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Forgive Me Mother

aijalon
aijalon Members Posts: 919
edited March 2011 in Waiting To Exhale
Told mommy I was an atheist. Such was my mind state.
Her horror gave way to desperation as she suggested that I take an introspective look at the world in which I reside.
How can you not believe in 🤬 yet be witness to all His glory?

The wonder that is His creation escapes me.
All I see are single mothers wearing skin tight jeans; the look in their eyes is desperate. “Will 🤬 for Food. Must Feed Baby.” Is the sign that hangs from their respective necks. I see dead beat fathers on an all too familiar bus ride to an upstate retreat.

No I don’t see the works of His hands.

Predatory eyes stalk their innocent prey; fatherless children kneeling before broken men in high ceiling cathedrals. Their heart beat is almost audible.
Robed figures cast them hateful glares; suggestive that they are the authors of their predicament.
In a back room a pastor softly caresses the cheek of his lover; across the hall one time his male companion seethes.

Sometimes I hate 🤬 and the works he has created.
I witness his craftsmanship. Wielded in the hands of African juveniles self medicated into a mindless zombie state.
Their reality is blood, violence and gunshots; fear has long ceased to enter their residence.
I see the tears of mothers holding the hands of their daughters. They have no words to console. How do you make sense of being violated by 20 crazed beings who look like you, talk like you and once felt just like you?

The back page of the paper featured a brief story of an unidentified man found murdered in the park.
Below that story a newly single mother of three begs for police assistance; her husband has not returned home from work.
She last saw him three days ago.
Employed as a minimum wage laborer he toiled daily in a certain futile attempt to keep the roof over his family’s head.
Surviving just to suffer was his plight.

On the nightly news; a feature on a Jersey Shore cast member.

The wife of the nameless 🤬 holds a candlelight vigil.
Stoic is her countenance; her demeanor masks the uncertainty and fear which have now become her only companions.

On bended knees a mother beseeches the unseen Force, begging that her son return from war.
All he ever wanted was to be a hero. The anti-dad; everything that his mother ever said that his father was not.

Rosary beads clutched tight to his chest a son prays for the sweet release of death.
He lays broken beneath pus soiled sheets.
Dreams of saving the world have long materialized into painful realities. The slow rise and fall of his chest a reminder of the fragility of human existence.

How does the omnipotent one determine how to answer conflicting prayers?
Is it on first come first serve basis?
Simple minds need not pretend to comprehend the incomprehensible.

I wish good thoughts for my brothers. I tap my chest at their memories; raise a clenched fist at the thought of the ancestors.

Lay my head down and sleep soundly after the nightly routine has been performed;
After I ensure my soul salvation; Deadbolt, Alarm, machete close to head.

Forgive me mother for I have sinned. I heeded your words; they served only to remind me of the cruelty of your 🤬