Who was my mother before she was my mother? A little poem from the archives to celebrate Mother’s Day. I love you, Mama!
Within Her Hands
Within her hands, now rough and worn,
A little girl once held the morn,
Once swept the stars and shook the tree,
And played with possibility.
Then clutching fists could only pray
When hopeful dreamings slipped away,
And learn to beat and dig and tear,
To toughen skin and smother care.
And yet, within her hands I find
The strength to live and stretch my mind;
The world she formed with blood and pain
Has housed a little girl again—
Misshapen, yes, and less than planned,
But never lost within her hand.
© 2021 Christina Chase
Although crippled by disease, I'm fully alive in love. I write about the terrible beauty and sacred wonder of life, while living with physical disability and severe dependency. A revert to the Catholic faith through atheism, I'm not afraid to ask life's big questions. I explore what it means to be fully human through my weekly blog and have written a book: It's Good to Be Here, published by Sophia Institute Press.