Bearing life through the cross

Someone once said to me that Catholicism seems rather bleak, noting that we are “worshipping a dead man” and daily contemplating “his broken body on the cross.” How, they wondered, could such an image offer comfort?

But the crucified Christ is not a symbol of despair—it is, paradoxically, a profound source of hope. For Catholics, the cross is not the end of the story. As Scripture affirms, “He is not here, for He has risen, as He said” (Matthew 28:6). Jesus’ death is not merely a historical tragedy but the supreme act of sacrificial love, through which He conquered sin and death. Far from worshipping a dead man, we proclaim a living Savior who, through His Passion, continues to dwell within us and transform our suffering into grace (Galatians 2:20).

As I approach the birth of my second child, I find myself drawn more deeply into this mystery. I think about what’s ahead — the contractions, the surrender, the moment I’ll have to let go and let my body do what it was made to do. And in that quiet anticipation, I realize: in my own little way, I too am preparing to lay down my body out of love. Labor, with its pain and surrender, becomes a reflection—a participation even—in the redemptive self-giving we see on the cross. And in that offering, I glimpse the heart of Christ’s love for us.

I’m also beginning to be drawn deeper in communion with Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. This time round, I not only know what pain there is to come in birth but I also have more to lose. I have already been blessed with a child, my beautiful son Theo, his life now bound to mine, so approaching this due date is all the more fraught with anxiety and mixed emotions (love and fear) which admittedly I’m finding hard to navigate.

In Gethsemane, Jesus prayed, “My soul is sorrowful even unto death” (Matthew 26:38), fully aware of the suffering that awaited Him. He did not run from it, but entered it willingly, out of love. In a way, I feel that same trembling anticipation. There is a quiet surrender that pregnancy requires, a willingness to be broken open for another.

The truth is, when we become pregnant, we must be willing to die—not only physically, though that risk is real, but in the daily, hidden ways we give of ourselves. Too dramatic? I don’t think so. For isn’t love always a kind of dying to self? And isn’t this exactly what Christ showed us—that in dying, we give life?

From the moment we conceive, we begin laying ourselves down. Our bodies stretch and ache. Our plans shift. Our time, our energy, our very identities begin to change. In many ways, maybe some not so obvious, we begin dying to self—so that another might live.

And this is not unlike the path Christ took. The more I reflect on it, the more I see this isn’t just my experience — it’s the shape of divine love itself. St. Paul writes, “Though He was in the form of God… He emptied Himself… becoming obedient unto death, even death on a cross” (Philippians 2:6–8). What an astonishing mystery—that the path of divine love is one of self-emptying. And in this light, the sacrifices of motherhood are not burdens to be resented, but holy ground: places where we are invited to walk with Christ, to love as He loves, and to be transformed.

Pregnancy, labor, the long nights with a newborn—these become opportunities not just for suffering, but for offering. United to Christ, even the hardest moments can bear fruit we don’t yet see.

So no, I don’t believe it’s too dramatic to say that becoming a mother is a kind of death. But in Christ, death is never the end. It is the seed of new life. And that is what comforts me most as I prepare to give birth again—not the absence of fear, but the presence of love that makes it all worth it. A participation in something greater. A “yes” that echoes Mary’s own fiat, and leads, like hers, to the birth of something holy.

Prayer for an Expectant Mother:

O my God, may the little unborn one who lies close to my heart grow strong and perfect, and serve the purpose for which he or she is to be born.

And if it be Thy holy will that we both survive this consummation of Thy handiwork, then give me, I pray, the grace to use with skill and understanding the great gift of motherhood.

And in the pains and anguish of birth, may I not be afraid, but brave and confident, lifting my eyes to heaven in thanksgiving that Thou hast allowed me to be an instrument of Thy love.

O Mother of all mothers, guide and protect me in my pregnancy. Help me to keep my mind and heart pure and free from sin, so that I may breathe and weave beauty and sacred thoughts into the soul of my little one.

Mary Mother of God, pray for us.

St. Gerard, pray for us.