by Kendra Thompson
Lord, teach me how. Not by books or courses, not with prestigious titles, excessive income. Teach me instead to let nothing clutter my heart. Prepare me to be emptied of all that stands in the way. I guess this training already began. The pinnacle when, eight years ago, my body, practically useless, became a swollen mass supporting a growing womb. Head, tired. Shoes, outgrown. Mind, scattered. All I could do was rest and wait. Finally, one Lenten Tuesday, I was wheeled on a bed, arms outstretched, my body barely clothed. The doctor’s tools made way for life to be extracted from my failing body; and then he came – the boy who made me a mom. They say the Blessed Mother bore many wounds. But one of them was that, by scorn and shame, she delivered a son who’d save the world, then die. Heavy work, it is, but I aspire to it. Teach me self-sacrifice, Lord, even when it scares me. Shape me into the mother who resembles the cross, whose joy is because of you, whose self-abandonment leads to belonging.
Kendra Thompson is a wife, mother, writer and minister living in Northwest Iowa. Her work has appeared in Spectrum, Body Love for All, Poet’s Choice and These Interesting Times. You can find more of her writing on her blog www.crylaughsnort.wordpress.com