Mother’s Day Revisited

I stood there absorbed by the crimson rose one of the church kids had given me. “What would you like to do for Mother’s Day,” my husband asked.

“I’d like to take the flower,” I said.

So we drove out to Woodbine. As we walked through the wrought iron gate and down the stone path, the deep azure of the sky enveloped me. The sun shone bright, yet a knifelike cold pierced my skin and lungs. 

When we reached the site, we found a blanket of buttercups and clusters of tiny blue flowers. A gift. Planted by the One who knew I would understand. Not everyone would know the name of the small blue flower. And no one else could know that buttercups always made her laugh. Those things along with the contrast of the sun's brilliance to the frigid air began to swirl around inside and form into the thoughts below. Someday I will write “Buttercup Laughter.” But for now, even these years later, I still cannot do it. 

Mother’s Day

Posies by a gravestone peeking from its side,

     Tiny dots of blue with yellow deep inside

Little band of color stands in shades of green

    Planted by a Hand that for now remains unseen.

And on this day the bright sun

        barely warms my heart

The bright sun that hangs in heaven….

        where You once hung suspended

And it could not warm Your heart

      The bright sun could not warm Your broken heart… © Copyright Glyn Baker and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

I stand here by the graveside, a mother lost in pain

yearning to see her child dance lightly once again.

Longings fill this place with empty solitude

where hope is whispered silently through periwinkle blue.

 “Forget-me-not,” the flowers whisper;

        as if I could forget

your love and lilting laugh

        and carefree dance

“Forget-me-not,” they whisper

        as a breeze strokes their blue heads

        And I think of another One

whose love I’ve known

“Remember Me,” You cry through flowers like the star

      that hung once in the night for another mother’s child

That child, You were also born to die too soon

      while a sword pierced her heart with an empty solitude.

“Forget-Me-not,” Your flowers whisper

        as if I could forget

Your love and joyful laugh

        and steady hands....

“Forget-Me-not,” You whisper

        And pain stabs my heart

To think I could forget the One

        Whose gentle love envelops me

And on this day the bright sun

        barely warms my heart

The bright sun that hangs in heaven….

      Where You once hung suspended

And it could not warm Your heart

      No, it could not warm Your heart

      The bright sun did not warm Your broken heart…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the lyrics version see Mother's Day

Jean Watson helped me hammer the poem into a format more suited to a song. Then she wrote music for it. To hear her sing the whole song you can go here.

The Two Trees: Dogwood and Christmas

The limbs of the dogwood tree meander gracefully outside our kitchen window. In the spring, flowers festoon its branches in clusters like puffs of pink snow. Heidi loved that tree.

And she loved the birds that sang from those branches. Her Nana gave her a birdfeeder one birthday. I hung it under the porch roof, right outside the kitchen’s window. Season after season, Heidi watched the birds in the dogwood tree as they waited their turn at the feeder.

One Sunday morning in January, as she sat confined to the wheelchair necessitated by a stroke, she said, “Mom – look! Look at the pretty bird!”

I glanced at the pile of equipment that overflowed the foyer, waiting to be loaded for the morning service. But a still, small voice said, “Sit. Have breakfast with your daughter.”

So I put the chore off and sat with her a few moments.

Church was glorious that morning. I could sense God’s presence permeating the worship in a sweet way that often eludes the one serving as the worship leader due to the nature of the work. But that morning, His nearness almost overwhelmed me, yet somehow I managed to keep leading and not turn into a voiceless puddle. The afterglow stayed with me the whole day.

After lunch, I asked Heidi if she wanted to take a nap or help me takedown the Christmas tree. Twelfth Night had passed, and now for our family Christmas was over. Normally Heidi would jump at the chance to help with the tree. Long-term radiation damage had become increasingly compromised her ability to do much with the ornaments. Still, she found a way to cradle one between her paralyzed left hand and her body, and use the functioning right hand to deal with the hook. Her chatter made for good company, and we both looked forward to these times together.

So I asked her, fully expecting her to opt for the tree. But she looked at me a long moment. Time seemed to suspend. Then she said, “Mom? I’m tired, now. I would like to go to sleep.”

Those were the last words I ever heard her speak…