by Kathe Schaaf
And then there was a day when I was a girl
when I could not help but notice
(as all little girls
must notice
if only for a moment)
that God did not appear to be a woman,
not a Mother;
that God did not offer a lap
where I could come for comfort.
Ever.
It did not occur to me then to question
what kind of God this must be,
but only served to confirm
what I already had observed:
that to be a woman
did not seem to be a place of power;
that to be a woman
did not seem to offer a divine place to stand;
that to be a woman
somehow left me
further from God.
(But not really…)
I listened carefully to the prayers
and the hymns
and the sermons
in the church of my childhood,
and I could find no evidence
that I was not,
because I was female,
somehow,
further from God.
Every parable,
every story,
seemed to confirm
what I already knew,
what the dragons whispered
from the secret cave
deep within me:
I was not only a poor miserable sinner
but a woman,
and she was the biggest sinner of all,
the original sinner.
And there was no lap
where I could come
for comfort
in the face of that.
Yet somehow,
somewhere
in the far distance,
I kept hearing a maternal voice,
that would whisper
validation,
encouragement,
subtle clues
and sacred mysteries.
If I listened,
I could find myself
from time to time
in the middle of a miracle
that could take my breathe away.
If I listened,
I could discern
a delicate and graceful pattern
in the ebb and flow of my life.
If I listened,
I could end up
both on the edge
of my own learning and
nestled in a lap
where I felt comfort.
This was a Mother,
a miracle of a Mother,
who exhaled courage
and had no use for fear;
who would maintain
loving eye contact
in the face of all my rambling stories;
who celebrated me
and urged me to be big.
This was a Mother,
who was in me
whenever
I would let her be.