Mother's Day Musings

            I live with Proverbs 31,

            With rubies and wisdom

            Purple and scarlet.

            ~

            Single parents are superheroes.  They work long hours for a salary less than some people make in a week and still manage to raise a family. Sleep doesn’t exist.  Faded clothes are fashionable.  To them, time shouldn’t be wasted on complaints of how unfair life might seem or how exhausted they are. Instead, they spend every moment fighting to keep the seams of the family together.

            I know firsthand the responsibility of a single parent.  I have watched worry line her face, easing only when another paycheck comes in, returning the second it’s gone.  I have seen bare cupboards and over-washed jeans, tattered shoes and raccoon circles around her eyes. 

            I’ll never forget the many nights I’d wake to the sounds of rustling pages and soft cries echoing from the kitchen as she tried to balance a non-existent checkbook.  Or the winter days I’d find her sick in the bathroom, uncertain of what we’d do when they turned off the heat.  Some days, she’d simply push aside the worry and move on to whatever chore was next on her list.  Other times she’d work just so that the worry wouldn’t consume her.  In awe, I watched her tackle the world one bill at a time, her cape flying behind her as she defeated every little struggle each day. 

            She wouldn’t like that comparison.  No, she considers herself Robin, the sidekick who follows the Superhero and trusts Him for every penny.  When the worry seeps into her veins, she sets aside the checkbook and brings out her Sword.  She kneels at her bedside whispering pleas and praise, and within minutes, she is her faithful self again, worry no longer visible in her pale face.

            ~

            My love for language is her fault.  From as early as I can remember, she always had a book in her hands, eyes absorbing the words, and fingers flipping the pages in rhythm.  Many nights I’d find her reading in the dark, the dark green flashlight casting flames against the pages as it rested in the crook of her neck.  When I struggled to read in kindergarten, Mom put on her teacher’s hat and spent an hour after school attempting to help me learn.  Gradually, she unlocked and nurtured an addiction until it completely took control of me.  The library, a small room in the school’s basement, became my escape.

Flash-forward to sixth grade.  It’s not easy having your mom as your teacher.  Other students expected me to know the answers to test questions or future exercises and wanted me to share that knowledge.  Truth was, she never allowed that kind of freedom.  I was treated just like any other student and was expected to follow all rules in the same way.  If I broke one, which did not happen, I would be punished like anyone else, except I had to face her wrath at home as well.

Despite the other students’ behavior, I loved being her student.  Every day we started class by writing journal entries in our notebooks, following prompts such as:

Write a mystery story in 20 minutes…

This prompted my very first real story.  It was bland and simple (something about a woman who lost her diamond necklace when she leaned against the window sill), but I lost all sense of reality as the magic of the words washed over me.  I was no longer tied to the boundaries of this world, but enjoyed the freedom of my imagination.  These prompts were the highlight of my days.  Prior to this, I hadn’t taken an interest in writing and always dreaded writing papers or spending time away from sports, but her journal prompts carried me away to another realm – the world of fiction.

Now, every time I sit down to write, whether I’m working on a piece of creative writing or an essay, I always think back to the sight of her snuggled up in bed with one of her treasured books, flashlight nearby.  With gratitude, I recall her sixth grade class, when she introduced me to my first love: WORDS. 

            ~

            She’s what I have always wanted to be.  Prayer warrior.  Humble servant.  Sacrificial lamb.  Sweet teacher.  Brilliant writer.  Epitome of beauty, her hazel eyes reflecting care.

            Those humble days are the lessons that shaped my faith.  For years, we had endured prosperity under the salary of my father, yet never once enjoyed freedom and peace.  That’s when she introduced me to writing and unlocked my prison cell, showing me a world I never knew.  When my dad left, I expressed so many emotions through words that writing became my own kind of prayers.  Mom showed me the insignificance of material possessions, the value of the pen, and the riches of relationships.  The bank account may have been empty, but her faith wasn’t.  She kept us afloat.  She and God. 

            One day I hope to carry out that same legacy, as a mother and writer.

            

Hard Work

The Windhover

Gerard Manley Hopkins

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

~

Have you ever watched ants work?  They keep chugging along, pushing each other until their work is complete.  Then, they start again.  I can’t fathom such work ethic.  I have a hard time focusing long enough to clean my room or wash laundry, let alone try to work all day long and crawl around with a large crumb on my back. 

What is it that keeps the ant going?  Instinct?  Necessity? 

Does the ant ever feel completely overwhelmed with the workload?  I do.  All the time.  And I often wonder if it’s worth it.  Worth the pain, exertion, and effort.  And then I wonder, what am I working towards? 

According to Gerard Manley Hopkins, the hard work is worth it.  Not only is it worth it, the hard work is the teacher.  He writes, “Sheer plod makes plough down sillion/Shine, and blue-bleak embers…fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.”  He reminds me that faith doesn’t just appear overnight but starts and is strengthened by adversity…it grows wider, deeper, more complete with the wear-and-tear.  Amidst the “jostling” of the work, I am reminded of the glimmer of hope on the horizon, despite the bleakness.  There is an underlying Foundation that holds me together in the middle of the earthquake, and once the shaking stops, I will be stronger and refined.

It’s the hard work, the hardship, the pain, the uncertainty that strengthens faith.  Without tribulation, faith has no purpose.  And it’s a process, beginning with the euphoria of newness, which quickly fades into normalcy.  Then, tragedy strikes and I grasp for a life preserver.  Sometimes the rescue takes times or comes too late, and I may not understand why, but the Foundation stills holds. 

I keep ordering myself to be like the ant and the falcon.  Face the force.  You’ll be stronger because of it.

Unafraid

            I am a slave to my own insecurities.  I hide behind the façade of politeness and silence, afraid that if I speak, all of my secrets and failures will be revealed to the world.  I cannot allow that to happen, no matter how I long to be free.

            I have always been this way, chained by fears of failure or embarrassment, burdened with worries of how others perceive me.  How I would love to be that dog on the beach, running in wild abandon after the stick in a game of fetch!  He doesn’t worry about the sand he will get in his fur or about the slobber that scatters the women sunbathing on the beach towel close by.  He doesn’t allow insecurities to steal the thrill of the game or the time spent with his master.

            He doesn’t allow his fears to steal his joy.

            I, on the other hand, can’t let go of my inhibition, holding tightly to the idea that I must act a certain way to win the affection of those around me.

            I want to dance and play in the middle of park, as if I’m alone in my bedroom without a care.  I want to sing louder than the wolves at night and announce my presence to the world – “Watch out! I’m here!” – if only I could find the key to my prison cell.

The Spider's Web

Laboring throughout the night, the spider spins the sticky strands of her new web from one dark corner to another, connecting points that would otherwise never intersect.  When one strand fails to meet her merit, she backtracks and lets it fall and starts again.  She meticulously finds the perfect spot for each end and glues them together, never once stopping for a break. 

Only when she is finished does she rest, gazing at the sunrise from the top corner of her masterpiece, waiting for new inspiration.  It comes, just before noon, blindly falling into the trap.  She hurriedly snatches it within her grasp and, like a drug, gives her the renewed vigor she needs to go on.

As the writer, you weave words together, connecting unlikely ideas to tell a story.  Sometimes you find strands that stick to your tiny legs and won’t let go; you must find the right spot for them or let them fall.  Otherwise, the entire web collapses. In the morning, you find yourself with an intricate result from your midnight toiling: a mesh of silky strands joined to create the foundation of your story. 

Then, rest.