It was in their hands...so beautiful, precious and delicate


A wave thundered down upon them

now their hands are empty

water trickling past their fingertips
 

Promise, that when you think of me,
You will remember me
Remember me when I was young,
my eyes how they shined
Remember the blonde hair that cascaded
my strong arms for my mothering tasks
Remember the way I could hold my child in the air
my strong legs to carry their weight on my hips
Remember the clever wit, and laughter
my voice that sang sweet songs for you
Remember not the deterioration of my memories
Remember not the slow death of my voice
Remember not, remember not this bane
Remember not this bane that takes my mind.

Yes, you may see the situation and think, "That poor boy never sees his Mom, she's never around, she just left him"  But here is what you don't see, you don't see the years I endured an abusive controlling husband for the sake of that boy and his sisters. You don't see that the day I left, the day I ran in fear, that day, I took all of my children. I took my son with me. The only choices I know how to make, are the ones that I think God wants me to for my children. So you don't see how I struggled with my heart when my boy asked to go back to his father. You don't see how I prayed, weighed and measured to determine if that would be the right choice. You don't see how I feel like a failure as a mother. You won't see the nights I cry myself to sleep praying from the depths of my soul  that God is taking care of him, comforting my boy, tending to his broken heart. You won't see the tears behind my sunglasses when I see a little brown eyed round faced boy in the park hugging his Mommy. My wound, this grief is always fresh and is pricked by the slightest of reminders. You don't see how my soul aches everyday that I can't tell him I love him, I can't guide his school lessons, or hear his laugh, hear him practicing his drums, or hold him in my arms. He is my boy, my first born. I did everything I knew how to do for my boy and his sisters. This separation, it is the cruelest thing I have ever known. My son and I walk around, apart, separate, living lives of such intolerable pain. If he chooses not to see me, how can I help him heal? If he refuses my efforts, how can I do anything? I pray, I pray...and I pray.  He believes he is a man now. After all, that is how I raised him. I wanted him to rise up and be the man God calls him to be. He is choosing this path, he is choosing to go his way. Maybe I need to stop praying for my boy, and begin to pray for my young man.  My young man, go and follow, love God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength. I will watch from the distance, I will watch as you go, always knowing that you are because for a time, God let me be your Mom.

My James,
I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living
My baby you'll be

I can see you there. Looking back as people crowded me, pushing me through the security line. I didn't want to go. I don't know how I walked away from you. I can still see you there, your hand over your heart, your brave smile. Even now my chest aches to think of it, and my heart chastises my common sense for leaving you there that day... I'm coming back, I've got to get back.

May I hide beside you
For just a moment, to catch my breath
Will you hold me close
Immersing me in your tenderness
May I borrow your strength
In my times of trepidation
May I borrow your courage and gallantry
May I use it as a guise to my own fears
For just a moment, to catch my breath

You sweet walls of protection, you kept my intimate enemy, my pet monster at bay. His fiery words meant to deplete my heart and soul, to cause utter desolation, you, sweet walls, kept me safe. I allowed you to be so strong. Powerful enough to keep me from feeling...anything, everything. That, my trusted old friend, is why your remnants must finally be cleared away. My heart and soul are pleading to be able to fully feel, the pain, the joy, but mostly...love, no matter the hurt I may endure. I had forgotten how  tremendous these emotions are. Thank you for keeping my soul safe through the traumatic years of  my silent struggle, but your work is complete. Now, feel this exhilaration welling up from deep within this protected garden. I get to live! I'm still alive!

Ahh, Dear Sister Hester, your courage to stand against the corrupt hypocritical legalism of the religious pharisees of your day is inspiring. Let us cast our sin to God alone, let Him cast those sins to the depths...as far as the east is from the west. To Him alone, He will judge. While you and I confess not the same transgressions, to God all is like filthy rags before him. We ask, does Heaven have a limit of Mercy? Hester, you and I know, only man limits his Mercy. You are a courageous woman. I have read this passage over and over, I understand you...while our sins are different, all the same, I understand. Let what was meant for evil be used for Good...In Christ alone can it be achieved.

“Woman, transgress not beyond the limits of Heaven’s mercy!” cried the Reverend Mr. Wilson, more harshly than before. “That little babe hath been gifted with a voice, to second and confirm the counsel which thou hast heard. Speak out the name! That, and thy repentance, may avail to take the scarlet letter off thy breast.”


“Never!” replied Hester Prynne, looking, not at Mr. Wilson, but into the deep and troubled eyes of the younger clergyman. “It is too deeply branded. Ye cannot take it off. And would that I might endure his agony, as well as mine!” 


“Speak, woman!” said another voice, coldly and sternly, proceeding from the crowd about the scaffold. “Speak; and give your child a father!” 


“I will not speak!” answered Hester, turning pale as death, but responding to this voice, which she too surely recognized. “And my child must seek a heavenly Father; she shall never know an earthly one!” 


“She will not speak!” murmured Mr. Dimmesdale, who, leaning over the balcony, with his hand upon his heart, had awaited the result of his appeal. He now drew back, with a long respiration. “Wondrous strength and generosity of a woman’s heart! She will not speak!”

~The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne