The little wooden church where we celebrated Mama’s life

Is so much like her:  a little austere and yet joyous,

Making do with what is given, exuding a shiny luster

On what might otherwise be overlooked

In this too-busy, too-big world we think we call our lives.

In the sanctuary among those who loved her

My fractured heart embarked upon the long journey of healing.

Though I had been broken open, the wounds raw, the grief profound,

Within the church, I experienced a state of grace, pure as a salt breeze,

Gentling all that was miserable in me.

Faith has never been my strong suit, and I’ve often questioned God,

But in that little wooden church, for a moment in time,

I had no doubt, no doubt at all, and I felt safe in Mama’s arms as Someone held her too;

Healed, at peace, accepting, open, believing in that higher love.

I will return to the little wooden church.