“Are You My Mother?”

In one of our many small group conversations, a friend mentioned that God as a Father is a metaphor for God rather than a literal idea. Cancer played a dastardly trick on us, and I was never able to explore that idea with him any further, however that comment has been a lasting gift. It has nudged open even further this entity that I call God and jarred loose some rusted-shut hinges. The subconscious notion of a male God has steadily been dismantled over the years, but God as a Father remained as a sturdy, if not literal, image. To think of that image as a metaphor rather than literal was at first disorienting but then liberating and broadening.

With Mother’s Day around the corner, might this be a time to sit with other metaphors of God? A hen gathering her chicks perhaps? Or a woman’s continued search for her lost coin? How about a nursing mother? Or one who lifts an infant to their cheek and bends down to feed their little one?

Last year, my brother told me about this poem that he had heard, and I came across it again this year in my search for a Mother’s Day quote. If you’re given to contemplation and meditation, to ruminating and reflecting, I leave this poem (shared below) as an invitation to sit with and mull over, God as our Mother.

 

 

God Our Mother

~ By Allison Woodard

 

To be a Mother is to suffer;

To travail in the dark,

stretched and torn,

exposed in half-naked humiliation,

subjected to indignities

for the sake of new life.

To be a Mother is to say,

This is my body, broken for you,”

And, in the next instant, in response to the created’s primal hunger,

This is my body, take and eat.”

To be a Mother is to self-empty,

To neither slumber nor sleep,

so attuned You are to cries in the night—

Offering the comfort of Yourself,

and assurances of “I’m here.”

To be a Mother is to weep

over the fighting and exclusions and wounds

your children inflict on one another;

To long for reconciliation and brotherly love

and—when all is said and done—

To gather all parties, the offender and the offended,

into the folds of your embrace

and to whisper in their ears

that they are Beloved.

To be a mother is to be vulnerable—

To be misunderstood,

Railed against,

Blamed

For the heartaches of the bewildered children

who don’t know where else to cast

the angst they feel

over their own existence

in this perplexing universe

To be a mother is to hoist onto your hips those on whom your image is imprinted,

bearing the burden of their weight,

rejoicing in their returned affection,

delighting in their wonder,

bleeding in the presence of their pain.

To be a mother is to be accused of sentimentality one moment,

And injustice the next.

To be the Receiver of endless demands,

Absorber of perpetual complaints,

Reckoner of bottomless needs.

To be a mother is to be an artist;

A keeper of memories past,

Weaver of stories untold,

Visionary of lives looming ahead.

To be a mother is to be the first voice listened to,

And the first disregarded;

To be a Mender of broken creations,

And Comforter of the distraught children

whose hands wrought them.

To be a mother is to be a Touchstone

and the Source,

Bestower of names,

Influencer of identities;

Life giver,

Life shaper,

Empath,

Healer,

and

Original Love.

To answer P. D. Eastman’s question posed in that classic children’s book – “Yes, indeed, You are my Mother.”

(photo of our kids in the wheelbarrow was taken by Melissa Weber Photography)

 

 

 

Published by Judy

On the edge of Waterloo county, resting sedately on knoll, is an old stone house looking out towards the Grand River. This stone house and farm has been in my husband's family for years. We have been graced to call this place home for the last thirty years. Our best crop has been our four children. After years of immersing myself in raising and educating our family, the proverbial nest has slowing been emptying, opening up space for me to fill with other pursuits. Both writing and photography have been knit into my everyday living since I was very young. Sharing them is both a bit of a dream and a nightmare. But living small and in fear shrivels up a life. My thoughts are musings on God, aging, family, and simply living. My shelves are lined with books, my baskets are brimming with skeins of yarn, my closet shelves are stacked with apparel, my cellar shelves are chock full of home canning - all testaments to my inclinations. Our journeys are not solitary affairs. As I share bits of my journey with you, I hope you will be enticed to look more closely, listen more attentively, and live with abandon. May God's peace rest on your journey. Judy Mae Naomi

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