Every week she walks to the front, taking the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation in her hand. She holds on to the chairs for support. She smiles as one who knows that all is well. She is frail. She is beautiful. And every week I see her and my heart lurches and the tears fall. She reminds me so much of my mother.
My children laugh at me when I tell them this. Because, you see, she wears socks with her Birkenstocks. There are no well-ironed creases in her shirts. She is short. My mother would have stayed home from church if Birkenstocks were her only footwear option.
But the way she walks, holding on to those chairs, the way her smile exudes wisdom and trust, these are reminders of the mother I miss. And watching her daughter's hand resting on her shoulder makes my hand burn with longing.
I miss you, Mama.