I’m captivated by ideas about life being a journey.
I contemplate references in writings to mothers.
I gravitate toward recognition of commonality of human thoughts and experiences with the Creator.
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In recent readings I was reminded of a hymn, “Now Thank We All Our God.”
It has been ages since I’ve thought of this one, having learned it at one point in high school choir.
As I found a good version to listen again, I contemplated one of the lines:
“Who from our mothers’ arms has blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.”
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Having what some would label the “mother wound,” it is natural that this one line popped out to me.
I thought first about my mother and my “mothers’ arms” – from what I know about my earliest life, from my mother herself, is that I would not allow her to hold me. She repeatedly told me the story of how I only wanted my father from infancy into early toddler years and the first time I said “Mama” was when my dad was playing and tossing me in the hallway and I got upset and called for her.
I also know that she was unable to care for me during the days when he was at work in those early years, though she did not work, and I was cared for by the neighbor across the street.
So in reading these lyrics, I contemplated the idea of being blessed on my way from my mothers’ arms.
The lines in the hymn about being blessed from our mothers’ arms is powerful because the symbol of mother is one of the most basics – first, the gift of life itself – and additionally, the typical source of nourishment, nurture and safety.
Yes, I have been blessed on my way in life, from the imperfect arms of my mother. And in the bigger picture, I am grateful to God my Creator (and the many others who made this true) who has faithfully carried me to this point on my way…in this journey we call life…
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My mind then turned to these lyrics written in 1636 and I thought about our world today, and the world of that year. I even Googled “1636 History” to get a sense of highlighted events of that time.
Images and knowledges we can now easily see and know of children suffering – from emaciated starving children in poor countries, children displaced by War, infants taken from the sacred moment of birth not into waiting arms of their biological mother but into the awaiting arms of an adoptive parent, children in poverty or in the arms of abusive mothers…these only begin to touch on the sorrows of this world which seemingly fly in the face of that lyric…
Some disparities in this world have no good answers to the question, “why?”
And I wondered on the arguably limited perspective the author of this age-standing hymn may have had when asserting:
“Who from our mothers’ arms has blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.”
Who are “us?” Who is “ours?” What are these “countless gifts of love?”
Was this beautiful and true hymn penned simply from some position of privilege?
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I thought about being sent on one’s way…on this journey of life. I thought about the beautiful writing by Kahlil Gibran, “On Children.” Our children are not our own, they are arrows shot into the future…and we are the “sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself…”
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I see and acknowledge that I have indeed been blessed on my way…simply the gift of life itself is a blessing.
And you, you have indeed been blessed on your way, too.
When we look at suffering in the world, it can be hard at times to behold the incredible gift of life itself.
When we look at our personal journeys, it is an opportunity for gratitude that we are here and to marvel at the mystery of our own existence, in-and-of-itself.
We are here in this life given us by our Creator – and able to contemplate that we are here at this very point in our journey.
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These are some of my reflections this Thanksgiving Day, and I invite you to reflect on several other of my familiar favorite writings that came into my mind (and one I found through a Google search), prompted by thoughts about the line in this hymn.
Below, following the hymn, I share three of these writings…
...the first is…
…to broaden the narrative in this wonderful hymn beyond Christian expression to the Creator… (Native American Prayer to the Creator)
…the second is…
…to include the narrative of this wonderful hymn to the hurting… (God Our Mother Poem)
…and the third is…
…to inspire those who see their way as difficult and closed-off…to envision the world and life as wildly exciting and beckoning to us… (Wild Geese)
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Wishing a grateful and Happy Thanksgiving celebration to all!
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Now Thank We All Our God
Now thank we all our God, with heart and hands and voices,
Who wondrous things has done, in whom this world rejoices;
Who from our mothers’ arms has blessed us on our way
With countless gifts of love, and still is ours today.
O may this bounteous God through all our life be near us,
With ever joyful hearts and blessèd peace to cheer us;
And keep us in His grace, and guide us when perplexed;
And free us from all ills, in this world and the next!
All praise and thanks to God the Father now be given;
The Son and Him who reigns with Them in highest Heaven;
The one eternal God, whom earth and Heaven adore;
For thus it was, is now, and shall be evermore.
Words: Martin Rinkart, circa 1636 (Nun danket alle Gott).
Translated from German to English by Catherine Winkworth, 1856.
Great Spirit Prayer
Oh, Great Spirit,
Whose voice I hear in the winds
and whose breath gives life to all the world.
Hear me! I need your strength and wisdom.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes
ever hold the red and purple sunset.
Make my hands respect the things you have made
and my ears sharp to hear your voice.
Make me wise so that I may understand
the things you have taught my people.
Let me learn the lessons you have hidden
in every leaf and rock.
Help me remain calm and strong in the
face of all that comes towards me.
Help me find compassion without
empathy overwhelming me.
I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother,
but to fight my greatest enemy: myself.
Make me always ready to come to you
with clean hands and straight eyes.
So when life fades, as the fading sunset,
my spirit may come to you without shame.
– Translated by Lakota Sioux Chief Yellow Lark in 1887
To be a Mother is to suffer;
To travail in the dark,
stretched and torn,
exposed in half-naked humiliation,
subjected to indignities
for the sake of new life.
To be a Mother is to say,
“This is my body, broken for you,”
And, in the next instant, in response to the created’s primal hunger,
“This is my body, take and eat.”
To be a Mother is to self-empty,
To neither slumber nor sleep,
so attuned You are to cries in the night—
Offering the comfort of Yourself,
and assurances of “I’m here.”
To be a Mother is to weep
over the fighting and exclusions and wounds
your children inflict on one another;
To long for reconciliation and brotherly love
and—when all is said and done—
To gather all parties, the offender and the offended,
into the folds of your embrace
and to whisper in their ears
that they are Beloved.
To be a mother is to be vulnerable—
To be misunderstood,
Railed against,
Blamed
For the heartaches of the bewildered children
who don’t know where else to cast
the angst they feel
over their own existence
in this perplexing universe
To be a mother is to hoist onto your hips those on whom your image is imprinted,
bearing the burden of their weight,
rejoicing in their returned affection,
delighting in their wonder,
bleeding in the presence of their pain.
To be a mother is to be accused of sentimentality one moment,
And injustice the next.
To be the Receiver of endless demands,
Absorber of perpetual complaints,
Reckoner of bottomless needs.
To be a mother is to be an artist;
A keeper of memories past,
Weaver of stories untold,
Visionary of lives looming ahead.
To be a mother is to be the first voice listened to,
And the first disregarded;
To be a Mender of broken creations,
And Comforter of the distraught children
whose hands wrought them.
To be a mother is to be a Touchstone
and the Source,
Bestower of names,
Influencer of identities;
Life giver,
Life shaper,
Empath,
Healer,
and
Original Love.
by Allison Woodard
-atw, 9.28.17
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
by Mary Oliver
Thank You For Reading
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