Saint Monica: The Mother Who Wept a Saint Into the Church
Monica’s life was marked by sorrow. Married to a pagan man with a violent temper, she endured cruelty in silence, clinging to Christ in prayer. When her husband at last converted before his death, it was her patience that won him.
But her greatest cross was her son, Augustine. Brilliant and restless, he mocked her faith, lived in sin, and chased false philosophies. He slipped away to Rome, then Milan, trying to outrun both God and his mother’s tears. But her prayers followed him everywhere.
One bishop, seeing her weeping, told her: “It is not possible that the son of so many tears should perish.” Those words proved true. In Milan, Augustine was pierced by the preaching of Saint Ambrose and by the living Word of Scripture. At the Easter Vigil of 387, he surrendered and was baptized.
Soon after, in the port city of Ostia, Monica knew her mission was complete. She turned to her son and said:
“Son, for myself, I have no longer any pleasure in life. What I am still to do here, and why I am here, I do not know—now that my hopes in this world are accomplished. My God has granted this: to see you a Catholic before I die.”
Shortly after, she closed her eyes and went home to God.
Her tears had birthed a saint. Augustine of Hippo—Doctor of the Church, writer of Confessions, one of the greatest minds in history—was the harvest of a mother’s unyielding prayer.
The mother prayed. The son rose. The Church was changed forever.
🌹 Augustine on His Mother Monica
“I cannot speak of You, Lord, without remembering her—my mother, Your faithful handmaid. She wept for me more than mothers weep for the deaths of their children. Her tears poured before You like an offering, day and night, until You heard her.
She never ceased to pray for me. At all hours her devotion rose to You, and her petitions entered into Your presence. When her heart was troubled for my soul, Your servant Ambrose comforted her, saying: ‘It is not possible that the son of so many tears should perish.’
At the end of her life, she asked nothing for herself, not even the place of her burial. She said only: ‘Lay this body anywhere; let not the care of it trouble you. Only this I ask: remember me at the altar of the Lord.’
I will never forget that it was through her that I was born twice—once to this passing world, and again through her prayers to eternal light. Truly, Lord, You did not despise the tears of Your servant. For through her, You showed me Your mercy.”
“My brother, sister, and I learned suffering early when we lost our beautiful mother to suicide. That wound shaped me in ways I cannot count. Yet I have learned that God always takes what is painful and, in His time, turns it into joy. Pain into joy — that is the mystery of the Cross, and the promise of Christ.”
A heartfelt reflection on why Catholics keep the Crucifix — not an empty cross — at the center of faith. Far from a symbol of defeat, the Crucifix reveals the meaning of suffering, the depth of God’s love, and the courage to face death with hope.
Dear Friend,
Most of the world runs from suffering. We medicate it, disguise it, or pretend it doesn’t exist. And when death comes near, many are terrified — as if it’s the ultimate defeat. But in the Catholic faith, suffering is not a dead end. It is a doorway.
Why the Crucifix Must Remain Before Us
The Resurrection is victory, yes. But the Crucifix is indispensable.
We need to see Christ on the Cross because it reveals what we too easily forget: suffering has meaning.
Step into a Catholic hospital chapel and what do you find? A quiet light, a kneeler, and a Crucifix. That Crucifix is the heartbeat of the place. It tells every patient, every nurse, every family member in silence: You are not alone in your pain. He has been here first. He is with you now.
An empty cross leaves us gazing into mystery. But the Crucifix shows us the cost of love — and the courage to embrace suffering rather than flee from it.
Why Suffering Matters for the Soul
It unites us to Christ. St. Paul wrote: “I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I complete what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions for the sake of His body, the Church” (Col. 1:24). Christ’s Cross is perfect. Yet our sufferings, offered with His, become part of His redeeming work.
It strips away illusions. Ease and comfort make us forget our fragility. Pain burns away pride and illusions of control. It returns life into God’s hands.
It teaches love. Real love always suffers. Parents lose sleep for their children. Spouses endure hardship together. Friends sacrifice for one another. The Crucifix is love to the very end — love that bleeds and never turns away.
