Inspirational Poems of a Prairie Girl

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Who was Genevieve Sullivan Markert?
2006-11-13 02:54:00
Irish Immigrant RootsGene vieve Sullivan Mark ert is my mother. She was the granddaughter of Irish immigrants. Her grandfather, Owen Sullivan, immigrated to New York from the Lakes of Killarney County, Kerry, Ireland, in the 1840s. He was a poet and ballad singer and came to America during what was called “the second wave of Irish immigrants,” those who emigrated from Ireland because of the economic depression caused by the potato famine of 1845. Initially, he took whatever work he could. Eventually, he owned a livery stable, a trade he learned in Galway, Ireland. Soon after the Civil War, Owen Sullivan left New York with his young bride, Mary O’Neil, a school teacher, who was born in 1824 in Kerry county Ireland. They were married in Windsor, Ontario, Canada. They traveled west in a covered wagon and built a log cabin on the edge of a wooded area near St. Paul, Minnesota, where Owen worked in a lumber camp. Owen and Mary Sullivan gave birth to nine children, including our grand...
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Viewing Genevieve's Poems in a Literary and Historical Context
2006-10-30 20:00:00
Poetry presents a spirit-voice that orders reality around it. The poet both apprehends reality as it is and projects his or her own inner state onto the external world. In her poems, mom weaves, tucks and tufts her mind into images of the world around her. She presents situations that reveal the inner beauty and essence of things, as, for example, in The Mystery of Spring when she writes of a tree coming alive again in May after a long cold winter on the harsh Minnesota prairie:Its arms to the dancing blue and its eyes to snow-capped heights,And toes deep clinging to the prairie soil,It grew—a radiant Peach Tree—in tender tones singingThe mystery of spring, the beauty of love,‘Til everyone could know,The joy of a peach tree aglow.Through her poems mom expresses her relationship with herself and her world, a relationship of intuitive creativeness, where her poetry serves as both a vehicle for bonding and communicating and as a device to protect. She can hide her true feelings i...
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Song of Life
2006-10-29 20:16:00
Dearest forever, I’d give my life away,I’d ask you never, for e’en one little day,Yours just to do with as you pleased,Yours til the life in it has ceased,For I trust you in everything you do.My strength—I’d give you all I have,My heart for only you would beat,And all my prayers be your retreat,For all my love then to atone,For I trust you in everything I do.(Early 1920s)This undated poem was typed with a stanza format, internal and line- ending rhyming, plus two conventional poetic word usages, (“e’en” for even, “til” for until), that makes me think mom wrote it while she was a student studying poetry (or music, since she called it “Song of Life ”). Its theme is the classic “Bride of Christ” theme, expressing the total commitment and trust and devotion to Christ, to be and live as He, the Son of God, would want her to be and live. This attitude reflects her devout Irish Catholicism. Regardless of when she composed it, she never wavered from this attitude ...

Be Strong
2006-10-28 20:22:00
We are not here to play, to dream, to drift.We have hard work to do and loads to lift.Shun not the struggle.Face it. ‘Tis God’s gift.(Early 1920s)Mom scrawled this on the inside of the back flap of her composition notebook from Loretta Heights College in Denver, where she was studying to be a nurse. Eventually, she left her studies to return home to the farm in Heron Lake to help her family, becoming a teacher in a local school. The little poem captures her philosophy of working hard, not complaining, seeing every struggle as an opportunity given by God, bestowed on us by Him, to carry out His will. All her life, through every household move, every child pushing inexorably toward his or her own independence and suffering inevitable setbacks and disappointments, she never wavered from this attitude.Once when I was trying to tuck her into bed a couple of years before she died (about 70 years after this poem was written!), I was trying to get her into the middle of the bed so she w...
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Dreams of a Blind Man
2006-10-27 20:33:00
I strayed away one summer day from the land of bustle and noise.My thoughts?They wandered far away to play with their dreamy toys.The shore was cool, but the sun was bright;I felt the day and thought not of night.My dreams! How they sparkled in rainbow hues,And brightly danced in grays and blues.And colors sublime? I saw them, too.I know ‘twas so.But now…now …Where did they go?‘Tis dark! ‘Tis dark again at night,The dark without a ray of light.The green of the trees, the blue of the skies,Have gone with my dreams.To Paradise?Ah, Yes! I’m sure! I’m sure ‘tis so!And now I pray through everyday that I again to them may sometime go.(1922)Here mom shows her knack for escaping into her rich imagination and enjoying, at least for a moment, its “rainbow hues” and brightly dancing “colors sublime.” She is the dreamer, the “blind man,” speaking in the masculine voice, and I can’t help thinking that, though she never stops or stopped believing in her dreams, there...
