hems and notions. a poem.

i used a colored pencil to mark the seam 

against the same heel that 14 years before 

pressed against the inside 

of my belly and made me giggle with the hope of

what he will be.

I used a hot iron to stiffen the creases 

and a needle to press through the fabric 

tacking up the hem

tugging at my heart.

what’s a mama to do with the bittersweet seams

on one side, the world

on the other, emptying arms

  

rest, dear mama. rest.

As the days shorten, the to-do list of a mama lengthens, and we are, so many of us, worn plum out.

See, mama love and mama tasks don’t end with a check mark next to an item on a to-do list.

By mid-October, the gimp sets in, our psyches sulking and spent from back to school and the start of school, first report cards and first dances, car pool lines and school bus bullies, IEPs and 504s, SATs and endless school fees…

…but may I whisper something to you? Something that was whispered to me? I heard it the other day as the sun shone down and lifted the morning fog from the fields…

…be still.

God’s got it.

God’s got your kids.

He loves them more than you do, remember?

And God’s got YOU, mama.

His strength is made perfect in weakness, in our inability to do and be everything to our kiddos and husband and bosses, to teachers and PTA leaders and The Jones’.

Rest in Him and let Him take the reins blistering our worn out hands.

Rest in Him and know that after you’ve kissed your kiddos goodnight, He’s still with them, always.

And He’s with you, too, in the unforced rhythms of grace.

***

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Another day another dollar.

I came home worn and beat down from another day another dollar
spent surfing stations trying to escape the heart rend of a brave man in
orange
breathing his last
Another day another dollar spent putting hands on cancer and aging and healing and dying
Another evening wanting only to put my feet up but there
he
is
my wide-eyed son too old to waste a single moment soothing my own ache when he says
Look, mama
So I do
And our toes curl against the warm wet stone of the patio where we stand watching the storm clouds push to the east as the fire of another day-end ignites the sky
Pink then purple then last of all
orange
And there ain’t no dollar I wouldn’t pay to make sure I don’t miss
me
my boy
and the sunset.

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