It redeems death. Without Christ, death is darkness. With Him, death is transformed — no longer an enemy, but a passage into life. Even suffering before death becomes a preparation, a final offering of ourselves to God.
For Those Who Fear Pain or Death
It is natural to fear. But fear loses its grip when you realize the Cross is not tragedy, but triumph.
Every thorn, every nail, every wound was chosen out of love for you.
Keeping the Crucifix before our eyes is not dwelling in sorrow — it is remembering that God has already entered the worst of human suffering and filled it with Himself. This is why even in cancer, grief, or our final breath, peace is possible.
The Crucifix as Our Companion
Think again of that hospital chapel.
A patient shuffling in with an IV pole. A family member with tear-stained eyes. A nurse pausing between shifts.
Each looks at the Crucifix and sees the same truth: This is not meaningless. This is not wasted. He is with you.
The Crucifix is not a decoration. It is a mirror. It shows us what love looks like, and it teaches our souls that suffering embraced in love leads to resurrection.
For those who fear suffering: you do not carry it alone. Christ has already carried it to the end.
For those who fear dying: He has gone before you, and He has promised, “I go to prepare a place for you” (John 14:2).
So keep the Crucifix before your eyes. It is not just wood and metal. It is the heartbeat of our faith, the key to our courage, and the assurance that love is stronger than death.
I once knew a woman facing life-threatening surgery. She had seen my crucifixes — I carved the wood, and the Sisters of the Holy Cross painted the body of Christ by hand. She asked for one to hang on her recovery wall.
“I want it to be the first thing I see if I wake again,” she told me.
That is the power of the Cross of Christ. The most cherished of all Christian symbols.
If you have passed it by, take another look. It is not defeat. It is love stretched to the very end — and the door through which eternal life has already been won.
In the early 3rd century, the Church in Rome was shaken by deep theological disputes. Hippolytus, a brilliant priest and theologian, accused the popes of being too lenient toward Christians who had lapsed under persecution. He especially opposed Pope Callixtus I and his successors, eventually setting himself up as what history calls the first antipope—leading a rival Christian community in Rome.
Hippolytus’s opposition was not a matter of personal ambition alone; he was zealous for purity in the Church. Yet, in that zeal, he allowed division to grow. Pope Pontian, elected in A.D. 230, inherited this rift. He was a humble, steady leader who sought to guide the Church through ongoing persecution by the Roman Empire, especially under Emperor Maximinus Thrax.
Exiled Together
In A.D. 235, both Pope Pontian and Hippolytus were arrested in a wave of persecution and exiled to the mines of Sardinia—infamous for their brutal conditions. The emperor may have thought this would silence them; instead, it became the setting for one of the most beautiful reconciliations in Church history.
In the harsh labor and suffering of the mines, Pontian and Hippolytus—once enemies—found themselves side by side. Faced with the nearness of death, their theological quarrels lost their sting. They began to speak, to pray, and to forgive. Tradition tells us that Hippolytus renounced his schism and was reconciled to the Catholic Church under Pontian’s authority.
A Shepherd’s Last Act
Knowing he would never return to Rome, Pontian did something extraordinary for the good of the Church: he resigned as pope in September 235—the first pope in history to step down voluntarily. This act ensured the faithful in Rome could elect a new shepherd while he and Hippolytus faced martyrdom in exile.
Both men died in the mines from the brutality and harsh conditions—martyrs not only for Christ but for unity in His Church.
One Tomb, One Witness
Their bodies were later brought back to Rome and buried with honor. The once-bitter rivals now rest as reconciled brothers, their lives a powerful testimony that in Christ, no division is beyond the reach of grace.
Legacy
Pope Pontian and St. Hippolytus remind us that:
Truth matters, but charity must never be abandoned.
Division wounds the Body of Christ, but reconciliation glorifies God.
Suffering can break pride and heal the deepest rifts.
Their joint feast day is celebrated on August 13—a date when the Church rejoices not in their disagreements, but in their unity at the end.
At eight years old, I stood in a small, dimly lit room with my father and grandfather. A soft yellow light shone over my mother, who had just taken her own life. That room has never left me—it lives deep within my soul.
