I want to see God like my mother does.
She welcomes Christ like an old friend,
and loves Him as family,
but all these saints are strangers to me.
From the roots of the oldest tree to the peak of the tallest mountain,
my mother sees the divine in every grain of sand she steps on.
and I wish I could believe that every star in the sky is a gift,
that every creature’s smile is a masterpiece painted by the same artist.
I want to pray like my mother does,
to speak to the invisible like it’s listening,
to worship under stained glass, at home amongst angels.
I wish to sing hymns like each note is a whisper from me to the holy.
To my mother, mythology is motivation,
but all I know is that every day the Earth anoints me with oxygen,
baptizes me in a sea of unsaid words,
stanzas in the shape of a cross on my forehead.
I take coffee with my communion and prefer blue ink to holy water.
Am I made of stars, or cells, or sins?
I was born at the foot of Heaven’s gates,
and everyday I walk further away from my birthplace.
I keep walking until I am so close I can feel the heat on my skin.
When I die, I will live in a little house in Hell’s fiery suburbs.
My mother was born on hallowed ground,
and even as all the other holy children leave their home,
she has never strayed.
She is both Bethlehem and Eden and a cathedral in which I confess my sins.
The sacred places follow her.
And as she stands in her birthplace,
my mother sees God.