Mama

Oh, Mama;
I wonder, sometimes,
Do you love me?
I know you do,
But still my heart questions.
When I came out,
All red and wet with life,
Did you see my hands and feel grace,
Or were they a trap,
Yet another force to grasp hold of Your freedom
And never let go?
Did you hold me,
Sweetly,
Tenderly,
And pray I would become a woman desperately in love with Him,
Or did you close your eyes
And wish to be far, far away
From the diapers and the dishes,
The brutal cries in the night
For food,
For an embrace,
For love?
Surely this was not the life you
Carefully,
Dreamily
Planned for yourself
In the days of film cameras and Janis Ian and the Cold War.
You wanted fame,
To be a star,
To be free and wealthy,
Adored,
But not by children.
Yet we invaded,
Toys in hand,
Pacifiers in mouth,
Burdens in tote;
We camped out on your dreams,
Ran them off
With screaming voices and plastic swords.

How could you have known?
You didn't.
This life you never signed up for,
Is it good?
Have you loved?
Or have we drained you dry,
Like thirsty pups suckling on a weary mother?

I look into your eyes,
Try to read the pages;
In your hands,
Try to feel the Braille
And decipher
Who you are,
What you feel and think.

When I speak,
Do you hear me,
Or are my words drowning in a sea of distractions,
Of iPhones and pianos and Facebook and busy?
Am I your daughter,
Your Janae,
Evidence that "Yahweh is gracious"?
Or am I a burden,
An obligation,
A duty?

You pray with me,
For me,
And I can feel your heart beating in sync with His and with mine,
And I know you love,
Deeply and truly.
But sometimes I forget and you forget, and everyone forgets
Except the only Faithful One,
Who binds us together in our forgetfulness
With scarlet cords of love and hope,
Hope that rises from the grave
And does not die with my falling spirits.
You love and I love,
Like mother and daughter,
But more often like sisters,
Because you have always called Him our Father.