This last chapter is closing in. I have told myself and others this story for so long but it is now beginning to breathe its own life. My becoming a mother is a story I started writing as a child. I’d imagine the details, changing them over time as I aged and wisdom collided with reality. There have been times when I mourned the passing of certain details while embracing the birth of others, knowing that the toughest and most private of details have ultimately made me a more resilient and appreciative mother.Mother Mary looks over our congregation every week. The stained glass piece, lit by the southern light, depicts her holding Jesus as a baby. Jesus is propped in her left arm while her right arm, adorned with a star on her shoulder, supports him. This piece, like my story, has changed in meaning as my reality has shifted. It mostly represented physical and emotional strength when I was at my weariest. I saw the star on Mary’s right shoulder as a badge of courage. My right shoulder is my most obviously weak joint; it’s the joint that serves as an outward symbol for the rest of my loose body. The star reminded me that perseverance was all that I needed to ask of myself on those darkest of days. More recently, I have seen this woman as a mother full of satisfaction. Her pale smile assures me that God blesses us when we give up control while still holding onto our desires with conviction. It is when I stare at Mary holding her child and the organ music roars through the sanctuary that I know the holy spirit hovers and hears our prayers.
This baby is coming. I will someday walk Noemi up to the balcony so that she can see Mary close up for herself and explain how one mother has served as a mother for so many of us. And how her son and the light that shines through him guides us as we write our own stories.
