When I was 25 and suddenly so sick I could barely move, I
had my first and only vision. It revived
parts of my soul that were dying, it gave vision for what I feared was lost,
and it keeps giving life to me, especially on this Mother’s Day.
What I see is from the vantage point of a rocking chair on a
porch. I am aware of sitting outside a place I call home, although we are
abroad. The shade from the wooden-beamed awning is cool and of course there is a gentle
breeze. I see down the dirt road a cloud
of dust moving closer and bigger. To give me a glimpse of why my heart feels such joy and stillness, the
vision freezes for a still shot, capturing the giggling brood the dust
holds. Little faces; blurred, like I had
forgotten to put on my 80 proof glasses; all different ages, all different
shapes, all different colors. A
toe-headed one and a brown one lead the pack.
I don’t know how many; there are many.
And I know they are mine.
Recently I realize there is one more presence in this scene,
having been there all along. A woman
rocking next to me. In her own chair,
content, and at rest as I am. Her soul
sings to me about womanhood; what hips bring.
And motherhood; joy of life tucked in you and fear of life birthed out
of you. I know two things about her: she
is black and she is the mother of these babies too.
Today I celebrate the hereafter moment of sheer contentment,
when she and I will rock, side by side, and watch our children run to us, happy
from their play. We are rocking,
mothering hearts intertwined; knowing but unconcerned, in this heaven, who is hers and who is mine.
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