I wish I had my mother’s faith
That never seemed to waiver
All the obstacles she had to face
She thanked God for each new day
And when her health failed and she lay dying
She asked Her Father to bring her Home
When I was small, I remember waking up in the middle of the night. I had the chills and couldn’t stop shaking. I woke my mom up, she took my temperature and put me in an ice bath to bring my fever down. When she took me out, she wrapped me in a towel and held me. She rocked me and rubbed my arms. I stopped shaking and I told her that her love made me well.
Blasphemous though it may be, I believe my first “god” was my mother. Before the anger, distrust, the teenage rebellion and angst, I loved my mother above all else. Though she taught me to pray and sang to me of Jesus’s love, none of it seemed real compared to the very tangible affection my mother gave me. When she rocked me and sang “Jesus loves me”, I cried. Every time. Every time she reached the part that says “they are weak, but He is strong”, I lost it. I had no sense of God or the Gods. I had no understanding. But I knew my mother loved me and she made me feel strong and safe and less scared.
Sometimes it’s not enough to know she still loves me in death. Sometimes I just wish she was here to hold me and rock me and tell me everything will be all right. Even if it is a lie.