For the French Mothers

I have never been to France.  Merci and oui oui are the only French words I know, and those I learned from Fancy Nancy.  France is far away, and the tragedies of this weekend could easily be pushed out of my mind by my present reality and responsibilities.

But, there are brothers and sisters in France who are devastated.  And, though, I find it difficult to relate to them in this time of tragedy, my momma-heart aches considering the many french mothers who are grieving today. It is not that my heart is not tender towards all the suffering people of France, but sometimes to genuinely care for people, and therefore, cry out with fervency to God on their behalf, we must find a way in.

I imagine, you feel a bit like I do–your heart is saddened for France, but it also feels distant and unrelated to the lunches you need to pack tonight and your grocery list for tomorrow.  But, can I encourage you to not think of a large, faceless, group of people in need of our prayer; and, rather, imagine those you can, perhaps, best relate to: hurting moms.  And, then, cry out on their behalf.

In 2011 a Tsunami devastated Japan, and I felt similarly saddened and yet detached, until I considered the mommas.  Below, is a poem I wrote after that event, which was later published by Finishing Line Press, in my chapbook, I Call You Light. My hope is it will help you, as it did me, find a place to relate & empathize with those grieving, and with a pricked heart intercede that God would be known & glorified in the midst of tragedy.

 

A Prayer for Japan

 

After pulling my daughter’s bedroom door shut, I whisper

a prayer for the mothers of Japan.  My littlest is tucked to her

 

chin in a handmade quilt reading with soft shadows cast against

her pages from the night light.  I lean against her door, knowing

 

she’ll stay safe all night, and lift my palms to Heaven to plead

for Japan and her mothers.  I hear one of them cry from my

 

throat.  She sits sheltered in Shizugawa.  Her firstborn son

leans against the back of his sister.  Their black hair washes

 

together, swallowing itself the way water stomachs beach sand.

Their arms cross, palms pressed to a cool cement foundation.

 

She has one trembling hand on each of their rising chests—

she pushes them into each other.  A moan slips from her lips

 

when the girl whispers she’s tired and still hungry.  On my knees

her moan, salty and ragged, pushes through my throat.  I do not

 

have to see her to know what she would give: slicing her wrists with

the knife hidden in her waistband, she’d let her blood run warm

 

into a bowl, watch life swirl out of her if it would redeem

her babies.  She would wipe it over every doorpost, lose herself

 

in the wood’s grain if it would fill them.  Instead, she presses her

crusted lips against her daughter’s temple, Heiwa, Heiwa-

 

Peace, peace, I plead with my fists clenched. Let intercessions bleed

from my mouth as my daughter whimpers in her sleep.

 

Let’s pray together for France…for the world.  How do you teach your littles to be aware & empathetic to peoples of the world? Share on Facebook

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