You're my what??

I spent the day today as I do very often after Christmas; organizing. I tend to like everything in its place, although have relaxed quite a bit since we have three young kids in the house. I did quite well shoving gifts in corners of closets and storing Amazon.com boxes as they arrived. But, once Christmas was over and the unwrapping complete, I go into reorganize mode. So, I spent the day with a plastic bag going through the house ditching unneeded stuff, carting storage containers from the basement to the upstairs bedrooms so as to clean out closets and reorganize toy storage. My house doesn't look any cleaner at the moment, but I have my system in place going forward, so feel like I'm at a good spot.

So, following this busy tidying day, I had to laugh at my son's synopsis. After dinner, I asked my three children to pick up their toys and put them in the containers I'd shown them earlier. As I finished up the dinner dishes, my oldest son who is 6 years, hollered from upstairs asking, "Mom, why is that I'm you're slave and I have to do all the work you should be doing?"

Ahhh...if only he knew how good he's got it! ;-)

Mary's Heart

I received this poem in via e-mail this week from our local CBE chapter. (The poem was written by Madeleine L'Engle, copied from a piece of choral music for 4 female voices. Published by H.W. Gray Puablications, c/o Belwin, Inc. 1989
Music by Daniel E. Gawthrop)

Mary Speaks by Madeleine L'Engle

O you who bear the pain of the whole earth, I bore you.
O you whose tears gave human tears their worth, I laughed with you.
You, who when your hem is touched, give pow'r, I nourished you.
Who turn the day to night in this dark hour, Light comes from you.

O you who hold the world in your embrace, I carried you.
Whose arms encircled the world with your grace. I once held you.
O you who laughed and ate and walked the shore, I played with you.
And I, who with all others, you died for,
now I hold you, now I hold you, now I hold you.

May I be faithful to this final test, in this last time I hold my child, my son;
his body close enfolded to my breast:
the holder held, the bearer borne.
Mourning to joy, darkness to morn.
Open, my arms; Open, my arms; your work is done.

What a beautiful image of Mary. Her mother's heart both holding and relinquishing her son. She understands his mission, but being God's son does not make him any less her's. It does not mitigate her pain. She opens her arms are releases her son for his purpose, holding to the promised hope of his purpose.