Saint Helena: The Mother Who Found the Cross
In Cima da Conegliano’s 1495 painting of Saint Helena, she stands dignified and serene, crowned in gold, holding the True Cross upright like a staff. The background stretches into a quiet landscape of an open sky, soft hills, and distant ruins. There’s no battle scene, no elaborate setting. Just calm resolve and a woman who confident in the significance of what she has found.
It’s a fitting portrayal of someone who spent her later years searching for something most people wouldn’t even believe could still be found: the very cross on which Christ was crucified.
Helena’s story began far from palaces. She was born in the 3rd century, likely in modern-day Turkey, and by most accounts, came from humble roots. Eventually Constantius Chlorus, a Roman officer on the rise, entered her life and she gave birth to their son Constantine.
She was later dismissed when Constantius sought a more politically advantageous marriage, but her son would not forget her. When Constantine became emperor, he brought the once-discarded Helena to court and honored her not just as his mother, but with the title Augusta, a mark of imperial authority.
It was under Constantine’s rule that Christianity was finally legalized. And it was during this window when Christianity had space to breathe that Helena, well into her seventies, set out on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land not out of curiosity or as a pious accessory to her son's power. She went to seek Christ. She went to find the places where His feet had touched the earth.
And God allowed her to find more than just echoes or ruins.
Tradition tells us that Helena discovered the True Cross buried beneath a pagan temple in Jerusalem. When the wood of one cross brought healing to a dying woman, its identity became clear. Helena had found the cross of Christ. She ordered the temple destroyed and had churches built over the most sacred sites: Bethlehem, the Mount of Olives, and Golgotha itself.
In Cima’s painting, she doesn’t exactly appear triumphant. She isn’t climbing a hill or standing in victory. She is still. Watchful. Composed. The kind of woman whose strength has been forged over years of waiting, walking, and praying.
She doesn’t look like a queen. She looks like a mother.
She reminds us that motherhood is, at its core, a kind of pilgrimage. We don’t always know where the path will lead, and often, it doesn’t feel like we’re making progress. But like Helena, we keep walking. We search for what’s hidden. We ask questions. We keep our eyes open to grace. We pray to find Christ not just at the end of the road, but somewhere along the way.
Helena also reminds us that it’s never too late. Her greatest contribution to the Church apart from her son came in her final years of life! She didn’t ride her son’s fame or live in comfort. She gave her twilight years entirely to the service of the Gospel, and the Church remembers her not for the title Augusta, but as Saint. That distinction didn’t come from being in power. It came from seeking Christ in everything.
How often do we forget that the Cross is a gift? The world prioritizes glory, clarity, and ease. Meanwhile, Helena lifts the Cross like a banner. She found it, and instead of hiding it away, she holds it high, not in bitterness, but in reverence.
That nothing is wasted if it's offered. That Christ can be found, even now.
There’s something steadying about her image. She doesn’t clamor for attention. She simply reminds us to keep looking and make space for what’s holy. Her story asks us to believe that what we are doing—loving, searching, walking—is not unseen, and when you find Christ, to lift Him high.
She searched for the wood of Calvary so we wouldn’t forget what was done for us there. She searched so we would know what to behold. And she still stands, quiet and strong, reminding us to keep searching, too.