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Song of the Heart
2006-10-27 04:09:00
I sang a song as I passed alongOf the one I loved most dear.I sang a song midst the thick of the throngOf the one I longed to be near. Not a melody rich with cadencesNor trills and heart-rending runs,Nor a rhyme in step with the dances,Nor a technique which dazzles and stuns.Just a simple little tune, I sang—“Two steps to a stride” marking timeWhile the tinkle and merry laughter rang,singing the light of faith in rhyme—‘twas a song of the heart, I sang!I sang a song as I passed along,Of the one I loved most dear—I sang this song midst the thick of the throngOf the one I longed to be near.(1920s)Since the original is typed and has only one correction on it (fourth line “longed” was originally “loved”), I have a hunch this was written by mom in her earlier years, maybe during college. It has the musical motif, which suggests to me she was still playing the violin, maybe, and the fact that it has a theme of “longing” for someone suggests she was not married and ...
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My Dream House
2006-10-26 04:17:00
It isn’t, of course, and it shan’t be,For years and years where passing eyes might see.Yet deep in the depths of will be, must be,Already it stands complete—Pine trees hiding the drive,Sheltering the doorway and nooks,Rugs on the floor—dishes, pictures and books,A wide fireplace and a winding stair for looks.Surely you’ll love it, this Dream House of mine,And visit it often any season or time,When drowsy south winds hum prairie tunes,Or biting north gales tempt fireside runes.In summer a door open wide—In winter a lantern outside!My Dream House, come true!(1920s)Technically, this is one of mom’s most complete and perfected poems, I think, each word working well to flow with the next, sketching out the colorful, concrete details of the dream, each line building the theme. The poem was typed with only four small corrections and three phrases added in pencil, which suggests that she had worked on it by hand several times before finally typing it, and then made a couple of...
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God of My Heart
2006-10-25 04:19:00
Oh, God of my heart,Give me strength and the power to live,Lend me love and kindness others to give,And with Thy children so far apart,Bless them today, Oh God of my heart.(Late 1920s )This was penciled as is next to the poem Rapheal. It is a little prayer, a simple expression of mom’s faith, asking for strength, love and kindness, so that she may be able to give these to others, and asking God’s blessing on all children who were “so far apart.”
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Bondage
2006-10-24 04:23:00
Whirling, swirlingInto the lives of men,Brick on brick, plaster on stealGirded and crowded and held—Bond ed are we!God of my heartGive me strength to fight to the freedom somewhere,Give me strength to withstandThis clutching and jolting, to breathe without choking,This murky stifling air.(1920s) This poem was typed without any corrections on 61/2” by 81/2” notepad paper, which makes me think it was written while she was a student in the early 1920s, either in Denver or St. Paul/Minneapolis, where there must have been much construction going on. In a revision entered into her composition book in ink and dated 1928, she changed the last three lines to: Give me breath to withstand/This clutching and jostling/Give me Light! Either way, I imagine the poem originally reflected a moment when she missed the clean country air and open skies of the prairie back home. The image of the suffocating steel-girded, polluted urban industrial city is presented carefully and then, centered in the...
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Builders
2006-10-23 04:35:00
To help someone?Is that our aim in life?To help another find his peace and brave his daily strive?To find the kinks which others make,And smooth the paths which they must take,And just help along with a singing song—Could that my mission be?Perhaps ‘tis so…To walk beside a Build er,yet not the Builder be.Tis thus, then I shall gladly go.(1927)Mom wrote this in her college composition book at Loretta Heights. It shows the young adult’s searching for clues to there own identity and direction. Here she weighs the purpose of her life as being that of a helper, perhaps even help by cheering up “with a singing song.” I’m guessing the word” Builder,” since it is capitalized, refers to God, the Creator and Maker, and her wish is to “walk beside” him in her journey through life. As Leretta Heights College is in Denver, I'm sure she sought inspiration and guidance about her future through the natural beauties surrounding her in the mountains of Colorado, as well as throu...
