(in memory of Susannah Wesley)
photo courtesy of ©GraphicStock.com
I am sticky, with peanut butter artwork
all over my chair; the table is
covered with crumbs and he grins,
with his brown milk mustache.
Susannah had more children than I
have imagined, yet she lived. I do not
understand. She married a preacher; he
was rarely home. Her children were
rowdy, and she had to cook
on a fire, had to churn
her own butter, had to wash
her own clothes – in a kettle. And
be nice. It is said when she most
needed God, she would throw up her
apron over her head (she had sewn it
herself) and her children were instantly good.
Mine are not. I wash my clothes in a
washing machine, my butter is quite
manufactured, my diet is birthed
in a microwave oven, and my children are
somebody else’s. When I most need God –
well, I scream. But then, I have no apron.
cross-posted on Faith In A Dress
