a silly ode to my mama

My mama’s like a red red rose
With stem-green eyes . . . and a Cherokee nose?

Or maybe she’s more like a lily white,
With her statuesque height . . .and gait so light?

But perhaps this game is all fruitless play,
With no end in sight. And why’s that, you say?

Well, if you insist, I’ll tell you the reason;
I mean, after all, this "‘tis the season":

Mother, you see, is no flower at all!
Rather, she’s more like a tree standing tall.

With long limbs outstretched, to shelter her young,
And roots tunneling deep, to render her strong.

Yes Mama, you’re matchless—so brave, wise, and true,
That a lifetime could be spent saying how I love you!

the magnificat

Holy. Holy. Holy is the Lord. The familiar catch of breath. The sting in the eyes. And the tears begin to flow with the falling rain. Or do the tears fall with the flowing rain. What is it in these words that I whisper that wrenches at my heart so? Why does Mary’s prayer touch the core of my being, so many centuries after it was spoken?
I think it must be because I know that she was just a girl, just a human being, with a woman’s heart like my own. And so, when I hear her wondering words, I can feel with her the emotion she must have felt. To bear the son of God—what wondrous mystery, what glorious honour! And she was, like me, just a young woman—much younger, in fact, than I am now. And so, no matter how often I hear the story and read her words, it still has the power to bring abrupt and unsought tears.
What a gracious God, to work wonders with such frail and faulty creatures as us!