From the moment of her making us a family,
And before—long, long before—
It had been clear man has no human origin.
Effortless for me to shed the notion
Of genealogy, a tree, a line of forebears
Proud of stock and famed of name.
These had been forced upon me as a child,
And I rebelled.
Defying elders, I took refuge in the Word:
"Man is the child of God," it said.
I said so too and, adamant,
Refused to honor lineage.
Such attitudes conspired to harden head and heart
Until I could not see I broke the fifth commandment.
With her, the role of parent was my function.
No doubt, in time, I'd learn to play it rather well:
Quick, efficient; neat, perchance—and cleanly:
Scientific virtues I must cultivate in earnest.
"God is her Father-Mother," I declared, "her only relative."
(And so He is, of course.)
As the sweetness of the child thought grew,
Its radiance and warmth a tender solvent,
There dawned upon each day a happiness I'd never known:
A joy in little things, the smiles of sharing,
And a dearth of enmity.
"God is the source," I murmured.
One night, bending to tuck her blanket,
I whispered soft, "This is God's own dear loved and loving child."
I pressed a kiss against her tiny ear and would have mentioned
More great facts of being had not she interrupted.
So small a voice, so little-girl, so wistful—and so wise.
"It's yours too, Mommy."
Simply that.
The weight of centuries of false believing rolled aside,
And there before me stood the family of man:
The Father, Principle, the Mother, Love, and—
Love's own fulfillment of itself—the child idea.
Completeness, wholeness, purity, and power. Present, not afar.
Tears dissolving adamantine dregs, I held my child with arms of love.
True humanhood is sinless, it is written.
And furthermore, I reasoned,
True humanhood is here. From now on.
I must live that Word, not mouth it.
For that makes all the difference.
