The Christmas Gift of a Mother

We are quickly approaching Christmas. Advent is almost over. The birth of Christ is so near! 

Throughout this Advent season, as I have been trying to prepare my heart for the coming of our Savior, I have found myself thinking about the Blessed Mother and her incredible role in the life of Christ. Upon the conception of Jesus, God the Father (in His unending Mercy) decided to give us two Christmas presents: a Savior who would die for our sins in order to open the gates of Heaven, and a Mother who continues to love and pray for all of us.

Gen 3:15: I will put enmity between you (the serpent, Satan) and the woman (Mary), and between your offspring (the minions of Satan) and hers (Christ); He will strike at your head, while you strike at his heel. 

I think that most of us could agree that there is no love as great as the love of a mother. So, let's think about that love for a moment...through my own mother's "yes" to God's vocation for her, she chose to be a vital contributor in giving me life. When Mary responded to the Lord with her own "yes", she did the same thing, but on a much greater scale. Mary became a vital contributor in allowing all of us the opportunity to seek Eternal Life in her Son. She sacrificed her freedom in order to help raise the Son of God. She became the holy vessel that our Lord deemed fit to enter the world through. She is an example of what all Christians should be doing: giving herself totally to the will of God. 

Mary was not a clueless young woman who just happen to stumble upon the Angel Gabriel. She was literally created with the intention of being the Mother of Jesus Christ. She was/is the woman that the Father chose out of every woman on Earth to be the Mother of God. The Fourth Commandment instructs us to honor our father and our mother...Jesus honored his mother countless times throughout the Bible, and if that isn't proof that we should do the same, I'm not sure what is. 

Luke 1:38: Mary said, "Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done unto me according to your word." 

I have been lucky enough to have a strong relationship with our Heavenly Mother for my whole life, but I realize that this isn't true for everyone. But the good news? The good news is that Mary is in Heaven right now, praying for you and routing for you as you journey towards the coming of the Lord. If you haven't been thinking of Mary this Advent season, I encourage you to pause for just a moment and speak with her. She knows what pain feels like...after all, she watched her only son die for sins that he didn't commit. She knows how hard it is to trust the Lord completely. She wants to go to God with your struggles, joys, accomplishments, etc., and ask for Him to bless you and guide you so that you may one day find rest in your Heavenly home.

John 19:26-27: When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple there whom he loved, he said to his mother, "Woman, behold, your son." Then he said to the disciple, "Behold, your mother." And from that hour the disciple took her into his home.

As we come closer to our Christmas celebration, take advantage of this gift (the gift of a mother) this Christmas. Find a place in your heart for Mary. She already has a place for you in hers. 

Author's Note

Author's Note 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Let me try to paint you a picture:

There are three people sitting next to each other, all lined up like light on a Christmas tree.

They are three different stories brushing pages with each other.

I sit in the middle. I end a chapter. Maybe they do too.

Or maybe they are still at the introduction.

Maybe they just decided to begin.

What font is their story written in?

I wonder if they are the protagonist, antagonist, or just a supporting character.

There is no such thing as just a supporting character.

Remember, not every character is beautiful.

Some characters won't even try to be.

I wonder if their folly is the same as me; loyalty can break a book's binding.

Ink can run.

Chapters can be ripped out, and...

characters can die.

Authors...sometimes they use pseudonyms.

I think that's because they don't quite know where their story is catapulting to when they begin.

Trajectory is a funny thing. Sometimes arcs can get out of hand.

Sometimes, we forget that we are writing in pen.

The present can turn into the past in less that a split second.

Permanence is half a step away from temporary.

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Warning: Danger Ahead

Warning: Danger Ahead

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I'll explain to you the difference between the two of us.

You are a volcano. When you erupt, you demolish those in your path.

You go without warning. 

Even you don't know how to cope with your destruction.

Me?

I am a sinkhole.

I fold in on myself. If people looked closely enough, they'd see the cracks. 

