Seeing Myself The Way God & My Mother Do
Photo by Ismael Sánchez
The minutes are already winding down as she opens her dresser drawer, staring at the orderly piles of shirts, pants, and socks. “Order my steps,” she prays. If only that were as simple as laundry. Although laundry is not really all that simple is it? At least finding the time to do it isn’t. Some days the laundry is organized neatly like this, other days the same pants are worn twice in a row, grabbed from the wrinkled basket under the window.
She stops the train of thought, telling herself to focus on finding an outfit. Something she read somewhere said getting completely dressed, even down to your shoes, helps a stay-at-home mom feel more productive, more worthy. Worthy of what, she wasn’t quite sure. And worthy according to who, she knew deep down inside wasn’t the one who truly mattered.
Knowing time is quickly passing, she gathers together an outfit, puts it on, and glances up at the mirror. Pushing past the pit in her stomach, she chooses to love what she sees. She made a promise to herself on Sunday to stop insulting God’s handiwork, the many miracles that testify from the pieces of history found all across the roadmap of her skin. This promise felt bold and fresh those three short days ago, but now it felt like a bother, and she longed for the familiar and comfortable self-pity she knew all too well.
She pretends her own mother is standing right beside her. What would she see when looking at her? Tired eyes from being up in the quiet hours of the night, or the shade of green that matches hers? Freckled hands that always need more lotion, or the once stubby, slightly sticky fingers that were drawn closely in while being guided along a sidewalk? A soft, folded middle, bearing the marks of being stretched beyond understanding, or the belly that was gently patted as it was strapped into a car seat?
The true beauty of a mother is that she can see and know both. She can look back across time and forward into her ever-growing family. Like the seeds of a sweet fruit, a mother can bear both a weathered rind and a new bud at the same time. Grace works in a similar, mysterious way. It sees not just the desperate need, but also the joyous hope.
A tiny sound comes from the other side of the still-open drawer. Looking down, she sees a third pair of ocean eyes studying her as she brushes the last section of hair. She smiles at her, and hums a prayer, bringing the brush down to the silky, wispy strands on the sweet head below. “Look at us. You see yourself? I see you too! God sees us both.”
She runs her hand through the waves of her daughter’s hair. No matter how that hair changes — if it grows longer, if it is cut, if it is straightened, if it is colored, if it thins or even falls out — in this moment, it was held and loved by her mother. And at any moment, any time, any place, the number of hairs on that sweet head are known by God.
