Mama shows her children all that’s good and ugly in the world.
She lets them know if they are blessing or curse.
Mama gives her love
And children’s hearts blossom,
Tall, like a spring lily.
Grace upon Grace.
Or, if she withholds,
What bitterness grows in dry, parched hearts?
Thorny and stumped.
Will these wee ones dig deep and bloom to love?
Or shoot shallow roots toward earthly things?
Will they make beauty or war?
Mama makes everything lovely and warm.
Makes you believe in the best kind of magic.
She says sorry.
Tucks you in, just so.
Her singing, like an angel.
Or Mama tells you the world is hard and cruel.
You must toughen up.
She says “stop that nonsense.”
Heroes and villains, once helpless in a cradle, looked up for Mama’s gaze, reaching out for her embrace.
Mama shapes the hearts of the monk and the minister, the dictator and the teacher.
The artist and the atheist.
She is baby’s first window into the heart of God.
