Behold Thy Mother

Now there stood by the cross of Jesus his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Cleophas, and Mary Magdalene.

When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son!

Then saith he to the disciple, Behold thy mother! And from that hour that disciple took her unto his own home. —John 19: 25 – 27 (KJV)


The compositions of my life are arranged in three passionate movements.
The orchestra plays beautifully; the lead violinist weeps with tears,
Falling on the varnished wood and the strings of his instrument.
After the performance, in stillness the crowd sits,
And after a long pause, they stand and clap to break their silence.
Heaven’s Poet Laureate writes sonnets that tell of agony, love, and death;
And of how he turned his face and wept when she took her last breath.
It was three words she spoke before she left,
And a child went home and stood in the room where she slept,
To catch her aura, and to take a part of her to place in his heart,
Where until this day it is protected and kept.
The orchestra plays again; the first movement — a sonata.
At the end, the lead violinist bows with tears
And blows a kiss as he remembers her.

Her Only Son

When I was a child, I thought if I stared at my mother’s pictures for hours and weep, I could bring her back from her eternal sleep. I joined the ranks of the motherless children who rode their bicycles in the night, in tears, with their mother’s memory still in them. An only child, I witnessed the pain in my grandmother’s eyes; the agony she carried from the loss of her children. She told me long held secrets before her transition; in my young body and receptive mind, I sat quietly and intently listened. Early in her marriage she had suffered a miscarriage, and through her life, she had endured tremendous damage. That evening I became a man; holding back my own tears, she knelt and wept, and let out all the pain of the years. I took my grandmother’s hand — and kissed her, and held her, and told her that she had become my mother, and that she was all I had, and that I loved her. In those moments nothing else in the world mattered; and on that night, oh that precious night, I swore an oath to myself in a small room under the heavens, that I would die to protect her, and stored that night in the depths of my soul, so I could always remember.

Her Cogitation

Sitting on a twin sized bed in a dimly lit motel room, she lights a cigarette and opens up a bible; she inhales the nicotine, then a slow exhale. After reading a few verses, she closes her eyes and takes another pull; she has worked all night and she is tired, with a little redness of the eyes, but she is beautiful. The intricacies of her contemplation could never be properly conveyed through any written literature or narration. She makes money anyway she can, to feed herself and provide for her son, but she seldom sees him. She prays money’s accumulation will be her salvation; she wants to be a much better mother and live again. The tobacco in her cigarette nears its end — she takes a drink, leaving the condensation on the night stand. She lies down with the television on, the volume low. The comfort of a comforter underneath her, she meant to cover herself, but she was too exhausted. Her eyes close with the hopes of beautiful dreams. She slips her left arm under the coolness of a soft pillow, falling asleep in her heels.

Beautiful Mother

In and out of consciousness, before she left, she reached for her son, who wept with his head turned, and in that moment, she released all the pages of her depths, so that even in death, he could hold onto her; and with all the strength she had left, she lovingly whispered three words to him, while wiping away the tears of his weeping, in her last breaths.

Memories Of a Loving Past

Memories of my father;
Oh wait, I never had a father;
So instead I dedicate this day to my mother
Who cried in quiet darkness,
And lived in silent suffering,
And I remember those nights as a child
I didn’t understand her pain
And the depths of her,
But I wrapped my arms around her 
To hold and console her,
As we cried together,
And I told her I loved her,
And we had each other,
Then we prayed together,
And she told me she would leave me never,
Then she said although we didn’t have much,
We would always have love,
And each other;
Then she wiped away my tears,
And I kissed her,
Smiled, and thanked the heavenly Father
That I had a loving mother.


It was on the inside that I cried but you couldn’t see my pain. I hid it from the world. A heavy burden to carry; a seemingly perpetual cross to bear. A distinct type of pain and suffering you carry so long that it becomes a part of you. I tried many times to shake it, to deliver myself from it’s hold, but to no avail. If only you knew what I’ve been through; if only you knew my desolation and sorrow. Happiness seems to run from me, and joy seems to escape me. Many times I am told to leave it behind me; to just move on. I am asked why I can’t break free from it; why I can’t circumvent the mental despondency that can wreak havoc on one’s life. In my silence I look at them; I look through them, and I know that they could never understand the depths and levels; the intricacies, and the complexions of me. The profundity of my spirit; the torment I endure. The breadths of my very soul. They could never understand the strength it takes to endure. To survive. To live.

Many would have fallen by the wayside. Many would have lost all hope, but I am quickened by the thoughts of my grandmother, a woman who went through her own struggles and depression; a woman among women, kind and loving in all her ways. An angel to the poor and downtrodden, and a bright light in a world of darkness. I watched her in her suffering. The days and nights she wept. The prayers, and the solitude. Yet she overcame; yet she remained strong in her long-suffering; yet she held strong in her belief in God and was unshaken and resolved.

Even when her own family turned their backs she held on to her faith and remained steadfast in hope. It was her and I against the world, and even at that tender age, I was a young boy with steely eyes, and a fervor within me that I carry to this day. I may be down, but never out. On the right there might be fire, and on the left deep waters but I am never unnerved. My pain pushes me through. It forces me to either transcend or wither and die, but I am a conqueror, and I will not see myself fall. I refuse to concede; I refuse to lose.

I consider the earth and all the beauty within. The promise of tomorrow. The life within me. The lessons and life experiences that I’ve endured. My mother; my grandmother; the people in my life that were kind to me, and the people who left footprints on my heart. Those beloved ones. The ones I will never forget. The ones that loved me; the ones that I will always love. They lift me up and they give me strength. I rest in their memory; I take refuge in love and peace, strength and honor, understanding and forgiveness. I overcome. I transcend.