To the Moms

    This is to those of you that struggle to fill the role of mother. Those that question if they are doing the right thing. Those that feel they are never enough. 
    This is to the moms who do not grow a garden and feed their children green beans canned by a far-away factory. This is to to the moms who buy bread, already sliced, from the local grocery. This is to the moms whose birthday cakes bake on a slant, whose frosting globs in the corners, whose birthday gifts sometimes come late.
    This is to the moms who do not feel like they do a good enough job. The ones who failed to get the new dress finished in time for the field trip. The ones whose daughters sometimes have worn ill-fitting hand-me-downs, the ones who only know one way to braid hair. 
    This is to the moms who didn't dust the mantle last week. The ones who haven't defrosted the freezer for, well, it's a bit embarrassing to say. The one whose fridge needs wiping out. This is for you.
    This is to the moms who have failed with their children. The one who left the gate unlatched and found your toddler wandering near the pond behind the house. The one whose child gets in trouble at school. The one whose teenager has gone astray. 
    This is to the moms that struggle with their imperfections. The ones that question why they have children when they make so many mistakes. The ones that have taken in the child some other woman did not want or could not keep and find themselves dismayed and overwhelmed at the load they are carrying, because this is so different from what they expected. And the ones with special children who cannot walk or cannot talk or whose brains are wired differently, and take more time, more understanding, more sacrifice than they knew they had to give.

    This is to you. 

    This is because mothers are always a reason to celebrate.

    Maybe you do have things you need to work on: patience, consistency, taking time to play with your children, to teach them to work. But you are also in this place for a reason. God has given you this place to fill, knowing full well you did not have every ability, every gift to be the "Perfect Mother." At least, not the kind of perfect you've imagined. But He has given you what you need for this job. Because Motherhood is a job.

    It is also a high calling.

    And you are the chosen one. 

    No, you do not have every gift, every talent. But you have enough. 

    Not only that, He has promised to be with you. He will guide you and lead you and listen to you.

    Maybe you don't bake cinnamon rolls every Saturday. Maybe there are weeks when your house gets a lick and a promise. Maybe you struggle to get your family out of the house on time. But maybe that's OK. Maybe, if you're doing you're best, you are enough. Maybe your imperfections are part of how you were created. 

    Perhaps your gift is to teach your child to be empathetic. Perhaps your talent is to raise an artist, an author, a dreamer. Perhaps your ability lies in raising a child that is compassionate and confident and secure.

    Because sometimes those things are just as important as growing a garden. Because every mother is not going to excel in every area. Because you are enough, and this is to you.

    Happy Mother's Day!

Using Up

     Pretty notecards in my desk drawer, stickers I bought years ago to use for a long-forgotten scrapbook, neat buttons that caught my fancy, my favorite tin of tea, the thick, creamy lotion I harbor, rationing it like World War II women rationed sugar and nylons, gift cards waiting inside my wallet: The idea of owning all these things brings a smile to my face. I like perfection, and the clean notebook pages are just that: unspoiled, whole, perfect.
    But life is not about saving, it's about using. It's easy to think I am being frugal, waiting until a delightfully drizzly day to drink my perfect cup of tea in the fancy teacup waiting gallantly in the cupboard. I imagine all the regrets I will have should I use my elegant stickers now instead of waiting until the moment I have just the right envelope to seal with them. I suppose that someday I will find fabric that matches my long-hoarded buttons as if they had been made for each other.
    Unfortunately, this is not reality. Stickers lose their adhesive, buttons go out of style, lotion separates and becomes runny, stores close. And then what? I am left disappointed, holding useless husks in my hands. 
    I want to get better at using up and using out. I want to take pleasure in my fragrant tea today, whether there be thunderstorm or sun. I want to send notecards today, before my friends and I began to slowly drift apart. I want to make a scrawl inside the cover of my new notebook today, while I am still of sound thought and steady hand. All my waiting and saving will accomplish nothing. It's time to enjoy life in the moment. To use the time I have been given. To use out the little gifts I've been blessed with.
    But most of all I want to use up the chances I have to touch others. The hugs I can give to a hurting friend. The "I love you's" I can send to my parents and siblings. The compliments and encouragements I can dash out in a note, send in a text, or tell someone face to face. I don't know how large my supply. Do I have two more days to give smiles to my children, or two thousand? I don't know, but I want to make sure that when my days are over I have used every smile I can, every touch on the shoulder, every "I'm praying for you," that I possess. 
    I don't want my life to end with me holding on to opportunities I never took. I want to use them up and use them out, pour them liberally, scatter them freely on the people around me. There is more regret in hanging on than in letting go. And today I want to make choices that will help me live in the moment and take advantage of what I have.
    And now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get started. There's some lotion that's been waiting to be used. 

