In Mismatched Socks

Thinking about my Mama this morning.
I'm thankful to have a real mom.
Not a plastic Christian mom,
but a real flesh-and-blood one --
who I saw fearful, and praying,
and perplexed, and encouraged.
A mom who could apologize,
because she didn't think she was always right
just because she was the mom.
Sometimes I think that was worth more
than doing everything perfectly the first time.
A woman who said she used to pray,
"Is it possible to be pregnant and in the Spirit at the same time?"

She let me dye a pink streak in my hair,
and when her friends questioned the wildness of it,
she said, "You dye your hair. What is the difference?"
She did not expect us to look like catalog kids.
And she let me go out in mismatched socks.