Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

I am a Mom. Far Out.

Last week I was in the card aisle at our local grocer's. As I stood there, scanning the racks for Mother's Day cards, pushing the cart back and forth in an effort to keep my little boy asleep, I had one of those incredibly silly moments.

I am a mother.

No longer just a daughter, just a granddaughter, just a daughter in law, this day was for me now, too. I was shopping for a card, but sharing in the experience, wishing for others what I hadn't thought about wishing for myself.

I, a mother? Thirty-two years of giving handmade cards, "coupons" for back rubs, flowers, and chocolate and suddenly I was thrust behind the sacred veil myself.

Oh, God, make me worthy of the name.