Amelia

In May of 1932, Amelia Earhart made history by flying her red Lockheed Vega from Harbor Grace, Newfoundland, to Londonderry, Northern Ireland. She was the first woman to make the transatlantic flight solo, winning world-wide acclaim for her "courage like a lion." In her own words, she said, "After midnight, the moon set, and I was alone with the stars."

from the Smithsonian Open Access collection

Amelia

A red bird flitting through the clouds

In nineteen-thirty-two,

The harbor slipped away from sight,

She turned into the blue.

In her heart a fire burned,

"Courage!" Roared her soul,

As on into the falling dusk,
On ever toward her goal.

Oh, slowly sinks the sun away,

Flees every golden bar,

Yet still onward, ever on,

Alone, but for the stars.

She flies towards Ireland's shamrock green;

Will failure be her lot?

The moon, now hidden by the clouds, 

Tells its secrets not.

And then in outline coastal gray

She glimpses dew-kissed shore!

At last, tis triumph that she tastes,

The leader gone before!

Oh, slowly sank the sun away,

Fled all golden bars,

Yet she rose with dreams ablaze,

Alone, but for the stars.

Today we face the great unknown;

Have you dreams deep kindled, too?

Will you let them perish all,

Or launch into the blue?

Follow not as passenger

The song your dreams do sing,

But slip into the cockpit

And pursue on hastened wing!

For surely shall sun sink away,

Flee all golden bars;

You will find your dreams someday

Among the shining stars.

The Legend of Chasca

  

   There is an ancient Incan legend
    Some contend it must be true;
    I will try to tell the story
    And leave opinion up to you.

Across the ocean, the deep wide ocean,
On the nose of the big black dog,
Gentle mother and bravehearted father
Had slipped into the fog...

And left him alone, their only child,
Huallpa, Sun of Joy,
Alone on the banks of an ancient creek
Save just one companion to care for the lonely boy.

Chasca, the patient llama,
He'd known her all his days,
And so they wondered on together
On smooth and rocky ways.

By day they searched for berries,
And long green grasses sweet.
They found a drink in divers pools
Once they had their fill to eat.

At night they'd curl together
Beneath the starry sky,
And Huallpa would sometimes bury his face
And silently, silently, cry.

For he was very young, you see,
And missed his parents so,
And Chasca would turn and nuzzle him
With a hum so soft and low.

And then, alas! One morning he woke
And found to his dismay,
That Chasca had entered the black dog's ear
And quietly slipped away.

For three whole days Huallpa sat
Beside the valley stream,
Too sad to even search for food,
Too sad to hope or dream.

And so at last the third night came,
The stars were twinkling clear,
Huallpa spread his arms and cried
His grief for all to hear:

"My mother, my father, my llama friend!
Have you left me here to die?
Surely all is lost and gone,
For a miserable one as I!

Shall I perish slowly
Without one friend to aid?
Is there no love in this cold world
Though to the gods I've prayed?"

And then! A miracle!
The first star of the evening dim
Came closer, closer still
Until it settled quietly, just hov'ring over him.

And then he saw with wonder
No longer a star there!
Instead t'was Chasca smiling,
Watching o'er him from the air.

"Chasca!" he cried; she answered not,
But shook her coat instead,
And suddenly it cascaded down
On Huallpa's unsuspecting head.

"Chasca!" he cried again,
But she was already gone,
Leaving him what gift she could
And hope he could go on.

