In the genealogy, at the beginning of His story, and your story too, mama. At the beginning of all that. In the genealogy, the lists of "son ofs," in the history and the lineage, there are the interruptions.
All these interruptions. Man, man, man, man, man, man, woman, man, man. Just a name. Slipped in like a breath. A breath of interruption. Nothing more. A feminine ending. A gentle sound amidst "the son of," "the son of," "the son of." Whispered interference in the patterns of centuries, patterns old and strong as the rocks, jutting up like monuments. Building heavy, stark monuments. Crying, "We saw the god here!" And holding that moment in stone forever. A trophy. An endless string of accomplishments. They see. They grasp. They claim. They Build. They say, "We are STRENGTH." Over and over again. And then just these little breaths of interruptions. Girl names thrown into the pattern. Hardly there.
But you, mama. You, with a name that does not even fit in the pattern. A name that must ride alongside your husband's. A name that should not even be a breath of interruption, a whisper.
Your name, sweet mama, strong mama. Your name stops the story. Your name, spoken by an angel.
And your name, your breath of interruption, it is not some meek, quiet whisper, working its way around rock and monument of those men that keep seeing and saying, seeing, and saying, seeingsayingbuilding. No mama.
For all the ways you have been silenced. Over and over again. in the patterns of centuries. Mama, you have been the scapegoat. Strong and silent. Bearing what the monument builders could not bear. The blame, the unbearable beauty and utter sadness of seeing. Seeing without saying. Without building. Without claiming a monument. A trophy. Of seeing and bearing all the broken. All of the blame for the breaking.
For all of the ways you have been silenced mama, when your voice broke the pattern, it was not some whispered interruption. It was a cry. It was REVOLUTION that you said. Revolution. Not an interruption. THE interruption.
And all the names. All the breathless interruptions of feminine endings, of the emptiness where a "son of" should have been. Mama, they are like water splitting the rock. Drink for the thirsty in the barren desert of stone and monument. Living water.
Crying REVOLUTION. Crying WE TOO HAVE SEEN. Crying LOVE.
