May 23

For my Mom

Love.

Her beautiful brown eyes
Carved for size and dug for depth
Embedded in fair skin and set off
By long lashes and dramatic cheek bones.

Some say I look like her.
"Her eyes, you have her eyes."
"Her cheekbones, there's the resemblance."
(I always fill with excitement at that one.
Her cheekbones I always admired.
Sometimes even envied.)

Her heart, planted for love
And watered with sorrow.
Tested to prune,
Challenged to perfect.

He plucked away her weeds,
And she grew flowers of
Forgiveness. Strength. Mercy.
Beauty. Kindness. Truth.
Integrity. Steadfastness.

Her flowers always blossomed
Seasons of joy, and seasons of pain
Her roses always bloomed.
Nothing could wither her blazing
Soul, when tired soles stood for hours
In preparation. She prepared feasts of love
For love. Because of love.

She was always love.

In those arms, I felt comfort.
In those eyes, I read depth.
In that soul, I sought peace.

In her embrace, I found relief.

Her flowers always blossomed
In the heat of summer fire
Or the cool of winter trials,
Her flowers always grew.

From that heart, He plucked and pruned.
Sometimes she cried alone in the night
When no one else could hear.
Just her and her Lord.

Why these tests, she cried?
And yet He plucked.

Why this aloneness, she wept?
And still He pruned.

There were yet more roses to flower,
You see.

And His most beautiful rose
He was protecting
From invasive, aggressive weeds.

In her tired heart
A rose grew tall
Grew strong.
Fluorished more than all.

The rose of Love,
Blossomed in full.

Some say I look like her.
She is beautiful,
So I delight in those words.

But it's not her expressive eyes,
Or even those dramatic cheekbones,
I seek to emulate.

It's her heart.

"You have your mother's heart."

For words like those, I yearn.