And so he gathered up the mass,
And selling it for a price,
Was able to provide a hut
And buy a bit of rice.

Many since have pondered
Is this story told aright?
Take heed, for Chasca's name 
Means "Goddess of dawn and night."
    
    There is an ancient Incan legend,
    Some contend it to be true;
    I have tried to tell the story.
    Now opinion's up to you.

P.S. The Incan people believed strongly in a heaven and hell. They thought people entered the afterlife by riding on the nose or in the ear of a black dog.

The Traveler

I heard the calling crowd
That said to leave my earthly goods,
Sell my plot of land,
And travel ‘round the world.
So I did.
 
I scaled majestic mountains,
Viewed waterfalls and villas,
Gazed upon the ocean’s dazzling foam,
Dipped feet in dusty Delhi streets,
Set taste buds tingling in Tacotalpa,
Heard the Okavango
Cry for rain.
 
And I was full.
Full and overflowing
With the sights and sounds and smells
Of a thousand different places
Flung across this azure globe.
 
But it was as I sought for sleep
On some blue Bahama beach
That I heard my soul
Keep whispering to me—
Vainly whispering to my heart
That, though traveling is a lark,
There is something to be said

 For having

A place one can return to

That's called home.

Zimbabwe

 

When dark clouds loom on the horizon
And my skin drinks in the first few drops
Of what I am sure will become a deluge,
It is then that I remember:
Zimbabwe.
 
The way the sun beats down upon one’s back,
The little rivulets of sweat between the shoulder blades.
The lazy drone of bees from the house next door,
How even the dogs sought shade,
Tongues lolling,
Waiting for relief.
The many people passing by the grass-covered fence
Nearly ceased their chatter
As the heat bore down,
Oppressive,
Making even the hardy bougainvillea
Falter and turn brown beneath its wrath…
That’s when it would come,
The rain.
 
With the sight of that white sheet
Sweeping down across the hills
There came a choice:
Find shelter or become one with the rain.
The first drops always brought the smell
Of life.
 
The children just outside the gate hurried on—
No time to stop and call today.
Their high-pitched voices trailed off into the distance.
And then it came.
 
Suddenly, with a quickness to take one’s breath away—
Neither harsh nor gentle,
But stern; no mistaking it had come.
For a few moments the carefully laid path
Would become a surging streamlet,
With only a few brave stones to serve as steps
Across the yard.

The falling rain was background music
Stilling dust that rose from ribboned roads.
 
So that is why, when I see dark clouds gather
And hear the rush of coming rain,
There is a smile on my lips, and I whisper in my heart,
“Zimbabwe.”

Remote Teaching

 
“Try it,” they said.
And so I did.
I plugged in my laptop,
Charged my phone,
Downloaded apps,
And taught my classes to an empty room.
 
But I knew the truth.
Sarah would need help on part C.
Elaina’s long division would snake down the page in an un-manageable blur
            Because she would not use graph paper.
Jeffery doesn’t understand complements, and neither does his mother.
Patrick will miss most of every subject, listening instead
             To the call of woods in his backyard.
“Try it,” they said.
And so we did—
The moms and I.
But both of us knew the truth.
They weren’t sure what a compound verb was.
A misplaced comma—was that one wrong, or two?
Was casting out nines really a thing?
How important is it to use a formula?
What do you count off for fractions un-reduced?
 
“Try it,” they said.
And so we did.
But no one guessed the hardest part—
The secret ever teacher carried in her heart.
It wasn’t teaching over WhatsApp that made her sigh—
Although that may account for early baldness.
It wasn’t trying to calm a dozen panicked mothers,
Hyper-conscientious with their checking.
No, it was something more.
 
“Try it,” they said.
And so I did.
But I forgot to count the cost:
Going days without seeing the faces of those I love.
Hearing their voices only through a phone.
Not glimpsing those shy good-morning smiles.
Never seeing their eyes light up when they catch on.
Missing the slightly parted lips as they listen, absorbed, to story hour.
No shouts of jubilation at recess,
No fingers twirling hair in concentration.
 
“Try it,” they said.
And so I did,
But no one guessed
The part that hurt the worst
Was simply
Missing them.