We can talk about motherhood. We can talk about the Gospel. But both stand beyond talking, beyond words. They’re a dying in living, a dying to live.
Whatever else sin is, it is always a forgetting that we are loved by God. And the more we sin, the more we forget.
Louise Glück’s poem, “Wild Iris,” begins with a description of death, the sort of death something made of earth and growing there might recount if it could speak.