Our Lady of the Living Room Floor

By the low light of the baby monitor,
she removes her makeup and 
recalls the shining successes of her friends  
as they gathered around the table that night: 
their new jobs and promotions, 
the annual review meetings,
the conference next week in California. 

At the far end of the table,
she’d sat silently recalling her own afternoon,
the 27 minutes she’d spent 
searching for her son’s lost Ninja Turtle. 
No, not THAT one. 
The one with the ORANGE headband. 
MichaelANgelo. 

Earlier that week at the dentist's office,
she’d once again written
N/A
on the form under Employer:
for her work consists of 
clipping tiny fingernails 
and peeling carrots
and reading
Brown Bear, Brown Bear
at least four times a day,
And really, is any of that applicable?

Her world is small, 
her people smaller,
but the reaches of  
Our Lady of the Living Room Floor
will be immeasurable.
Because love, 
intricate and true, 
is spelled out in the 
grapes that she has cut into 
impossibly tiny pieces, 
Handed one by one to her daughter, 
and sermons on patience delivered
as she watches her son
triumphantly climb the steps of King Candy’s castle
for the 157th time. 

She is a resounding echo of He who entered 
the very world He had created
to primarily focus on just 12 men, 
their dirty feet and repetitive questions.
His calling was not greater
than to notice the tug at His hem, 
and mercifully, 
to turn. 

Her own hem is smeared with 
peanut butter fingerprints,
and day after day, 
she too turns
to the ones who tug, 
the ones who ask, 
the ones who need. 
A conduit of Love. 
A glimpse of Glory. 
Her world is small, 
her people smaller
but the task at hand immense.