If we knew in the moment all the things we’d one day wish we’d said, would we say them? But there is only One Who has said all He wished to say, and said it perfectly, from the moment when formless and void reverberated with “Let there be light.” He calls Himself the Word.
Far away, my maternal grandmother is on home hospice care. Nearby, my baby is napping. Here, between that end and these beginnings, I’ve stolen away to try to write, to think.
I stooped, infant on hip, to photograph a delicate mushroom the other morning, but there came a dimpled hand, and the mushroom was plucked before I could get the phone camera to focus. “Here you go, Mommy.”
I’m learning that this is so much of what motherhood means: relinquishing to clumsy-gentle baby hands all the things I’d choose to keep, gratefully receiving the broken gifts from those same hands, stopping in teary-eyed awe to hear a baby voice whisper an unprompted “thankoo” for one of a thousand mundane tasks.
My grandmother learned this long ago, my mother less long ago, and now here am I. I find them in myself so often these days: ironing shirts, looking at the tiny curios in the window above my kitchen sink, slicing apples with quick, deft fingers.
I don’t think there are words I could add, nothing I wish I could have said so much as silence: to listen with patience and attention to all the times she said how much she loved us.
As for words, mine are partial and incomplete, and rightly so. I’m waiting for the Perfect to come, for the partial to be done away. And when I see that Word face to face, and darkness is gone forever, it won’t be better words I’ll need to express myself: all my words will be absorbed in awe to hear how He has loved me.
I spent more than five minutes putting an “if” framework around things I tried to write a few days back. But I’m still here for the Five Minute Friday link-up, which you can find by clicking the “if” button above.
©2018 by Stacy Crouch