Remember my suspicions that “my” [Merciful Mother] Mary was something else wearing that face so I could interact with her and without fear?
All the clues about her identity was written publicly. It just took sifting through two years of scattered shitposts to put them together. (The final clue was her insistence I meet her husband atop the burning holy mountain.)
My inner conspirator looks at the outer clues of how viciously the Vatican tried to destroy Marianism over the centuries and all the thousands of little shackles placed on what was accepted into the liturgy, and giggles viciously. Can’t stop love, baby.
I sat down with her at the source of the waters and asked her plainly if she was who I concluded she was. She smiled for a long while before asking me why I wasn’t running away.
“Is all you want from me, for me, is to be okay?”
“If I say it is, will you still accept me as your spiritual mother?”
“I would.”
“Then, I do.”
“Then nothing has really changed between us. I just know a little more than before.”
“Indeed. But I still want you to meet my husband.”
“Mom!”
The laughter was purifying and chased the last wisps of fear I had about her into the waters surrounding us, where they dissolved and only love remained.