Tiger, Tiger

My mom had successful surgery yesterday. A part of her body was moved, and our prayer is that her cancer has been eradicated. We experienced an incredible outpouring of love, prayer, and support and our spirits are lifted. I'm feeling a bizarre mixture of relief, residual anxiety, exhaustion, elation, feeling that the first step of this new journey is now over, but as my brother said, "Yeah, but that was the easy part. The hard stuff is still to come." True ... but I have recognized that I only have a certain amount in my Strength Bank, just enough for today. My mom might be coming home today, since Medicare will only cover one night (Oh, Michael Moore, where are you?). Today will be a strange day.

No matter what weighty, grown-up things are swirling around me, my kids are underfoot, being the blissfully ignorant kids that they are. I got a healthy break this morning from my grown-up world, delivered personally by my two precious little tigers:

The funny thing about this picture is how it spans a generation. Grace is wearing the tiger costume my mom made for me when I was in the first grade, playing a tiger (well, duh) in my elementary school's production of Noah's Ark. Now my daughter is wearing something my mother made for me almost 30 years ago. Cool.

So right now my little tigers and I are heading to the kitchen table for a rare craft time. Yesterday Aidan bought Grandma a gift: a scented candle (pumpkin pie -- "because she makes yummy things") and a little toy frog. He wants to wrap them, and then create a big sign that says "Welcome Home, Grandma." That's my morning. These little tigers will be good medicine, for all of us.

The Tiger
William Blake

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

This same God who created the mighty tiger cares about my mom and can heal her. Beautiful.