My Mother's Face By inSpire with Cyndi Zoch

Photo: Cyndi Zoch
We asked Cyndi Zoch about her background and about how she developed a passion for poetry.

I am a lover of words and think perhaps the Lord laid this in the framework of my person as he knit me together. It has been both a blessing, and at times a curse.

Over the years I have written snippets here and there in the form of journals, letters, Sabbath school programs and even sermons. I love to think and make "pearl necklaces," and string words together like pearls of varied hues. And I love, love, metaphors, word pictures, a good cry and a heartfelt laugh. My goal is to become a fellow traveler with others and to share their pain and joy along the way; to touch across space and time as a friend.

I wrote the lines below just after my grandmother died. My mother's eyes had a depth of sadness that I refer to, and yet because our relationship has been difficult and tenuous over the years, my heart aches for her--she is such a good person. As I silently observe her journey, I come to understand her better, and the distance between us doesn't seem so far any more. How grateful I am for such a mother and grandmother, but more than that, for a loving Savior whose story connects with mine, then he transforms it into something beautiful. Thank you Savior Jesus! This life is sweet and sour, but ahh, heaven, it's not too far off now is it?

My Mother's Face

...I listen to the rhythm of my breath drawn in and out..n catch a glimpse of the mirrored image in the that my face?...are those my fingers? eyes, when did they become so sad, so very very sad?...highlights and shadows, silver and blends...hatch marks etched upon the surface of the that wisdom gained?...those wrinkled hands and lilting lips...generations of mothers and daughters and mothers and daughters and secrets kept held close to the heart and cherished pain and...the turning...of a page...

Several days after my grandmother died, I visited mom: I drove toward the misty grey in the distance, soft gentle rain fell, hair pulled up in a black clippie, heavy pink fleece hoodie...I wondered how will mom be doing today?...I found her writing out checks, hair twisted up and a determined lift in her chin...and sat down to reflect on winsome days and waters under the bridge, and golden moments passed...I read her my poem and we cried and held each other and I prayed for coming days filled with strength and recognized appreciation for sacrifices made to love...and we basked in the warmth of comfort from hurting hearts shared...and it seemed like the light outside grew a shade you mom.

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