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Friendship
2006-10-22 04:37:00
Oh, Friend s hip is a funny thing!You never know “for sure.”It keeps you always wondering!This doubting, fearing, hoping and worring to endure.But still, my friends, I’ll never give up,Though sleep awake I must.I’ll listen til the wonderings stop,Or till they turn to dust.Pensive One(1927)This was written in November 1927 in mom’s college composition book while she was at Loretta Heights in Colorado. She signed it “Pensive One.” It reveals her understanding of the mixed feelings we often have about our friends and ourselves in friendship, our doubts and fears and anxious, sleepless nights. I can imagine she was struggling with meeting new people, students from around the country, for the first time, and like many college students struggling to determine how to establish intimacy and trust with people she was meeting in college. I like the last two lines, “I’ll listen till the wonderings stop, Or till they turn to dust.” This reveals her deep commitment to stay with...
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You Are So Many Miles Away
2006-10-21 04:39:00
You are so many miles away,And yet so close, My Dear.I cannot quite just understand,That you really are not here.I do not try to understand,I am much too glad, you see,That things are now just as they are,and wish that they could always be!(1928)This poem was dated May 28, 1928. I don’t know if this is a love poem written to dad during their long distance courtship when he was in Boston and she still back in Minnesota. I don’t think it could be. They met on a blind date, but I think it was a year later in 1929.They weren’t married until June 16, 1930, two years after this poem was written. The poem may, therefore, have been written to a family member, probably one of her sisters, or could just be mom playing with the sentiments and words of love. Regardless, this is an expression of real love. Mom has shifted in these eight lines from a level of wishing things were other than they are to accepting, even embracing them, at a higher, deeper level, as they really are….true love...
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Little Knife
2006-10-20 04:42:00
“I’m a powerful thing,” said the Litt le Knife . “How is that?” asked the Oak’s jealous wife.“While others must sing and dance for their life,I just cut and cut,” said the Little Knife.“You silly thing!” sang the tree so tall.“How could powerful be such a thing so small?You’re not strong or big like me,Nor up in the winds and always free.You can’t wave your arms or bend your knees.You can’t dance with the wind whenever you please!What a powerful thing, indeed!” laughed the tall tree’s wife.“You’ll know when I cut!” warned the Little knife.So with one sharp blade did he cut and he saw,‘Til the oak tree’s trunk was as thin as a straw.Then down came the oak with a dreadful crash,Her arms and her knees broken in a flash,And she learned for herself, did the Oak’s jealous wife,What a powerful thing is the Little Knife.(1928)Mom’s skill with words and rhyme and her creative, playful mind are very evident here. This rich imagination allowed her to...

Alone
2006-10-19 04:47:00
Alone, alone—He is always alone, it seems to me.A friendly nook with others he cannot see.Alone was he destined always to be?Perhaps a friendly hand,Just touched in passing now,Might hold a cheering thought,And give the friendship sought.And then perhaps no moreAlone would he wish to be…I wonder!(Spring 1928)This poem was in mom’s composition book as is. Several things strike me about it. Mom was twenty five at the time, a young adult for whom, from a developmental standpoint, intimacy is a major concern. Young adults who fail to connect with others suffer loneliness and feelings of isolation. This poem shows mom’s empathy and compassion for this state, her natural feeling for the importance of connection with others, achieved perhaps even by just “a friendly hand, just touched in passing, that might just hold a cheering thought and give the friendship sought.” It was her nature to be sensitive to others’ feelings, to be cheerful toward them, not let them feel alone. E...
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Sunset
2006-10-18 01:28:00
Warm downy clouds aglow with light,Above and beyond green lacy trees,Ever shading from greys to purplish –pink to white, Announce now the approach of night.The chirp, chirp of a bird,And a dark flash ‘gainst the sky,The crying laughter of childrenIn the yard nearby,Herald nighttime’s nigh.Oh! Warm by your hearth,Ye tiller of soil.Gather your fond ones, large and small,Rich in their blessings at the light of day,Shaded in peace and mist:Let them now feel their day.(1928) Mom was always connected to her environment, aware of the season’s changes, the phases of the moon, the shifting of the clouds in the sky, the sounds around her….birds, children, people talking… and she always appreciated these all as parts of the larger design, the larger blessing of life. This poem was written in the spring, May 1928.
