Children of Light

The daughters of heaven are weeping.
They spill tears of joy for the children of light,
hushed tears of sorrow for those in the darkness.
They pray for grace, and rejoice in moments of serenity.
These sisters embrace the absolutes in life.
They accept consequences in black and white.
but they live out their lives in shades of gray.
It is not guilt that torments them. It is grief.

The daughters of heaven are weeping.
They nurse their babies, their bosom brimful.
It is a moment precious and private.
The warm milk flows in rivulets of love.
The sunlight arouses memories of the others;
A halo crowns this Madonna and child.
The little ones sleep secure in the sweet folds of
Motherhood and eternity.
This sisterhood does not turn from the choice of life;
Even those that are presented randomly.
They ponder what is, what might be, and what never can be.
Their searching comes from the soul.
A daughter of heaven understands her responsibility;
To God;
To her own body;
She accepts the sanctity of all life;
She steels for the dark moments of difficult decisions.

The daughters of heaven are weeping.
Melancholy invades every maternal moment.
A sister’s swollen belly is a silent reminder.
And infant’s soft cry is exquisitely sweet.
Tears salt the water of the baptismal font.
The years rush past.
They smile in wonder at the straight,
tall children of light.
In their shadows are the images of those
who might have been,
Fair-haired and rosy;
Twinkling eyes, long, silky lashes.
A daughter.

The daughters of heaven are weeping.
Their cries accompany the clamor of conflict and conviction.
Their brothers and sister take to the streets,
Making public this most private reconciliation.
These too are God’s children; they care desperately.
They confront and intimidate;
They build public barricades against private resolve.
“Murderers,” “Baby Killers,” the signs proclaim.
Hateful words from loving people.
This public debate is beyond pain for the daughters of heaven.
The zooming camera, the strident sound-bite is excruciating.
The quiet moments of reverie are wrenching, this exhibition is intolerable.

The daughters of heaven are weeping.
They make their choices in quiet desperation or clear,
reasoned deliberation.
They are too young,
Or too old.
They are sick or world weary.
They are alone, or they have children to feed and clothe and educate.
They have commitments to loved ones and the world.
They walk their chosen path,
Never fully free of grief,
But certain of their course.
The bright eyes of children of light lift them up.