As the day of my communion into the Orthodox Church draws closer, I find myself doing things I never thought I would. I’m not just observing the traditions anymore—I’m beginning to live them. And with that comes something I used to scoff at: praying to Mary, the Theotokos.

Fasting, Prayer, and a Quiet House

Tonight, my wife is out of town on a work trip. I figured it was as good a time as any to begin fasting in preparation for the big day (plus, even the nicest restaurants around here don’t compare to her cooking—no offense to the locals). I also saw it as an opportunity to draw closer to Christ, to close the gap between where I am and where I want to be spiritually.

So here I am in my office, sitting in my chair, speaking to Mother Mary. I asked her to speak to her Son on my behalf—to ask Him to help me be a better husband, a better friend, a better brother. To help me strengthen my relationships with others. And in that moment, I realized how comfortable I had become in speaking to her.

From the start of my faith journey, I had a hard stance against that sort of thing. I remember reading in the Old Testament how Solomon’s brother tried to manipulate his way into royalty by asking their mother to intercede for him—specifically, to request the hand of Abishag, their father David’s former companion. As soon as Solomon heard the request, he had his brother executed. That story stuck with me. I took it as biblical evidence that going to the mother instead of the king wasn’t just wrong—it was dangerous. Why go to Mary, I thought, when I could go straight to Jesus?

What the Church Taught Me About Mary

After two years of attending Divine Liturgy, something changed. I’ve seen how the faithful revere Mary—not as a replacement for Christ, but as His mother, full of grace and intercessory love. Admittedly, it was this kind of devotion that once pushed me away. But the more I learned about the Church—the apostolic traditions preserved since the time of the apostles themselves—the more I came to understand that this wasn’t blind ritual. It was inheritance. Faith handed down. And in that faith, Mary has always had a place.

I thought about the miracles associated with her—most famously, the Miracle at Fatima, where she appeared to children and instructed them to pray the rosary daily. That kind of testimony is hard to ignore once your heart is open.

I began to think of Mary not just as Jesus’ mother, but as mine. Tonight, as I looked at her icon, I saw my own mother’s reflection staring back at me. I don’t know if my mom really believes in Jesus for who He says He is. And honestly, I’ve never been much of an evangelist—if I can’t even reach my own mother, how can I speak openly about it with any non-believer?

But if anyone has lived like a saint without knowing it, it’s her. She’s kind. She’s selfless. She doesn’t speak ill of others unless it’s truly earned. In that moment, I saw Mary in her—and her in Mary.

I speak to Mary the way I speak to my mom that’s what intercession is—not worship, not praying —but talking. That’s why I never say “Amen” after speaking to her. I just thank her, and move on with my day.

Lighting Candles, Remember Names

Then I looked below her icon to the one of Saint Michael the Archangel. I plan to take his name as my saint at communion. And while looking at his image, I don’t know what made me think of him but I had a brother, who I never knew—my dad’s firstborn son from a previous marriage.

You light candles when you first walk into an Orthodox church, they are for the deceased, you light them, make the sign of the cross, say a little prayer and place them in the sand. other than my Uncle Bobby, and my best friend Greg from high school, I haven’t had that many people who were close to me die, thank God (literally).

He died as a child, tragically falling down a flight of stairs. By the time my dad reached the hospital, they were drilling into his skull to relieve pressure. The doctors asked if he wanted to donate his son’s organs. My dad broke down. That moment shattered something in him.

He’d been raised Catholic, went to Catholic school, knew the Bible better than I do now. But he never recovered from that loss. It wrecked his faith. And in many ways, it shaped how I saw the world growing up. I was never baptized as a kid, we never spoke about God and the only time we attended a church was for a wedding and the time my family’s house burnt down when I was in the 8th grade.

Until tonight, I never thought to light a candle for that boy—my half-brother. But now I will. From now on, when I walk into church, I’ll light four candles: one for my uncle Bobby, one for my cousin Steven who lost his battle with addiction, one for my wife’s father, who passed the year before we met, and one for my brother.

Maybe he is part of Michael’s army now. Scripture says we will be like the angels. Maybe he already is.

There’s a balance in all of this. A cosmic order. Christ had to take on flesh, because only the infinite love of a divine being could truly redeem the infinite weight of human sin the only way to do this was through a human Mother, a blessed and perfect virgin. The God who became man did it out of love so deep it still echoes through icons, through candles, through talking to a mother who intercedes for all of us

And somehow, through all of this—these traditions, these ancient rhythms—I’ve come to understand the faith in a way I never could before.

Many Blessings – Sorrynomike