RIVERVOICES: Celtic Myths for a Woman' s Journey

My Irish great-grandmother told me stories. She did, in a rich brogue that conjured misty bogs, windswept heather and glints of gold at the foot of rainbows. There was one story she told me when I was so small I still sat on her lap, my head nestled against her soft breast, her rocking chair squeaking along in quiet duet.
In that story, God was a woman, but keep this under your hat, for no one is likely to appreciate hearing the truth at this late date. Not only was God a woman, but an old woman. One who’d felt the pinch of the poverty. One who knew what it was to have a sick child and no money for the doctor. Stretching three portions to six and serving it with a smile that blessed the meal with gratitude. That is the kind of God she told me about.