Resting by the Mother Tree
Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash
I stand by the tree that my mother and I planted outside our home, holding the clothes she had sewn for my wedding day. The clothing was first made for her son to be married to me, but neither of the marriages arranged for her sons lasted very long. They all died–her two sons and her husband. One marriage for her children persevered: that of Boaz and I. I am not her child by birth, but I am her child through the chains interlocking our souls as mother and daughter.
She has left us today–as all leave. Yet, she has left me here with my husband and my dearest son. My child and I are inconsolable.
Now, I find myself at the tree that shades the abode made for my mother, Boaz, my child, and I to live in. She was the one that thought the tree would symbolize the new life we made for ourselves. Indeed, it did so. Yet I would argue that it was having each other that made our lives bloom. She made me the wife and mother I am today. I recall those moments together, shortly after I married Mahlon, where she took me aside. She wanted me to know of her Lord and the ways that her people, the Israelites, were blessed by the covenant. She shared stories about their ancestors Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. She told me that one day, someone in her family would be remarked by the ancestors as faithful and the Lord’s servant in the same way. The closer we became, the more I wanted to be that person for her.
When it is my time and my child buries me, you can find me at the Mother’s tree of life waiting for you. I tried to give you heaven on earth, but nothing can compare to where you will slumber now.
All too soon, Mahlon was gone–as were my mother’s husband and other son. Even as she cried, she focused on holding and keeping me and my sister-in-law safe. In this time of mourning, why did she think she could turn me away and relinquish her motherhood to me as well? She could not relinquish my love, nor I hers. We walked one path together and found comfort in each other as she became my mother and I, her daughter. As she lost her faith, I found mine in her. I knew I would become the safety she needed. So, I sought security. I held my dearest Boaz to his birthright of marrying me as the next of kin and providing my mother and I a son–a son to be both of ours.
This is the story they will tell our descendants, mother, but what they will not know is the life we will share together when my time, like your time, is done. Our line of descendents will have strength beyond imagining, because we share the covenant between mother and child. The relationships onward will remain as sacred and be blessed.
You could never have imagined this in your grief, when we shared our sorrows in the death of your husband and your son, my husband. In those days I had only begun to understand the power in the bonds of family and in the God you knew so well. I now know the Lord deeply and intimately, as if the Lord was my birth mother who laid me on her shoulder and rocked me to sleep. The voice of two mothers spoke through you, and even though you are gone, I still hear it.
I still hear of a future that calls both of us forward as we hold hands and bathe in the sunlight. Just as our Lord chose Israel, so did the Lord call us to one another. You could not cast me out, because I made you a mother again–in me and in my womb. You healed the past through sharing stories with me and your grandchild–stories of your sons who laughed outside in the fields from day to night and stories of when I became part of the household and your daughter. You healed through long walks spent in conversation as we gathered water from the well.
How harsh life treated you, mother. Our Lord heard your prayers and sent me to you. We led each other out of this harsh existence and found life in one another. When you were sick and dying, I soothed your head with a wet cloth. When you died, I placed you with your husband and sons. I left spices and myrrh on your body, cleansed you, and adorned you in purple robes and a crown of flowers. I mourned the loss of a mother, but I know that the Lord will embrace you the way your own mother did before you left her house. Just like me, you will receive a new mother and find that just like me, the Mother chose you and receives you as a gift. May you be held at the bosom of the Mother and find nourishment like no other. You will never again be hungry and thirsty, because the Mother will care for you in the ways the world never has.
You will find your young boys frolicking in the fields again. The boys that you birthed, fed, and taught into adulthood will find you in the Mother’s garden. You can hold them again the way I let you hold my son as your own. I can only hope that the memory of your daughter remains with you on your journey. When it is my time and my child buries me, you can find me at the Mother’s tree of life waiting for you. I tried to give you heaven on earth, but nothing can compare to where you will slumber now.
Do you see the Lord’s promises made true in the eyes of my son? He looked at you as if you gave him life yourself. Truly, the Lord will give us both a son that hails from the heavens. We will both long be dead before we see his reign, but in the multitudes of our offsprings each one is a child to us. In the way that you adopted me and chose me, may Joseph choose the Lord’s son as his own, and the Lord choose each of us as children.
I long for the day when we are all adopted into the Kingdom. I know you must be there, mother. I see you in visions shepherding sheep. That sheep was me; you guided me towards a new life and cared for me. In my dreams, as a sheep, I run amongst your sons in the fields and eat the grass along the garden. When I die, take me to this Kingdom. There we can finally rest together by that tree of life we first planted.
