"yonder and far over yet..."
these boys, these flashes of eternity that sleep beside me, they smell of the bath, of mother milk, of transluscent baby skin and silken, shining hair. the trees on the other side of the glass are tapping at us, the wind pulling them up and over in large swallows. i feel my entire person swell with the squall outside. i'm afraid and overjoyed all at once. who am i to be their mother? to be the caretaker of their bodies, their spirits, their lives as they learn to live and fulfil the chief end of man? i linger in the bed, praying over them, praying for mercy on their souls, for the love of Jesus to overwhelm them. i repent of my own failings this day, for not listening, for letting my tongue spew out unkindness, for not teaching them with gentle hands, for requiring these boys to keep the Law as i myself drown in the Grace.
i am the mother given to them, it was destined to be this way, no matter the inability i feel. from the first mysterious twinklings felt in the beginning, when my clothes weren't fitting anymore, when they were tight in places i didn't expect, i knew myself to be inadequate. worried, i would lie in the bed feeling the sickness, the churning in my stomach flinging waves upward. this baby was somewhere below all of that motion, an ocean of acidic swirlings over his head. the baby was tiny, near microscopic. i was glad, satisfied, as i imagined him in shades of pink and red, his eyes beginning to take shape, his fingerprints cobwebbing his own identity, his legs exchanging their kicking for floating as he listened for the first time to the beating of my heart.
henry was born and before he did much else, he stared at this mama, boring holes into the bluest streaking of my eyes with his own black pools. he was a big baby, even people who love me hurt me with their endless words about the largeness of henry. regardless, he was a tiny bundle to me, and the summer after his birth was spent sniffing his head, whispering wishes into his ears, crying over the terrifying peaks of responsibility that were housed in the little person sleeping, nursing, crying, staring upward at me; laughing in spite of myself at the herioc felicity motherhood had brought to me.
jude came later, a brother for henry. it was hot that night, the humidity lapping at us with a long sticky tongue. the rain spat out a warning. i rode in the car and i knew that something was wrong. jude came too early. there was blood and emergency. the indian doctor who was there as a precaution came near to my face, near enough to kiss, with his brown wrinkled forehead, his large glasses, his waving black hair. he reassured me that all was well and i could only cry. my tears, tornadic, hesitant, relieved, were confused, cognisant of the frailty of human life, that life itself is a true gift that cannot be purchased, can only be given. again i felt overwhelmed, unable, strangely joyous. how will i pass this on to these children? how will i ever communicate to them that the human life is a gift, and that, beyond the gift of humanity, is the eternal gift of life through Grace?
i know myself to be inadequate, fearful; i know myself to be strong and invincible. perhaps it's a part of the Mercy, to feel weak and strong all at once in order that we persevere. is this a manifestation of power being made perfect in weakness? is this the increase of strength given to those who are faint and weary? is this why i can love being a mother? is this why i can wake up in the morning with more love for the thick and thin of it than i had yesterday?
the boys lie still in the bed, dreams have overtaken them for now. soon they'll be awake again and move with electric carbonation. abnormally beautiful indeed.
deeper yet than ever, child...
-Submitted by Mollie Greene for the Mother's Day Contest.
posted by Crystal Paine at 12:02 PM
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