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Grant us peace.
She's been pulling things out of the closets and attic for weeks. My mother.
Clothes, pottery, pictures, memories, toys, albums. She has not been well and well....I guess she felt it was time to get some things in order. Have you noticed that when people physically slow down their words get longer? And deeper. Measured. Transparent.
Money rules the world in every direction I look; lack of it or abuse of it for power's sake. We are seeing whole tribes of people being uprooted and moved to the next nation until somebody figures out what to do with them. Children never sleep while the hovel around them crumbles. And on our side of the planet, I see unspoken concern and despair on the faces of people. Worry. Sickness. No health insurance. Jobs are scarce and underpaying. People are stressed beyond anything I've seen and hurting with no end in sight.
While we're forced to watch the vileness of the most shameful American election I've ever witnessed, families are using and losing all they have just to pay the bills. They still manage to get up and go to work to make $12.00 an hour to feed a family of six while two billionaires banter back and forth about who contributed the most to charity on their tax returns.
But back to the closet cleaning.
My mother told me of a lingering memory she has of her own mother. She remembers seeing her walk to work down the middle of the railroad tracks in the early morning and back home again at night - sewing in a hosiery mill to feed five children. It didn't matter if she was sick, she'd still go to work. And there was never enough to eat.
So when she pulled out a bag full of scraps, scarves, jewelry and wedding lace, it felt like a sacred moment between us and all who walked before. Another torch of strength passed from her hand to mine.
My great-grandmother's handmade monogrammed handkerchief is to the left, along with a set of emerald green jewelry that I saw my grandmother wear from time to time - a gift from Papa.
Given to my mother.
And now given to me.
My beautiful grandmother, who gave me the wrinkle in my nose, never told me about the railroad tracks or the poverty. She wouldn't talk about it. But I saw a strength and a dignity in her that could only be carried by one whose weary body and soul sought to feed hungry children with all the might she had.
The gloves and the jewelry came later when Papa walked into her life.
And oh, she knew the value. Stitched with love. Chosen with love. Worn with love.
Cherished through three generations.
|Great-grandmother's monogrammed handkerchief|
And he will give you the gift of gloved hands and jewels.
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