Writers 
"As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you." — Isaiah 66:13
Before the world could name me, she had already prayed,
before I took my first breath, she had already loved,
she carried me in silence, in hope and unafraid,
and shaped my whole tomorrow with a tenderness that proved
that love is not a feeling, but a thousand quiet things,
the midnight feedings, whispered prayers, the lullabies half-sung,
the way she stayed up listening to the heartaches that life brings,
the way she gave her all, though she was tired and no longer young.
Her hands were never idle, they were always giving, always working,
folding clothes, wiping tears, cooking meals from almost nothing,
she hid her own exhaustion, never once was found shirking,
she made a home from small things, and made it feel like something.
She sacrificed her comfort, though I never saw her count the cost,
she skipped the things she wanted so that I could have the best,
she never spoke of all the dreams she quietly had lost,
she simply gave and gave again, and never asked for rest.
"Her children arise and call her blessed." — Proverbs 31:28
I didn't understand her then, the weight she learned to bear,
I took for granted every meal, every sacrifice, every prayer,
but now I see the mountain that she climbed, and climbed with grace,
and I see the love she carried, written all across her face.
So here is my thank you, for the hands that held me through,
for the prayers that built a fortress around the child I used to be,
for every quiet sacrifice, for every thing you do,
for loving me so fully, and for teaching me to see.
Mother, you are the first place I ever called my home,
the first voice that told me I was worthy and was seen,
and wherever life may lead me, wherever I may roam,
I carry you within me, in all that I have been.