I Remember Mama--A Mother's Day Poem by the author of the Blog, Journey Towards Epiphany

Even though my mother most definitely did not fit the description of the woman in this poem, it took me back to the days of bell-bottoms, John Denver glasses and guitars. Enjoy.

I Remember Mama

You were a gypsy queen
who sat cross legged on golden oak floors
guitar on lap, singing about being His “Flower Child”.

You wore bell bottomed corduroys
and wire rimmed John Denver glasses
making even Chicago a “country road” to home.

Your hair was straight
and long and brown, no curly grey
to interrupt its beauty. And you were just that…a beauty.

You made bean soup and corn bread
a special event, ironed cloth napkins
and all with a side of fried okra.

You were crazy in love with Daddy
treating him like the great man
that He was because of the great woman you are.

You hid behind trees, until certain
that I could walk to school
alone. We laughed about it even then.

You exude femininity and womanhood
because you make everything you touch more beautiful.
The world is a much better place for having had you.

You walked out your grief
when you lost your man to the world beyond
with grace and beauty and dependence upon Him.

You hungered and thirsted for more of God,
making all the spectators in the stands
want to join in the race so they could drink and be satisfied.

Because this is who you were,
this is what you are:
treasured friend, confidant, and mentor to all who take time to watch in wonder.

And it has been you and your shadow all along
The two of us being stretched
like the image in a circus mirror.

Like a sundial, the shadow of who you were
encircles the reality of who you are,
because His light shines on you, and He is illuminated

to a lost and dying world
who watch us with eagle eyes.
They watch not for uncommon greatness, but for what you have in the every day:

Jesus made real.
And you do that so well.
We need you and your reality with Him. May I follow in your footsteps like Elisha with Elijah.

Double portion of Jesus
made real.
In private belonging to Him, to the world proving His existence.