My father was only twenty-eight. He had made a grave mitake. Eight years later, what became my mother’s final, tragic act was also, perhaps, her inability to forgive him. That final lack of forgiveness cost us our mother.
My heart goes out to all the beautiful souls in this world who, despite their failures, find the strength to get back up, face the pain they’ve caused, and ask to be forgiven. And to those who have been hurt by others but still choose to forgive—I see you. I pray for you. I walk beside you.
To my mother and father, to my family and friends, to those I have let down—I carry a room for each of you in my heart. Even for those who can’t ask for forgiveness—or can’t give it—there is a place. A sacred space where the cold clarity of this world begins to thaw in the presence of Christ.
Because above all, there is God. Through Jesus, we are shown a whole new way to live—with each other, for each other—if we first live in Him. Peace and victory in Jesus are near to every soul. No one should ever give up on life, or on one another, no matter how heavy the burden may feel.
Getting to know the Gospel—getting to know Jesus—opens a colossal door for those in deepest need. If only they’d give Him a chance. If only they’d open that door.
Just as the planets revolve around the sun in perfect harmony, so too can we, as God’s children, learn to live in the light—rotating around Jesus, the true Son, the radiant ray of God.
A Garden, a Grandpa, and Grace
One beautiful spring Sunday morning in rural Sacramento, I was heading to the Mormon Church with my grandmother and brother. I went to find my grandpa—my anchor—to ask him why he wasn’t coming with us.
He was important to me. Not just because he spoke to me when others didn’t, or shared peanuts with me while staring at the stars, but because he and I stood in that room. I remember him putting his arm around me and telling me it was okay to cry. He was crying. My father didn’t say much—what could he say? But even in silence, he was there. And he was welcome.
Sometime after my mother’s death, I found my grandfather in his garden and asked why he didn’t go to church. He replied, “I’m just not good enough, Richy.”
I was stunned. If he wasn’t good enough, then neither was I. So I stopped going. That garden became my church. And my father’s love—shining down from heaven—reached me through that man’s tender presence.
When I was sixteen, my grandfather had a stroke. A week later, he asked me to help him into the garden. He pulled just one weed. Then we staggered back to the house. The next day, he was gone.
The Room, the Cross, and Coming Home
Thirty-two years and many struggles later, my new Catholic faith brought me back to that same room where my mother had laid. Over the years, I’ve come to understand: we won’t find a home, a church, or a place on this earth that protects us from sin. The Church is not a sanctuary from imperfection—it is a battlefield. At its core stands the Great Physician. At its heart is forgiveness.
In that room with the soft yellow light—where pain seemed to swallow peace—I’ve come to know true peace.
Because from that room, there is a hallway. It leads to the heart of every home, to the soul of every person. And in that room stands a cross. Our Savior.
At the foot of that cross, you want to bring everyone you’ve ever loved—or hated. Everyone you’ve hurt, and who has hurt you. You want to gather them all at the feet of Jesus and take a long, honest look at what He has done—and is still doing—for each of us.
The cross divides heaven and earth. On one side, a crucified Savior pierced by a beam of soft yellow light—a path of hope for the lost. On the other side, the brilliant light of God, exposing the pit from which we are saved.
Original Sin, Original Blessing Reflection by Fr. Henri J.M. Nouwen
Somehow, original sin—that deep inner anguish and brokenness even beyond our own doing—can become the very place where we encounter our original blessing.
Somehow, our broken father, our limited mother, our neurotic brother, our confused sister, and our own inner struggles give birth to a hunger for something beyond the pain. “My soul is restless,” St. Augustine writes, “until it rests in You, O Lord.”
When we begin to know God’s intimacy, and to accept others—and ourselves—as we are, we begin to speak of “happy guilt” or “happy brokenness.” Our struggles become the very path to truth, to light, to life.
How could we ever become children of God—embraced by the love of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit—if God had not shown us compassion in our very brokenness?
It is through Jesus’ incarnation that we learn of God’s inner life. And it is in our fragile, mortal flesh that God’s original blessing is revealed.