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Little Burgler
2006-10-17 01:31:00
Oh, Tell me Litt le Burgler, the secret of your charm,You who steals all work-thoughts from my studious arm,You with eyes like garden pools in sunlight and in rain,Reflecting the magic of growth, in laughter and pain.You’re a Cherub and Prince and Beggar, all wrapped up in one,And each day I live with you, it appears my life’s just begun.Alone to the world we may seem to be,But your Father, you and I,Love has made into one on into eternity.(1929) Though this poem is dated fall 1929, it seems to refer to an experience of mom’s relationship with her first child, Mary (pictured here), a “little burgler” who steals her attention from her chores (“studious arm”) and has “eyes like garden pools in sunlight and in rain reflecting the magic of growth, in laughter and in pain.” I can imagine her writing this feeling that, in living day-to-day ith her first newborn child, her life would seem to begin anew—“Each day I live with you, it appears my life’s just begun”—a...

The Mystery of Spring
2006-10-15 20:30:00
Many, many years ago, in the Land of the Sky Blue Waters,A tiny seedling began to grow.For years it grew—a slender stalk, an eager young tree—inhaling the freshness of spring and the early morning dew,through many suns, and many moons too,fresh leaves unfolding each spring, strong limbs baring each fall.Still, no one knew from a mere glimpse of this treeWhat sort of friend it might someday be.It was one May day in the afternoon, that finally appeared its first bloom—a delicate pinkish glow.Day upon day, in ecstasies, raising its heart to its Maker,Its arms to the dancing blue and its eyes to snow-capped heights,And toes deep clinging to the prairie soil,It grew—a radiant Peach Tree—in tender tones singingThe mystery of spring, the beauty of love,‘Til everyone could know,The joy of a peach tree aglow.Though warmed by the sun, day after day,No fruit did this peach tree show.So autumn and winter came its way, to strengthen, to rouse its deep slumber,Then springtime again, a...
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Life Everywhere
2006-10-14 20:28:00
Mother Dear—And it’s spring again,New life budding everywhere—In the treetops, and the bushes at the curb,Down the street—A peony sprouting under the ivy,And a rose peeping up through our pansy bed,And a downy-white cherry tree glorifyingThe “Guest Room,”Awaiting that precious life to bloom when the cherries ripen—There’s awakening this spring,Both inside and out! (May 1931)This poem was clearly written in Beverly, MA, while mom was pregnant with Mary, who was born just two months later on July 1, 1931. This is truly a beautiful expression of mom’s devotion to Mary, the mother of Jesus (“Mother Dear”), after whom she named her first child, and of her deep sense of being a part of nature, of the creative process. She and the trees and flowers around her are one! This poem brings the essence of her personality together better than any other of her poems, I think. In 65 words, she has interwoven the major themes of her life: love of God, Love of Mary, love of fami...
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I Found My Horse
2006-10-14 01:42:00
I found my horse with its back to the street,Neat and quite discreet.One eye winking toward the sea,There it sheltered me.High on my perch in the old birch tree,I can watch the summer-folk stroll along,And sleep with the pounding surf-cliff song.Oh, Sea! Lick your sand endlessly!Lash at the rocks with foam!Landlocked dry on the cliff am I,Where the gas lamp glows on my step ‘til morn,I’ve found my haven from stress and storm.(1930s)This sounds like it was written during the time the family lived on the rocky North Shore of Boston, just blocks from the ocean, or farther in town in Somerville. The nature images here are central to mom’s thinking and the theme of finding a haven from stress is a key to her personality, her ability to take things in stride, to find calm and stay steady in the midst of crisis and chaos and uncertainty. The horse, birch tree and cliff are all sheltering, intertwined concrete images symbolizing her “haven from stress,” the actual abstract emotion...
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Between Two Fronts
2006-10-13 01:45:00
Abroad awaits the cry:“The Second Front is opening—Stand by!”At home, already two fronts we stand between—The front of today and the front of tomorrow.Our perspective must be clear-cut and keen.When the detonation of Pearl Harbor blasted millions of earsAnd closed the senseless front of yesterday,Like empty urns along the curb we passed them by,Those beautiful babies of yesterday.Battered and smudgy and hardy they grew,Like empty urns now they gathered rustWith every wind that blew—Protection they never knew—Push or be pushed—survival now—Instinctive nature’s cry. It’s God’s world and no man lives for himself alone.God’s spirit must survive.We’re duty-bound to serve our Father’s will.The curtain rises on the Lost God of this Tragedy of the Age.1941What strikes me most about this statement is its deep anger and sense of senseless tragedy. It is a fragmented grouping of ideas, probably written just after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941. There ...
