MUSINGS ON MEEKNESS AND MOTHER

They say . . . okay, He says . . . we're supposed to be meek. I'm not very good at meek. Or humble. Or patient, or calm, or forbearing, soft, or gentle. All peas in the same virtuous pod. However, that confessed, I've learned a lot about submission, which I'm hoping is close cousin to meekness and therefore my gateway into the realm of the meek, who, after all, shall inherit the earth.

The thing is, I love God. With passion. With complete trust. With total willingness to submit to the divine will in all things. Not that I do that perfectly, but the spirit, at least, is always willing. You can think of times, too, in your life, when you've followed that Voice, despite your fears and your good sense, and discovered yourself in a far better place than you could ever have imagined or created. God is like that, leading us down scary, surprising roads we never would have taken without that beloved Voice whispering in our ear, luring us into submission, into glory. God, He loves us so much!

But the problem I have with meekness is that it seems to demand anonymity, a sort of disappearing of self. Me, I want recognition. Acknowledgement. Appreciation. Renumeration, if you please. So it's perhaps not surprising that God has led me to become the mother of six, my work rarely recognized, acknowledged, appreciated, and certainly not renumerated. I work from behind a veil.

Somewhere I read that ancient priestesses of pagan religions were veiled in ceremony. The veil was a symbol of their power in the priesthood. I like that. I remember that when I am veiled, in ritual or in work. And I remember, too, that Mother works from behind a veil. Most Christians don't even acknowledge the female Diety. Mormons know about Her, but we don't really know Her, because She is veiled.
(And because we don't ask.) I don't know why. It used to irk me, as if someone was forcing that veil on Her. But I'm just beginning to sense the power of it, the miraculous things a person can do from behind a veil, without recognition.

I sense the power in meekness, in humility. I know the grace of submission. Maybe it's a game of semantics and I really know more than I think. Maybe I'm just full of contradictions and competing desires, like I suspect we all are. All I can think to do for now is to stop trying to rip that veil off, to be still and feel the power and potential of my priestess position. To follow that trusted Voice. To submit. To trust.