Mighty woman with torch, we're here for you
Birth. It's real, full of raw agony and ecstasy. And totally worth it.
As we celebrate this nation’s birth, I can’t help but think about birthing and mothering and what a wild child this nation we all know and love is.
Having birthed nine of my own babies, I can testify it is beautiful -- pain and joy intertwined -- and it doesn’t stop, ever. We are called to continually birth, nourish and guide our offspring throughout their lives.
When our son went to college at Villanova University near Philadelphia, we took our children back East to experience the history of America. We wanted them to taste, feel and slurp in the birthplace of our democracy.
From Washington D.C. to Pennsylvania and on to New York, we stood before the beautiful monuments made of marble, bronze and stone. The Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Valley Forge, Gettysburg and the 911 museum signified for us the beauty and pain that accompany the birth and development of a nation.
But it wasn’t until I was standing on the shore in New York, looking out at the harbor, that I saw with tears blurring my eyes the woman I so desperately wanted my children to meet. I even had them memorize her profound words. (It’s amazing what a bag of Skittles can do for motivation.)
Suddenly, there she was. The mother. Strongly radiating mother love, continually birthing democracy because of her words. She was so much larger than life.
Oh, strong, nurturing mother, we need your help. You stand there so silently. There is chaos and division at your feet. Your children are screaming, fighting, scrambling for power.
Mother, we are all overtired; our poverty is deep. We huddle in groups, deeply divided. And we yearn desperately for you to help us breathe.
Your presence fills our sky, but we are unable to hear you.
But in spite all of the confusion below, you refuse to put down your lamp, and we love you for it. You stand there so quietly, so radically. You shine your light and speak your truth.
I’m listening. I think I hear you.
In our self-consumption, have we forgotten there are others who desperately need you? Have we forgotten those who are huddled on distant shores or nearby borders?
Even though your own brood is a tangled mess, you, Lady Liberty, keep shining your light and it travels through the bleakest dark to those other children, the outcasts and marginalized.
They still hear your beautiful unspoken words; they see your radiant light and they hold hope that there’s a place with a loving mother who welcomes every child, even the inconvenient ones.
We are the land of plenty and abundance. We need to keep balancing what it means to be welcoming while being safe and responsible. It’s a complicated dance, but there’s always room for one more at the table: saints and sinners, all colors, cultures, ages, stages and abilities. Every child matters.
Her flesh may be copper, but the ideals of truth and love are most alive. We need to keep them so.
We need to look up. We need to listen to Emma Lazarus’ words emblazoned at her feet. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tosssed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
We need to look up. Lazarus tells us she is the “mother of all exiles,” that she is a “mighty woman with a torch.”
Mother of liberty, I stand in solidarity with you. I know the weight of motherhood, but I also know its joys. Can I – can we – help you hold up that lamp?
Angela Connelly of Tacoma is president of the Washington Women's Network. She is one of six reader columnists who write weekly for this page. Reach her by email at angelayconnelly@hotmail.com