But It’s Mother’s Day
What do you hear,” the child asked the Prophet, curious to know what was happening below the heavenly atmosphere they lived in, “What do you hear?”
“I hear mothers mourning over the lost of their young.”
“But it’s Mother’s Day,” the child replied.
“Oh, how well I know that,” answered the Prophet.
“So tell me what do you hear, Prophet? What do you hear?” The child in its naivety thought the earth had gotten better.
“Silence, child, I hear a faint rumbling coming up from a far.”
“All right, I won’t let out one peeps, but promise me you’ll tell me what you hear?” And the child dance around the Prophet with joyous expectations.
“You have my promise. I will only tell you what I hear.” Suddenly, the Prophet covered his ears. “Oh the rumble, it’s terrible,” shouted the Prophet. “It gets louder and louder.”
“Surely, it is the sound of the people on earth celebrating and cheering as they honor their mothers,” the Child said.
“Shh, now, I hear it clearly,” The Prophet commanded.
“What is it?” The Child asked.
“It sounds like gunfire going off in schools, at homes, on streets––children killing children.”
“But it’s Mother’s Day.”
“Oh, How well I know that.” The Prophet mumbled.
“So tell me something good. Tell me of the songs you hear, or the flowers you see, or children honoring their mothers with surprises on this beautiful Mother’s Day.”
“Wait!” Said the Prophet. “Be still. I hear another cry”
“Oh, goodie. It’s about time you heard a beautiful cry.”
The prophet began to cry before the child, and he began to beat his hands against his breast.
What wrong, Prophet, what’s wrong? Tell me, what did you hear?”
“Like Rachel crying for her young ones over two thousand years ago, I hear mothers wailing; painful moans, no man can ever imagine, coming up out of the heart of women: mothers wailing for the lost of their young.”
“But it’s Mother’s Day, Prophet.”
“Oh, how well I know that,” the Prophet answered.
“So, what do you see on this beautiful day for mothers everywhere,” the child asked, hoping the Prophet would report about the presents that made mommies happy on their special day. Maybe, just maybe, the child thought, the Prophet will let me look down and see the celebrations.
“Shall I tell you what I hear? Maybe then you’ll understand what I’m saying,” the Prophet said.
“All right. Tell me, what do you hear, Prophet? What do you hear?”
“I hear mothers wailing for the lost of their young;
Children, whose lives have been cut off by drunken drivers;
Children, whose lives are stopped short by guns in the hands of distorted minds;
Children, whose lives are prematurely ended by the scalpel;
Children, whose lives are snuffed out by bombs as they sleep;
Children, whose lives have been contaminated––destroyed by chemicals dropped from the air as man fights against man.
I see little people, like you, child, who have no voice
To speak out,
Their lives have been taken away without their consent.”
“But it’s Mother’s Day, Prophet. It’s Mother’s Day.
“Oh, how well I know that!” The Prophet answered.