The Heart Will Go On

As I drove home from church in the deepening shadows of twilight, I decided to quiet my perpetually cycling stream of thoughts by playing Gregorian chants. As I skipped song after song, spending no more than a few seconds on each, for I could not find the one I wanted, I suddenly came upon a curious track in my Spotify-curated playlist: a Celtic Journey rendition of My Heart Will Go On. While I am a fan of romantic, rather cloying songs, I usually gravitate towards the rich, soul-lifting baritone of monks. Yet, for the first time, I allowed myself to truly consider and understand the meaning of the song:

Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
Once more, you open the door
And you’re here in my heart
And my heart will go on and on

While the speaker is mourning the loss of her beloved, I imagined the Virgin Mary, well on in years, living out her final days in Ephesus (where St. John the Evangelist allegedly took her), longing for the “You” who opened the door to her heart. According to Venerable Mary of Ágreda, the mystic to whom Our Blessed Mother entrusted the account of her life, Our Lady’s desire to reunite with her Son was such that she slowly pined away from love. Yet her heart went on for over a decade after the events of the crucifixion. After all, the survival of the new church hinged upon the assistance and instruction of the Mother of God.

“Love can touch us just one time and last for a lifetime,” croons out the lovely Irish lilt, “and never let go ‘till we’re gone.” Though unintentional, these words get to the heart of our relationship with Jesus Crucified—His merciful love lasts not just a lifetime but all through eternity. Once we experience a life-shaking encounter with Divine Love, our hearts never rest until they rest in Him, and He in them (for when He’s in our hearts, there’s nothing to fear, and we go on). If our hearts thirst for the fountain of life, imagine how much more did our Blessed Mother thirst for He whom she was deemed worthy to bear in her womb? Imagine her, in her old age, prostrate before a makeshift altar, a Fiat ready to burst forth from her lips, and desiring, always desiring, to be in the presence of her Beloved, but knowing her time was not come yet. He might have been spatially “far,” but spiritually, He dwelt in her heart.   

Even as I write this, I know words will never fully capture Our Blessed Mother’s suffering, unique as it was. I can’t capture her vulnerability and grief, the strength of her humanity, her dove-like tenderness. I view this as the greatest struggle I face as a Catholic writer: to put into words that which no “eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor human heart conceived.” On the other hand, a song, however imperfect, can embody the spirit of the moment, the overwhelming feeling of grief, but even that can never describe the intense sentiment of love which consumed our Blessed Mother unto dormition. 

Despite my weaknesses, I assure myself that God is not looking for the “best book ever written,” for even the Bible is written by sinful, albeit divinely inspired, men. He is just looking for the love we pour forth into it, for our dedication, and even the good intentions we direct towards it. God just wants us to glorify Him in any capacity we can, and all we can do is go on.

Image Copyright Museo Nacional del Prado