I knew I was out of my league when she came barreling toward me.  She weighed at least as much as I did, and she was much more passionate in her goal than I was in mine.  She wanted out, and, seeing her come toward me, I wanted out too, out of the way.

My brother-in-law or husband—I don’t remember which—saved me.  They hadn’t been foolish enough to leave me in charge of something so important as the escape route the sheep were bound to take. 

I was the observer, the chronicler, the wanna-be.  I held the camera, spooking the sheep with my flash; I interrupted the sheep talk with questions and observations that were inconsequential; I spoke too loudly in the calm of the barn.  One of them came over and caught the ewe. 

They made it look easy, but I wasn’t fooled.  There was no way I was going to be able to do that.  If not for the gates and the men around me, my participation in the activities in our barn would have ended then.

When you live on a farm with animals, you gain an appreciation for gates as more than just ways in and out of a space.  When you have other beings—in our case, a group of sheep—who think the way out is an interesting diversion, that gate becomes a critical point. 

A poorly anchored gate can mean hours of angst, even if no animals actually escape.  Once, we had a near-calamity after we had a burn pile in the back pasture for a few hours, to get rid of the piles of scrap wood and burnable junk that accumulate at the speed of light.  My husband forgot to tie the gate securely. 

Sheep are different than some other animals in that they don’t always plot for escape; they’ll follow well enough, but as long as the sheep with the initiative is in check, it’s usually OK.  But one of the ewes—we called her Nosy Rosy for a reason—noticed the opportunity, and there were some panicked phone calls that afternoon when someone noticed sheep near the road by our house.

Gates are as much a part of life in my farmhouse as they are in the barn.  Leave the gate down at the bottom of the stairs and the toddler’s likely to test her climbing abilities. 

Gates can mean the difference between walls in new parish facilities being decorated with red (non-washable!) crayon and the neutral color they’re supposed to be.  A gate can be the way the toddler is kept away from others or a hurdle for those tall enough (or lazy enough?) to attempt to leap over it.

A gate can be an entrance, a welcome sight after a weary journey.  When the prodigal son saw the gate of his father’s property, imagine the relief he felt.  A gate can also be a barrier, a protection from the danger outside.  In ancient cities, the gates were closed at night and the city was safe from harm.  In software parlance, a gateway enables different types of communication between computer networks. 

Mary was first addressed as the Gate of Heaven centuries ago.  The most obvious reason is that it was through her body that Jesus came to His life here on earth.  Jesus was born of her and after carrying Him for nine months—just as I carried my children—she gave birth.  She held Him in her arms and introduced Him to the world.  She was a critical part of the Incarnate Christ, and as such, she can be an essential part of the person I become.

Mary is the entrance for me, the prodigal daughter, to my Father’s House.  She stands there, arms wide open, assuring me that yes, He is running down the road to meet me.  It is her, my Heavenly Mother, who I see first when I come Home.  Her love for me stretches beyond the gate’s entrance and beckons me to continue on my journey, to stay on the road home.

Is Mary trying to keep me away from something dangerous?  When my toddler threw herself against the gate at the top of the stairs with a delighted scream, I saw an image of myself, throwing myself against the greatest temptation I face and resisting it, thanks to Mary’s intercession.  Perhaps I can imagine Mary praying for me as a protective gate between me and the dangers of Satan, keeping me from giving in when I’m not strong enough otherwise.

I have sometimes, in my experience with Mary in my everyday life, throughout the ordinary duties and obligations, felt a moment of “come and see!” out of nowhere.  It might be a thought that just pops into my head, a prayer that runs through my mind, a song that starts skipping through my conscious like a scratched CD. 

She’s acting as my gateway, giving me a glimpse of the life outside myself, beyond my understanding.  When I’m pleading for a special cause, I go to Mary and I imagine her going directly to her Son and saying, in language far better than mine, more suited to the heavenly realm, “Listen, this is what my daughter needs.  You have to help her.” 

When I feel the comfort of her arms, the assurance of her love, the knowledge of her mediation, it’s then that the Gate of Heaven seems the most beautiful place to be.

I can look to Mary, Gate of Heaven, peer at her from my everyday struggles, and see the rays of heaven shining through.  She does not block God, but leads me to Him.

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