I am a man who has been blessed in every conceivable way. Some men enter this world believing their mothers to be the laborer of their fathers and the server of children and other men. I came into this world knowing my mother as the Servant of GOD, and humanity’s first hero. She is a Noble Woman and the Guardian of Sacred Knowledge. All of “Heaven is at her feet.” My parents were tenant farmers before I was born, so it would be inconceivable to think that they could ever even hope to give me everything that I could want as a child. But they made every effort and paid every price to give me what I would need as a man. It was not long in my life before I knew this of my parents. They made this perfectly clear to me, and in more ways than one. But it was not until my mid-teens that I began to understand it. As the oldest of five children, I was by definition the first to ask for and often get, most of the “first to be gotten” things in my family, except one. This, my mother took off the “want list” before any of us could even raise an imaginary pen. And she was emphatic about it in her words, her voice, and in her expression. To be perfectly frank, at sixteen or perhaps younger, I had seen this expression and heard most of the words, but there was something in her voice that was different. It seemed to invite me to ask why. This was rarely a good idea in my house, and not at all with the expression she chose. Yet, there was something in her voice that touched-off something in me that would later lead me to know that the connection between mother and child is divine. This voice introduced me to the voice of my heart, though I did not know it at the time. And it was clear from the very beginning that it knew my mother better than I. And that it could speak to her at any time and on any subject it chose. It may have sound like my voice to others, but I knew better, and so did Mom. I was not that daring or foolish enough to question or to think that I could do any of such in the presence of my father. It left me, my two brothers and my father almost in the state of shock. But its proof was undeniable. “May I ask why, Mom?” I want to tell you that at that moment, each of my mother’s sons knew we were witnessing something special, something like a miracle. Because she looked at me, smiled and said in the same voice, “Yes, but I will tell you later - after you finish the dishes”. These words were not my mother’s. These were the words of my father. Yes, they were in my mother’s voice, but they were somehow made different coming from her. My mother never put off making a point to any of us. And all of us knew it, even my Dad. She was never afraid of her anger - not even in the presence of her children. And neither were we. Her parents, her elders, and the history of this country have taught her in no uncertain terms, the difference between anger expressed out of love and that which is not. This moment had been made holy in some mysterious way. And it was not unnoticed by any of us. Each of us thought that Mom had given us the keys to her heart.
Posted on: Thu, 04 Jul 2013 14:40:54 +0000
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