I always leave little warnings.

I don't know how to cope with my destruction, so I hope you'll catch on before it's too late.

We are two different kinds of disaster.

One is loud and sudden.

The other...desperately trying to be louder; trying to be blunt, but not succeeding.

You are a volcano.

I am a sinkhole.

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure which one of us is the most dangerous.

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A Letter to the Poems I Never Shared

A Letter to the Poems I Never Shared

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

You are not mistakes.

You are lessons learned, risks taken, words unforgotten, thoughts explored but never vocalized.

Just because you were read to an audience of one,

(that one being me)

does not mean you haven't touched a heart or served a purpose.

I don't know if you know this, but sometimes the words left unspoken are the ones most important.

Sometimes words that are locked away, deep in the corners of a persons heart are the ones that are too precious.

So precious that they don't allow anyone else to see them.

No one else will need them the way the author does.

The lines I wrote into you are the ones that I remember best.

You are important. You are not mistakes. I do not regret creating you.

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Truths That Need to be Told

Truths That Need to be Told 

A poem by Brigid Cooley

Tear stained pillowcases aren't unheard of and fairytales are improbable at best.

It's okay to break down every once in a while, even if the place you do it is the dine-in area of a Taco Cabana on a Monday night.

Dramatic music doesn't play in the background during important moments in your life, even though that would be a nice touch.

It's okay to not know where you're going.

It's okay to not know where you'll end up.

Life's a stage, but the actors never got the script.

They're all just improvising.

We are all just improvising.

Sometimes people won't hear your silent cries.

It's okay to turn up the volume.

Sometimes, you won't have the energy to turn up the volume.

That's okay too.

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Tuesday's

Tuesday's

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Behind a cloud, lightning strikes.

Outside, it smells like Christmas.

The air is still, the wind is on vacation.

A little girl laughs.

A piano plays, thunder claps.

Mascara runs.

Cars rush by.

A coyote howls at the moon.

And you're not here.

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i.

i.

A Poem by Brigid Cooley 

i think in the terms of poetry rhymes and nursery stanzas. 

Someone once told me that i had it backwards;

i responded, "Now you finally understand." 

i like stringing together nothing's in an attempt to formulate something's,

and sometimes

vice 

 versa. 

It is hard to be a keeper of words. 

secretly, i hate my voice, 

but every night i sing myself a lullaby.

It's difficult to sing when you want to cry but i do it anyways. 

Because, if i didn't sing for me then who would?

Red lipstick makes me feel pretty. 

Once i realized that raindrops were really just tears falling from angel eyes, 

somehow, that was enough for me.

If i had a dime for every time i really let myself go, 

i'd have exactly forty-five cents.

Someone save our sincerity.

i won't make change for a dollar.

He taught me that Levi's have pockets full of metaphors.

i've never had a reason to smoke before,

but now i puff smoke signals into the atmosphere.

"Now you finally understand."

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Books By Ally Carter

Books by Ally Carter 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley 

During the summer, I bought 12 new books. 

I only read two of them. 

I do realize that it's because I'm afraid of new places. 

Today I looked at my bookshelf, trying to find a story to lose myself in, 

And I picked one that I've read at least 5 times. 

Its pages have given me paper cuts time and time again,

But the sting it leaves is familiar, so I grip the pages carelessly. 

Go ahead and cut me.

At least I know the wounds you leave me will heal. 

On rainy days, I bury myself in the corners of your binding. 

It's warm there, and I've always loved the beach. 

You're safe. 

I know the rhythm of your voice like I know the lyrics to the songs we screamed together when we were 11. 

You're not good for me,

But at least I know that. 

At least I'm not guessing. 

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Fingerprints

Fingerprints 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Have you found yourself in my poems yet? 

You're everywhere, like fingerprints all over a crime scene. 

When I reread my words, I just hear your name pounding in my head. 

