Queen of the night.

I've become accustomed to falling asleep to the words of the Hail, Holy Queen. In my dark room, I offer this prayer of lament and find hope in its promise of deliverance.

Many years ago, I began saying the night prayer from the Liturgy of the Hours. I read it in bed by the light of my nightstand lamp. At the conclusion of the prayer, the ritual offers the option of saying one of several different prayers addressed to Mary, including the Hail, Holy Queen.

   Hail, Holy Queen, mother of mercy,
   our life, our sweetness, and our hope.
   To you do we cry,
   boor banished children of Eve.
   To you do we send up our sighs,
   mourning and weeping in this vale of tears.
   Turn then, most gracious advocate,
   your eyes of mercy toward us,
   and after this exile,
   show to us the blessed fruit of your womb, Jesus.
   O clement, 0 loving,
   O sweet Virgin Mary.

At first I avoided this option, in part because of a commentary calling the Haft, Holy Queen an example of a "bad" prayer. The commentator objected to its stern and pessimistic view. He believed that the assumption underlying the prayer is that life is a continual misery.

A few years later I attended the funeral of a priest friend who had died unexpectedly at a young age. Father Tom was a serious scholar and teacher who had a very healthy attitude. He had one of the most delightful (some would say devious) senses of humor I have ever encountered. He knew how to appreciate life and all that it offered. He was comfortable with contemporary theology and also appreciated traditional church doctrine and practices.

At the conclusion of the homily, a priest spoke about a custom that was faithfully followed whenever Tom was present. At the end of a gathering of clergy, whether it was formal or informal, Tom insisted that they chant the Hail, Holy Queen in Latin as they had done in the seminary.

The homilist then invited those present who knew the Latin version to say farewell to Tom one last time by joining in the chant. The final lines--a slow and complex series of notes that perfectly fit the Latin words and the mood of the prayer--was a memorable moment for all those present.

Remembering that day, I occasionally began to choose the Hail, Holy Queen as I continued to say my night prayer by the light of my lamp. Later I experienced health problems that made it painful to read in bed, so I left out the reading of the psalm designated for any particular evening and simply recited the night prayer by memory using the same psalm each night. By doing this, I could say the prayer without the need of the book or the light. I became accustomed to falling asleep to the final words of the Hail, Holy Queen.

During that time of pain in my life, the earlier analysis of the prayer no longer seemed valid to me. In coping with my illness, I came to learn that life is a balance. Contrasting moods and attitudes are part of the journey that God has prepared for us. To deny the pain of life and concentrate only on its joys is to deny the reality of mortality. To focus only on the pain and temporary nature of life on earth is to forget the wonders of God and the blessings he gives to us, his most loved creatures. We need to remember both the pain and the joy every day. My health has improved, but I continue my custom of praying in the dark by memory. In the darkness of my room, I offer the prayer of lament and find hope in its promise of eventual deliverance.

This mystery of light in the darkness is a final affirmation to me that we are meant to live in the ebb and flow of God's great mystery. We are destined to experience both joy and sorrow until that day when Mary shows to us the blessed fruit of her womb, Jesus, in whom no darkness or contradiction can exist. On that day, we will realize that Mary is indeed a clement, loving, and sweet mother worthy of praise as a Holy Queen.

MARY ANN PERGA, an attorney and writer in Wisconsin and a columnist for the Superior Catholic Herald.