious love, kindness, and truth. Her expression toward me is one of care, tenderness, and gentleness. And I tell her the whole story — everything.

She slows down. I slow down. She stops. I stop. She gently turns toward me and gazes upon my face. I am amazed that I have a mother — a woman — who fully receives and blesses me and honors me.

She takes my hand and I follow her. In the distance I see a small building with a fire burning outside. She leads me there — to a stable. She takes me through the door of the little building. Inside, there is a man — young, strong, and good — holding a baby in his arms. As I walk in, he looks up and greets me with such joy. It is Joseph, and he has been waiting for me for a very long time. He invites me to sit beside him on the straw.

Joseph hands the baby to me. As I gaze upon Him, I see God — so frail and little, so trusting, so warm, and so open. I allow Him to transform every part of my life. I pray for the healing of my heart, the healing of my memories, the healing of my family and my relationships — that I would welcome Him into every facet of my life.

Thank You, Lord, for this time together. I ask that You bless and seal it in Your Precious Blood, in Your Holy Name, and that You continue to unfold all the beautiful miracles that are to come.

Through Christ our Lord, Amen.

Landscape with a waterfall and a Jetty on which two women and a child walk, Louise von Panhuys, 1791

What I Carried Away

My takeaway was simple and overwhelming at the same time: I was never alone.

Grief often convinces us that we have been abandoned. It tells us that everyone else has moved on, that no one truly understands, and sometimes even that God Himself has gone silent. Yet during that prayer, I realized that heaven had never been distant. The Lord had been caring for me all along, not only through His own presence, but through the love and prayers of those He had already welcomed home.

I had always thought highly of my mother — as a woman, as a mother, and as a deeply pious soul. She was not without her imperfections, as none of us are. But Mary, born without Original Sin, is as close to perfect as a human being has ever been or ever will be. And yet, in that meditation, both of them were beside me — one on each side — pointing me in the same direction.

This is what the Church means when she speaks of the Communion of Saints. Our loved ones who have died in God’s grace are not simply gone. They are alive in Him. They remain close to us, interceding for us, accompanying us — even when we cannot see or feel them. My mother’s grin toward Mary was not a farewell. It was a homecoming — and an introduction.

What moved me most was the image of Joseph handing me the Christ Child. God, represented in that moment by the humility and strength of the foster father, placed His Son in my arms. All I had to do was gaze upon His face to know the fullness of His love for me. And Mary and my mother — forever pointing me to Him.

My relationship with Christ is the one that needs the most tending. And when that relationship is nourished, all the others begin to fall into place.

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You Don’t Have to Find the Words

Some time ago, I came across old journal notes from a faculty retreat I had attended years earlier. A sister had placed a fresh-cut flower in each of our hands and guided us into silent reflection. I don’t remember her exact prompts, but I remember what the Spirit said through that simple gift of creation. Here is what I wrote:

Dear Father, the gift of Your love comes to me this morning through this beautiful flower. In the midst of life’s troubles and worries, this flower reminds me of the beauty that is mixed in. The soft, cool petals remind me of Your gentle way. The mixture of colors reminds me of the differences in the people that surround me — and how through You, we can all join together as one of Your creations. It reminds me that beauty, sweetness, and gentleness lie within our souls, and that with You, we can share these with others.

A flower. A levee. A stable full of straw. God does not require elaborate settings or polished prayers. He requires only an open heart — and sometimes, He sends someone to help us open it.

An Invitation

If you are in a season of mourning, this kind of prayer may feel far away. That is understandable. Grief is heavy, and not every day is the right day. But soon — not today if today is too hard, but soon — consider setting aside a quiet hour.

You might try this:

Find a still place. Close your eyes. Take a few slow breaths and ask the Holy Spirit to lead you. Imagine yourself somewhere familiar and peaceful — a place that feels like home to your heart. Begin to walk. And then, gently, invite the Lord to bring to mind someone you have lost. Don’t force it. Whether someone appears in your prayer or not is not important. The purpose is not to create an experience but to remain open to whatever the Lord desires to reveal. Just walk. And notice — is there someone beside you?

Guided meditations like this one are available through Catholic retreat centers, spiritual directors, and trusted Catholic resources. Ask your pastor or someone whose faith you admire for a recommendation. If you have the opportunity to attend a retreat, take it. These encounters don’t always arrive on our timetable — but they do arrive.

She caught up with me on a levee in my imagination, on a crisp Spring morning, with my mother grinning on my arm. And she led me straight to Him.

She will catch up with you too.

Grief is a universal experience. I invite those of you who are carrying different kinds of grief, not just the loss of a person, but the loss of a marriage, a friendship, a dream, a version of yourselves, to try this too. Mary accompanies us in all of it and points us in the direction of her Son where true healing and restoration can begin.

A prayer for your journey:

Dear Mary the Mother of God and my Blessed Mother, intercede for me with your Son. Tell Him that I am waiting; I have been waiting for a long time to recognize His presence in my life. He promised to be with me always, but I’m having a hard time trusting right now. Mary, I don’t know how to pray today. Walk beside me anyway. Amen.

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