Today, I think of the women.
Of the wife, a survivor herself, who holds the hand of her husband as he fights for his life, seven . . . eight . . . hours a day; she watches the chemo flowing through the body of the one she loves and her soul cries.
Of the mother. Two babies to hold on earth. Several more in heaven. She grieves and wonders and holds her fist to the sky, loving this God that she does not understand.
Of the motherless woman.
Of the fatherless woman.
Of the mother who chose to give up her babies. Those unborn and unborn. Maybe she wonders if forgiveness can ever be hers. Or maybe she has forgiveness and yet her heart aches.
Of the woman who longs for joy. Grasping at it with white-knuckled fists. Begging for mercy. And she clings. And she refuses to let go. Because even in the pain . . . there is beauty. There is breath in her lungs. Blood in her veins. A pumping heart that burns with a love as hot as fire for her children and as steady as forever- glowing coals for the man whose name she claims.
Today, as I stir the soup and fold the dough, I think of you, women. The women in the trenches. And I pray for you. You know who you are.