My friend Renee — who, God knows, is acquainted with grief on Mothers Day — posted an ancient poem from Hesiod:
Gaia, the beautiful, rose up,
Broad blossomed, she that is the steadfast base
Of all things. And fair Gaia first bore
The starry Heaven, equal to herself,
To cover her on all sides and to be
A home forever for the blessed Gods.
This, Renee accompanied with verse of her own, including the lines:
i’ve always loved pictures of the earth taken from space.
not just the half-slivered ones, but the full globe,
blue and white and luminescent amidst the blackness.
All of which reminded me, a motherless son in these years, of this from the eighth chapter of the letter to the Romans:
We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.
Yes. Waiting. Still.
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