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Juvenile Delinquency
2006-10-12 01:50:00
How can we face our Juvenile Deli nquents with a steady eye,We who so blindly passed them by?How can we condemn their parents and their spirit,When we forced their pride to die?With Patience we must labor to undo,In Charity we must Faith instill anew!(1940s)This statement was scratched in pencil on a small USO note, probably in the early 1940s. It shows mom’s compassionate liberal social point of view, which sees juvenile problems as the result of a systemic failure of the adult establishment to heed the early warning signs in childhood. It calls for an attitude of patience and charity, versus judgment and punishment, for the rehabilitation of youth who’ve gone astray. Mom maintained and espoused this attitude throughout her life.

Please, God!
2006-10-11 01:53:00
Please, God , help us find our way back.We’re lost in the noisy city streets.Maybe You forgot about Dopey:He’s dashing about whither and thither!We don’t dare let him out alone.He needs wind and weather,You know—that’s all his own!He won’t grow on what he eats,So many things to see and do,He scarcely sits one meal through.It isn’t much to ask for Dopey—One spring and summer by the seaTo crunch along the drifting sands of Manchester Where everything’s so clear and free.We never could take him to the flinging sands of Rivere.He sure be trampled in the crowdsStampeding in a Lachemere.Sneezy’s voice is low and hoarse.Happy doesn’t mind, of courseAnd Grumpy and I know what it’s liketo be shoved and pushed andjostled about,And Bashful, too.We can shout our way out!But Dopey—we never know what he will do!God, can’t You see your way through?(1940s)I’m not sure who “Dopey” is here. Could it be her, or one of the children? This was written on a scrap of paper ...
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Mark Ye, Men of War and Political Fame!
2006-10-10 01:58:00
Mark ye, men of war and political fame,Who burn the midnight oil over maps and blueprints,Don’t lose your way, counting your spoil while others also toil,Whose dollars buy the bombs, which mount up steadily with weekly bonds.If it isn’t the steady fathers who don’t miss a day—Socks and groceries what they are, keeping them on their way— It’s mothers laboring until midnight beckons the new day,With mops and needles and gay prints,Preserving, too, what they can to buy more “Bonds”.All over our nation’s soil—from Washington to Maine,Down the coast, over the hills, over rivers, deserts, mountains and back again—A silent army of workers is preserving the real American Way!How can you threaten them?Where are the women who cherish you to let your minds so stray?Yes, you may squander our money. This we’ve learned to endure.But don’t squander our blood, our children!Social Security in dollars may look fine in print,But what good is a cold dollar on Johnny’s coffin...
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The Value of Time
2006-10-09 02:01:00
The value of time.The success of perseverance.The pleasure of working.The dignity of simplicity.The worth of character.The power of kindness.The virtue of patience.The wisdom of economy.The obligation of duty.The influence of example.The improvement of talent.The joy of originating.(1940s)This is an amazing expression of art and philosophy. It was written on a small jagged piece of cardboard, above, that looks like the corner of a laundry detergent box, in ink, and looks like it was written hastily. The parallel syntactical structure, the repetition of “the” and “of,” interlocked with 24 separate words that spell out mom’s ideals or principles for living, truly create a mini-masterpiece. I can imagine her having this inspiration while doing her chores, maybe just emptying out the soap box and tearing off the corner, and then sitting down for a moment (only a moment, for she never wrote long epic or two page poems!) and jotting down these lines, then tucking them away somew...
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Things to Keep, Gifts to Make
2006-10-08 02:03:00
Things to Keep 1. Your temper 2. A sunny disposition3. Secrets4. Promises5. The Sabbath6. Your hair Gift s to Make 1. To your enemies: Forgiveness2. To your opponents: Tolerance3. To a friend: Friendship4. To a child: A good example5. To all men: Charity(1940s)This was neatly written in ink on a small paper and glued to a piece of cardboard, shown above, which makes me think it was special enough to preserve and keep handy as a reminder for mom to stay on track. If so, this writing shows mom’s commitment to self-improvement and growth, a commitment that I witnessed throughout her life. She was always interested in keeping up with new developments in the sciences, etc, and loved learning through books and the newspaper (always clipping out articles) and TV shows like travel shows and National Geographic.Equally important here, though, is the clear sense of moral and social values that mom had. She exemplified each of these, taught them to us both implicitly and explicitly all her life...