Did you know that you have a distinct rhythm? 

One that is uniquely yours.

No one else makes my heart beat the way you do. 

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Someday

Someday 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I hope that someday,

While you're brushing your teeth and listening to the radio, 

A song comes on that makes you think of me. 

I hope that you hear my voice in the chord progressions.

I hope you stop for a moment and think back on all the moments we've shared, 

Even the seemingly insignificant ones. 

I hope that you look up at your mirror and, 

For a moment, 

Wish that I was there, 

looking back at you. 

I hope that someday, you aren't just my Someday. 

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Purple 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

One day, like a Venn diagram, 

Our words will overlap in paragraphs that finally make sense. 

Not in places like, "goodbye" or "good luck." 

In places like, "I love you." 

Your red and my blue will mix together to make purple.

The same purple God decided to paint into His watercolor sunsets. 

We'll be the color people think of before they open their mind to Milky Way dreams and moonbeam lullabies. 

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You

You

A poem by Brigid Cooley

Part I

You are the question mark at the end of my sentence,

The opportunity I never had but still somehow missed. 

You are letters I wrote but never sent. 

You are the lyrics I could never find a melody for. 

The words I didn't think to say, 

The goodbye I let slide by, 

The hug that was simply too short. 

Your compliments? 

I ponder them until I'm wearing holes in them. 

I wonder, were there lines for me to read in between, 

Or were your words just simple? 

You used say exactly what you mean. 

Time has forced our continents to break apart, 

Feelings eroding, salt water tears dripping down our hearts. 

The angles of our faces have changed, 

But I think our eyes managed to stay the same. 

You. 

You've changed, and I won't lie and say I've stayed the same. 

We...

are a perfect example of bad timing. 

Part II

I noticed your cologne first, 

and then the way you ran your hands through your hair like you were looking for something. 

Answers. 

I think you were looking for answers. 

I felt the questions you were asking without even having to hear you say them. 

You are the question mark at the end of my sentence.

I found it hard to pull my eyes away;

I haven't felt that way since I was 7. 

I want to be the person who breaks your writers block. 

I want to be the topic that drives you to the pen. 

I try to memorize the way your arms feel around me. 

I realize that, for the first time, you didn't want to let go. 

I've never wanted to let go. 

I realize the importance of timing. 

I want to be the answer to your questions.

I want to tell you to stop making a mess of your hair.

Silly, don't you know?

answers aren't found in hair. 

They're under your nose instead,

And I just happen to be shorter than you.

Part III

When I get nervous, I start spewing answers. 

Usually the answers to questions that weren't asked. 

People have always come to me for answers, so that's all I know. 

That's why I'm rambling, stumbling over my words, not saying what I'm thinking. 

I've never been all that good at thinking. 

Answers. 

What I'm thinking will result in questions if I verbalize it.  

These questions are ones that I don't have the answers for. 

I lost my cheat sheet. 

In fact, I'm not even sure if I ever had one. 

"Salt water tears sting. Did you know that?" 

"Pi equals 3.14."

"The best book for rainy days is Jane Eyre." 

"Courage is knowing who you are and not doubting yourself."

"Cowards don't talk about how they feel."

I have answers. 

But you're the question mark at the end of my sentence.

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Beginnings Are Hard

  I have rewritten this first blog post about 12 times now, and it seems as though I don't know how to start this. What I can say is that beginnings are hard. 

 I'm starting this blog because I want to write. I want to write and share what I had to say with other people, which is something that horrifies me. I'm going to have to get over that fear if I ever want to actually publish a book, which is a goal that I have, so I decided that I good way to get past that is to start a blog. 

 Saint Augustine once said: "You aspire to great things? Begin with little ones." I aspire to many great things when it comes to writing, but I'm going to take Augustine's advice and start with little ones. This blog will be for little things, like a random poem I might feel somehow obligated to share, or an opinion on some current topic, or a movie review, etc. Just little things.