She sits there at the kitchen table, crocheted cap on her head, watching you cooking in her kitchen.
She’s good at everything and you’ve wanted so long to be like her. To do the needed things fast and with a certain joy.
She’s sitting there watching you with pride in her eyes. She’s tried so hard, so long and now she can see it.
You are being her, in her kitchen.
She hears it as you say, “I wish it was me, Mom. If I had cancer I wouldn’t worry about my house not getting cleaned, I’d just lay around and read a book to ignore the pain and you’d clean and cook and love me up, but maybe God wanted us to learn each other’s strengths?”
You ask her again, what was the girl’s name who carried her Bible with her all over the High School? She tells you, goes on to tell you one last time her testimony. You didn’t write down the name so now you don’t know but maybe that’s okay too.
She was impressed by the devotion of a girl hugging her Bible and she loved the story Mary Jones and her Bible, and you think of all the Bibles in your house, on your iPads, in your churches. She underlined all over hers and now it’s one more, one precious link each time you click on the verse that meant something to the heart that bore you, gave God to you.