people say so many things. . . like you’re in a game you cannot win, like your life has all but ended. but maybe motherhood is a mosaic, a hard wrought, stained glass window where tears and laughter collide, where wounds reopen in the working and glisten if light filters through.
I am cut, reshaped, pieced back. . . and I feel like I could shatter.
“so what if you do?” whispers the mother beside me and beyond me. “light will always poke itself through.”
her gentle words feel as balm against the skin of my heart. she holds an armful of sun, scars from stained glass on her hands, laughline wrinkles where the window should hang,
but she wasn’t a game or a life left for dead.
she was a stained glass story, with no window to show for it. and she held all the good things all the people never say. she broke and breathed, stood long, and loved. . . letting every inch of light be every part of her. she was a woman, not a perfect stained glass window.
snapdragons, geraniums, zinnias and roses. wild things on my table, and on the windowsill.
and it was me, like a seed, cracked open and broken, under darkness with water cold over by bones and it was light I could not see, all the warmth I could not feel. if not a mother, no idea who I could be.
rain fell with promise. storms raged in anguish. there was noise, but it was silence for me. I grew, then died, grew again, then bloomed and it wasn’t just one thing I became.
the garden outgrew my soul, and I towered with life like a lighthouse at ocean nothing around but hope.
and I was life in a hundred ways. . . out at sea, in the garden, underground, in the questions, holding flowers, pouring sorrow, always seen always loved by my God.
it was armfuls of spring repeatedly in winter. so it wasn’t all flowers, but it was.-S.V.F. #sierravfpoetry
Garden Lullaby series launches tomorrow! Looking forward to sharing how God used the garden to help me heal through infertility. Done in “real time” as I’m sharing past personal reflections!