Crimson Harvest

“I think I’d like a cup of hot tea,” her mother said as they rode the elevator down to the cafeteria level.

“Not me,” replied Heather. “I want a cappuccino as sweet as I can get it.” They laughed together as the doors opened and they stepped out into the corridor towards the cafeteria. They passed people in the hallway, not dwelling on their worries or hurts but simply enjoying the gift of each other’s company as they walked along together.

Yet, with each glance her mother cast her way, Heather could discern a weight of care, the care of a mother for her daughter. The awareness that she was the object of such a powerful kind of love was both comforting and frightening. She knew that such love made her mother vulnerable to pain and grief as nothing else could. The wounds on her face could hardly tell the tale of the wounds that Heather had wrought on her mother’s heart. Her eyes became a little moist, so she kept her face turned away until she composed herself. She silently prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for the gift of such a godly mother.