my childhood is strung across branch and light and “pretty” i tell my son as he tender touches bulbs and he marvels at the sparkle and then i kiss him sweet dreams and pray him down to sleep
and my friend and i stay up, mothers talking into night wondering how to inspire while letting go. how to help tiny ones be all they can be, without forcing them to be what they can’t. how to be God incarnate for these womb-seeds.
and how to teach hard work and rest and true worth to pudgy dimpled minds?
mary raised a carpenter, but she knew he was more: he was son of God, and she stood at that door and asked Jesus to come home, no more miracles please, just be a carpenter and don’t get killed, and she struggled with not wanting him to be his full potential for then–he would die.
and am i willing for this? for my child to die, even if it means him being his full potential? even if means him knowing God?
on this holy night of twinkle lights and soft talk, i feel the walls cave and heaven crumble and i wish for peace on earth. and peace in heart and mind so that when it comes to mothering, the steps will be angel-tread.
*please note, this will be the final imperfect prose, until the new year.*
broken writers, artists, believers… spill crumbs below… in a communion of the imperfect.
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*Christmas Nativity painting, oil on 9 by 12″ canvas, available here.