God our Mother
(sometimes she smells like lilacs)
Maybe today, you could offer yourself the kind of love you’ve so freely given to everyone else—tender, patient, and blooming with grace. (Esther Joy Goetz)
It was I who taught you to walk, little one—lifting you into my arms when you stumbled.
But you didn’t know it was me. You didn’t see the hands that steadied you, the heart that ached with every fall.
I led you with cords of kindness, with ribbons of love—cradling your head when you cried, kneeling to feed you, bending low just to be near.
Hosea 11:3-4 (Paraphrased)
I finally arrived home after ten days away—ten full days of airports and apartment-hunting, diapers and driving, chocolate-chip pancakes and chatter, of giving and holding and showing up—and the very first thing I did was walk straight to the lilac bush on the front walkway of my house.
It’s blooming.
Full, fragrant, bursting with that soft purple kind of magic.
I leaned in, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply.
Like I was inhaling something holy.
Like I was remembering something I forgot I needed.
And maybe I was.
Because lately, I’ve been working hard to mother myself.
Not in the surface-level, “control-it-all” kind of way.
But in the deeper, soul-tending, fiercely gentle kind of way.
The kind of mothering that whispers:
You’ve done enough for today.
It’s okay to rest.
You don’t have to prove anything.
Go outside and play.
Come sit down. Let it be.
It’s the voice I didn’t always hear growing up.
But it’s the voice I’m learning to recognize now—
in myself,
in the breeze,
in the hush beneath the noise,
and pulsing quietly in the Sacred Mama Heart of God.
God, I’m realizing, doesn’t always speak with thunder or certainty.
Sometimes, She sounds like a lullaby.
Sometimes, She smells like lilacs.
I used to think of God only as strong and distant—some cosmic taskmaster or judge.
But these days, I’m coming to know Her as near.
Soft.
Kind.
Wise.
A presence that bends down, gathers the scattered pieces of me, and says, “Come rest, beloved.”
There is something ancient and earthy about the feminine face of God.
Not a softness that’s weak, but a strength that knows how to hold.
To labor.
To bleed and still begin again.
The one who bring us to Her breast and says, “Take, eat, this is my body, given for you.”
Her Sacred Feminine Heart doesn’t shame.
She doesn’t rush or push.
She does not require us to be better first.
Instead, She waits.
Holds.
Comforts.
Weeps with us.
She mothers.
And so this week, this season, I’m practicing that kind of mothering with myself, “loving myself for God’s sake” as the 14th century author and anchoress, Julian of Norwich, reminds me.
Caring.
Protecting.
Nurturing.
Trusting that I’m already enough.
Letting my soul curl up on a safe lap and breathe.
And I wonder—might you need that, too?
Maybe this Mother’s Day, no matter what the day brings or doesn’t bring, you could offer yourself just a bit of that same care.
Not because you’ve earned it.
But because you’re already worthy.
So if you’re looking for me, I’ll be outside.
Playing.
Resting.
Trusting.
And taking many long, slow, deep breaths of my lilac bush.
From my heart to yours,
Esther
P.S. If you want to explore God more in feminine form, I have some recommendations for you below.
Reflection Question:
Where in your life are you being invited to mother yourself—with tenderness, patience, and the kind of love that doesn’t demand improvement, but simply says, “Come rest, beloved”?
(would love for you to share something with our community by leaving a comment)
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Dear Mama God…
With those simple and yet revolutionary words comes a wondrous child’s prayer addressed to the Divine in feminine form.
Warm, comforting, and full of gratitude, these innocent and earnest words of thanks help us see anew through the eyes of a child how we can approach God as Mother and as She.
Combining stunning illustrations with simple yet profound prayers, Dear Mama God is the perfect children's book to introduce children (and their adults) to the heart-expanding practice of referring to the divine in feminine form.
The text thanks Mama God for trees for birds to nest in, hula hoops for dogs to jump through, paper to draw on, cozy fires, loving hearts, and the universe that is our home. The illustrations invite readers into a luminous, comforting presence.
This podcast includes a poem called God Our Mother that changed my life. I have also included a link just to that poem and also a link to a YouTube video of a song called God our Mother. But first, a link to the whole podcast.
Our conditioning has taught us to automatically perceive femininity as untrustworthy and blackness as dirty. So, black femininity is perceived as wholly unholy.
There’s something very evil about the way black women in particular are perceived as distant from the Divine. It brings to mind the Jezebel stereotype, the idea that black women are lascivious by nature, which has long plagued black women... [and] continues to thrive today...
In this volume of essays, I turn toward images of Christ on the cross. As I continue my exploration of the wholly holy female face of God, I ask a deeper question.
What does God’s femaleness and blackness practically mean for my particular black female experience?
And what does God’s femaleness and blackness practically mean for all of us?
And how did you know that yesterday, after coming home from so many errands that I did not want to do, I took off my socks and shoes and marched to the back corner of my property to bury my face in my lilac bush? We moved into our house in late November 2020, and had, basically, essentially, no clue what we were walking into landscaping-wise beyond a couple of smallish trees, an ornamental tree that was quite diseased, and lots of roses. I was so very pleased to see that I had a lovely lilac bush, come springtime. And one single solitary iris. See, at my last house, our front yard was affectionately known as the “Garden of Weeden,” because it was so very full of so very much, but mostly irises. And oh did I miss my irises! My singleton has now spread into a handful, and I am once again reminding myself to work out getting more and moving them/planting them so that I can always see them. And perhaps I will finally be able to grow tulips?
But today. Today has been hard. I can’t pinpoint why, and I’m not sure I want to. But God. And God. And my lilac bush. And my handful of irises. All wait for me, patiently, and not judging or chastising or criticizing.