I wrap a blanket around myself:
warm lambswool, the colour of clotted cream,
crocheted by my mother’s loving hands just for me.
And I want to wrap you warm around too, my child;
to enfold you with warming words
linked together by colons and commas,
spaced just so with ellipses for gaps…
To wield a stylus like a crochet hook.
And row upon row to knit just like this:
Line upon line
Using ink for thread,
Pen for needle and
Love for stitch.
A cream hued page to wrap around your heart
when my arms are no longer within reach.
My mother is the warmest, most comforting, favourite and familiar book, read in front of a fire on a frosty June-winter eve…all steaming with hot drinks and feasting treats and sparkling light. That is her atmosphere. She is golden sun breaking on a cloudy coastal day, soft on your back but all dazzling in your laughing eyes.
Visits with her rightly involve clamouring children sharing her love, but her phone calls are like prayer: blessed, one-on-one intimacy, all private and sure. It’s like Jesus’ crowded celebrity during His time on earth, compared with the Holy Spirit now indwelling.
Thank You, Father of all mothers: that when I cry, literally (and aloud, some days) to You…she is the answer You so very often send. That among all the authors and teachers and speakers and writers from whom I love to learn…this woman above all, who hears You and obeys You and is a real human being with flesh on in my life, is not only my neighbour but my mother.
She encourages us to thank and praise, and so we do it: we circle around the music and we sing it loud.
We mean it.
We believe it.
And we thank You for her.
“Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.” (George Eliot, Middlemarch)