There was this mother. She carried secret life close to her heart. She dreamed of promise.
One day, these dreams had to change. You see, her promise would bud but not flower.
With strength of steel this mother dared to love anyway. Life grew, protected within her as shadows darkened above her.
Life cries out into the gathering shadows.
Mother picks up her precious bundle and cradles it to her heart, just above a wound that is opening. She begins the difficult journey into the valley. Blood from her wound marks the way; tears scar her face.
One day, she enters the valley and this brave mother surrenders her precious bundle to the cold ground. The wound gushes red, filling paths carved by tears. She wanders.
Slowly this wound, though bleeding always, gushes less. Hesitantly the sun’s rays push through the shadows. She is brave enough to step into them.
She begins to climb out of the valley. Scarred, but climbing.
A new secret. Promise renewed. Carried close.
Hope born. Joy released. Emptiness satiated.
Then a heinous tearing, screaming and blackness. No slow descent but a mad tumble back into the valley. Blood hemorrhages from the gaping wound.
How can this mother endure a second journey? How does she push dirt over a new mound? How will her screams be silenced? Can light penetrate so deep a darkness?
What happens when the weight is too much and the bending becomes the breaking?
From where does hope rise?
Will she know that while she carried her babies into the valley, her Father carried her?
Perhaps all that remains is the prayer that when her fists cease pounding His chest, she will be able to lean against it and rest.