Vault of the Mother's Virtue

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I give these gifts to those who seek a life in the light.

Temples, churches, mosques, and shrines —
how they gleam with sanctity in the divine.
Immense, the sum of sweat and faith,
of education and grace.
Yet something often rests unsaid:

How did they come to be this way?

Reverence for a life well lived.
The faithful leave what they can.
Some leave all they have —
mistrustful, knowing fortunes may become harmful in the wrong hands.

An act of nurturing.
An act of devotion.
A hope that their offering will secure the place
and those who look after it —
a fitting tribute to the feeling the place once gave.

And so great wealth gathers —
endowments, art, coin, gold.
This patronage is real; nothing to blame.

But what happens when security
outweighs the wisdom that built the place?
Why hold such largess, vaults filled,
while poverty knocks every single day?

Change creates unease:
How do we ensure we give to a just cause?
Who helps us when we are lost?
Who loves us when others have washed their hands of our ways?

So the wealth stays, locked away in reserve for “someday.”
Guarded by fear wearing a mask of prudence.

Still, women bear the brunt of poverty.
They feed, nurture, and educate —
their work often underpaid,
holding families aloft even when society falls.

Our ideals are a mirror of our society.
Many paths lead to the divine, yes —
many spokes in a wheel of light.
Yet how do we treat the mother?
How do we treat the feminine divine?

Must we fear unrationed love?
Do we honor the masculine with ceremony,
and the feminine with burden —
with obligation, expectation, quiet endurance?
Is this generosity,
or the architecture of our own imbalance?

When we build these divisions into worship,
we plant incongruence in our minds.
We forget the simple truth:

Women treat wealth as a tool of creation —
to nurture those who cannot fend for themselves.

When institutional wealth sits idle, bearing interest,
it is not neutrality.
It is not wisdom.
It is a choice.

A proclamation of mistrust —
a belief that the community may not return the gift
when times turn grave.

We comfort ourselves saying,
“There will be a better cause, someday.”
We imagine a future worse than now,
and let action fall to someone else,
some other day.

But what does this inaction sow?
Mistrust grows in the shadow of withheld grace.
Can those in need truly wait another day?

And what becomes of the hierarchy
that hoards instead of heals?
It collapses inward under its own weight.
It devours trust.

And when that day comes —
who will be there for us?
Who fights with love in their hearts,
no matter the odds?
Who knows our pain,
and holds our hand when hope is lost?

Could we deny that balance is divine?