my mother in her garden

mom in her garden

i remember watching her, gentle hands in soil, flushed face covered by wide-rimmed hat. her blue eyes never wavered, her soul never faltered in its out-pouring of garden-love.

her flowers. petals soft, whispers of fragrant beauty. she cradled them in the same hands that cupped my face at night; spoke to them with the same lips that kissed my forehead and shed prayers of blessing over my bedside.

my mother’s gardening was a daily, maternal prayer. she’d bow low, penitent in the dirt from which we’ve come. rub knees raw in endless toil for the beauty of creation. feel proud as her well-tended plants rose high into the light, fed and watered daily, anxious about nothing. free to grow.

now as i put my hand on my womb where my own little one is planted, and crouch low to the earth, feeling the soft soil slip through my fingers, i utter my own prayer…

grow well, sweet flower of mine.

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2 Comments

  1. Melanie said,

    May 8, 2009 at 5:11 pm

    this is so beautiful Em. New life is so precious, hopeful, and remarkable. I am so thankful for creation, and the God brings newness and life.

  2. abbagirl74 said,

    May 10, 2009 at 3:02 pm

    Happy Mother’s Day Emily!


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