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Today Belongs to the Future
2006-10-07 02:06:00
We give it all.We never know what time will grow.Today we sow,Tomorrow reap—A little seed cast here and there,And tended with our loving care.No one plants all he can keep.(1940s)This was scratched out in pencil on the back of a White Plains Corn Flakes Shopping items note sheet, probably in the 1940s. A few words have been changed and a line torn off at the bottom. Probably a thought mom had as she was working in the kitchen. Her connection to the soil, her farming background, and her scriptural mindset are all presented here in a statement that reflects her philosophy that we do things today in preparation for tomorrow. Mom always looked forward to the spring, even when we lived in small apartments and could only plant flowers in little pots or flower boxes on the patio or next to our door. All she needed was a sliver a space where the sun shined. She made that her garden, even if we just had a few pansies.Each spring we had to plant something. That was in her fiber from her day...
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My Soul Shall Be Serene in the Blessing of the Mourn
2006-10-06 02:14:00
Hour after hour,through torment and searing pain,God of Calvary, help me to endure,That I might know, Oh Master, your dignity in pain.Oh, God,If once again I walk into the dawn,My soul shall be serene in the blessing of the mourn.(1940s)This poem was penciled onto a scrape of paper, probably in the 1940s. It is an elegant prayer reflecting, perhaps, a low point for mom and her turning to God for the strength to deal with life’s hour-to-hour, day-to-day struggle. Her life became increasingly stressful with each additional child and each new move. I can imagine her feeling overwhelmed at times were it not for her faith, which allowed her to face each day with strength, serenity and gratitude: “If once again I walk into the dawn/My soul shall be serene in the blessing of the mourn.”
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Perspective
2006-10-05 02:16:00
Beyond my narrow window lies a world of things,Beginning with this tree which gives my soul its wings: From deep within the silent sodThe sun has drawn its hidden life to God.(While the usually noisy street still sleeps,The majesty of early dawnQuietly rustles through her green leaves.)Through the darkened curtains of night,Two red beacons of the air,On the distant shore,Keep their lonely vigil with my fingers,While I “tune in” with God.Though root-bound to home and homely choresMy hands and feet may be,My soul now soars with God eternally.(June 1945)This poem is another prayer. It was written while we were living in the housing project in Newport. Mom had eight children then. Mom had eight children at the time, ranging in age from 3 to 14. She wasn’t yet pregnant with Julie. I can imagine, then, that she looked out her window often, both before going to sleep at night and on awaking in the morning, and in this looking-out put her life in perspective. She did this every day th...
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Hands of a Woman
2006-10-04 02:19:00
Hands of a woman, your finest tools may be,To serve, to mold, to cherish,God’s humanity.Heart of a woman, beat with loyalty,With love and sympathy,To fire the sparks of life for God’s eternity.Soul of a woman, radiate sorrow,With courage and faith,To lift above today, God’s tomorrow(1945)Judging by the way this poem was first scribbled January 2, 1945, in pencil on the back of a tattered envelope, mom jotted this poem down quickly. She crossed through three words and blotted out four lines, then later revised it and entered it into her notebook in ink on June 8. This is a clear statement of her sense of her own feminine identity and her role in God’s eyes. She sees herself, all women, as having been given gifts “to lift above today God’s tomorrow,” that is, to use for God’s ends, not her own. Her view of her hands as “tools” to shape God’s humanity, her heart as a source of warmth, loyalty and nurturing, and her soul as a source of courage and radiance to ligh...
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A Woman's Hands
2006-10-03 02:21:00
A woman’s hands,finest tools may be,To serve, to mold, to teach,God’s humanity.A woman’s heart,Glowing warm within,To care, to cheer, to love,Whichever man may need.A woman’s soul,Radiant torch within,To light the darkness,To lift above today,To light tomorrow,To brighten up the way.(January 2, 1945)Judging by the way this poem is scribbled in pencil on the back of a tattered envelope, mom jotted it down quickly. She crossed through three words and blotted out four lines, but his is a good example of her clear sense of her own feminine identity and role in God’s eyes. That she few her hands as “tools” to shape God’s humanity, her heart as a source of warmth and nurturing, and her soul as a “torch” to light the way, gives three powerful positive images of her sense of who she is and what her purpose in life is. I don’t think she ever veered from this center point of her existence, for even on the day before she died, as Asako and I sat with her in the afternoon ...
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