The Anchor

My baby,

In this world
where we hoard,
we hunker,
we hide away,

where the news
tips us towards
and we can’t
hug and hold
our friends
or our neighbors,

where drive thru coffee
and takeout meals
are the best
we can do,
and feel like
a blessing
and a gift
when so much else
is being taken away
from us,

You are my anchor.

I feel you kick,
and I know
life will go on.
Life continues
even as time
seems to stand

I feel you wiggle,
and I know I’m not

I hear the quick
thump thump thump
of your heartbeat,
and I know
God is good,
God is here,
in me,
in you,
in all of us.

We are not
or forgotten.
Only forgiven
and loved.

as the world
falls apart
and we cling
to hope,
you are the
that I need.

It is you
who is
holding me

A Glorious Mother’s Noel

O, glorious mother,
strong and everlasting,
weary but ever loving
warrior that you are,
I see you.

You bake the cookies with love,
letting little hands
add sprinkles and red hots,
never mind the mess
left in their wake.

You watch the kids
decorate the tree with glee,
cleaning up broken glass and glitter,
quietly rearranging
the unbroken ornaments
after the little ones are in bed.

You shop for
the love of your life,
the kids who rule your life,
the family who gave you life,
the teachers, the coaches,
the neighbors, the babysitter,
the dog,
and you wrap it all
in pretty paper and sparkly bows
that catch the twinkly lights
of the Christmas tree.

You tuck magic into packages,
and every corner of the house,
and every free hour of the week.
You want those little eyes
to sparkle
with the joy and wonder
of this holiday,
for they are only this small

You attend concerts and craft fairs.
You schedule photos with Santa.
You take them to see
the tree lighting,
the parade,
the lights at the zoo
and around the neighborhood,
sometimes against your will,
but always with a smile.

And on Christmas Eve,
you know there is no calm and bright.
There is no silent night.
You will hardly sleep
as you try to quiet the chatter
of excited children,
wrap gifts from the jolly one
and sneak them out to the tree,
rock the baby to sleep as you sing
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,”
and then do it again
three more times in the night,
only to fall asleep in the glow of the
Christmas lights
and be awoken at 4:30am
by a 9-year-old
who is peeking to see if
Santa has come.

I see you.

glorious mother,
weary warrior,
whose work is never done,
work harder than ever
at this time of year.

You do it knowing
they don’t understand
the effort,
the time,
the tears,
the love
behind any of it.
Behind all of it.

And yet,
you do it anyways,
with the love,
and grace,
and tenderness
that makes you
a mother.

And next year,
you will do it again,
o glorious mother.
You will gladly
do it again.