Tuesday, October 6, 2009

A Parent's Passion

The following was written sometime after early 1984, exact date unknown. God had given me the ability to see life so much more clearly, and the words written here came from a newly born again heart. The original was untitled but I have since titled it.

Maternal love is such a mystery, a paradox of emotional forces. It yearns for obligation and responsibility, at a time when liberty and freedom abound.

The union of two bodies into one flesh, driven by these forces, sees reproducing an impression of the resulting combination as the only solution to fulfillment.

The desire is wild and uncontrollable, spurred on by passion's fire. Inexperience contributes no measure of cautious control and a young couple's need to succeed will trample all other desires in an unbridled stampede.

The visions of parenthood are brightly colored by the imagination. All around is displayed the reality of other parent's failed attempts, and yet, some power within causes optimism to burn in their expectant hearts.

There is a climax of expression in word and gesture as the miracle of impregnation is affirmed. Coos and embraces punctuate the towering magnitude of such an event.

But eyes blinded by implied promise cannot see the road in the distance, where the torrents of life have washed out the span to tomorrow.

Oh! How wonderful is the touch of newborn flesh. Soft and innocent, sweet smelling and subtle. If one could look deep into the eyes of a youthful mother, you would see limitless hope for what lays ahead.

Fragile is a mother's heart; ruthless are the harsh realities of life.

Too stubbornly were efforts applied to the task of creating a clone of one's self. Too late came the final realization, that your child was an individual, their own person, with cares and desires remote from your own. Alone with your thoughts, nagging questions gave you no peace. "When will the values I taught surface?" Perhaps they had already, but you denied recognition, rejected the possibility of ever being "That Way."

When maternal love expends itself, exhausted in effort and tear laden eyes know the truth of failure; their own; guilt feelings can bring torment, but through the pain, love pleads for another chance.

Broken hearts reside in the dark corners of an empty, silent home. Repentant words are whispered in solitude, but the years cannot be called back, the mistakes are made and are deeply etched with guilt and condemnation upon all our cherished memories.

Maternal love is still present in abundance, but there is no youthful chalice into which it can be poured. Concern occupies mental processes and prodding questions repeat within, without end, answered only by the stillness of a telephone which never rings and a solid brass door knocker, corroded to its' base.

The empty nest is littered with remnants of a hopeful past, rediscovered treasures, misplaced and forgotten, brought to life once more by the constant rearranging of a collection of keepsakes, dear to an abandoned heart.

Searching ears catch the faint sound of distant voices and anxiety spawns cautious excursions to sparkling, entryway windows, perfectly groomed with lace and satin, curtain and valance, born out of nervous occupying of too much time.

Wonder of wonders; a new day dawns. There is an unfamiliar knock at the door and a trembling hand turns the knob of uncertainty, revealing a young mother, arms filled with new life and new hope for tomorrow. Emptiness and sorrow are banished as a mother and child are reconciled. The daughter bears a wonderful gift, and the aging woman rises on an emotional crest as a new title is bestowed upon her, "Grandmother".

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