be as it may, the welcoming of some grace.

I had written little pieces and gone back and forth with last month's May newsletter many times. But when the 31st @ 11:59pm made it's way to me I did something that I very rarely do. I sat up in my little corner desk, leaned over like my succulents do as they reach toward the light of the window, turned off season one of Grey's Anatomy (I turn on my show faves that I've seen a plethora of times and need not pay brain attention to when I'm trying to will myself to completion of a work), and made my way to bed. Letter unfinished. In my mind I said I was going to have to be okay with that, something I find terribly difficult to accept (the not meeting of a deadline, even one I have imposed for myself) and when asked in the morning by my better-than-me-under-pressure-half, I said as much again. Because here I was, this mother who made it through May, this May of mine blooming with glittering complexity and arduous trial. I had done enough, I gathered. I'd given it everything I had. And it would be fine for me to let it be as it may.  

 

The month of May and its Mother’s Day is a general heavy hitter, huh? First of all, if you yourself are a mother, you are probably quite tired. Just from the regular-ness of mothering, it's a lot, you know? 

I have a dear friend that makes me laugh, who I know will find joy if no one fusses about the food at dinner (that nary a child has shopped and prepared for), and my gift to them on a Mother's Day may be to acknowledge this, and pray for a special kind of peace, one where said child may skip their grumbles, if just for today. And then there are the deeper matters of the season, of life. Beyond the fatigue, or even beyond our personal motherhood. There are folks who have mothers who were never there for them the way they needed them to be, and they may still be here, not showing up, or they have left this earth, and the pain of it all remains. There are folks who are caring for mothers they love, who are watching them fade into the ends of their glorious life, and it is difficult, and sorrowful, and extraordinary. There are folks who carried children only in their wombs or in their hearts, and never saw their beautiful faces become, never kissed their cheeks or watched as they grew into the fantastic human being they had always wanted to raise.

 

It is a lot for us all. And every one of us, I do believe, could benefit in the welcoming of some grace.

Congratulations to Miss. Keira Heard, MOE's Spring of 2025 intern, who graduated in May as a Master in Public Health from the University of North Carolina at CLT. It was a pleasure being your preceptor, dear. x

I'm a grown woman and mother. Parenting two teenagers (btw, the tales are not legends, they are very true stories, go ahead and solicit The Lord's help now, okay?) alongside my husband, grown man and father, and three children who will be teenagers before we know it.

 

And for as long as I have lived as this grown woman and mother, I still recall the things my father taught me as a child. Both explicit and implicit. The way he lived, what and who he cared about, the ways and the hows of his love. Those lessons still remain in my life, even as he is now gone. Miss you, Dad.

 

The presence of a man and a father is invaluable. You matter, Black man, father. 

We need you well, and we need you here. And we'll always recall your life within ours. 

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Celebrating two years of the moe letter