Sunday is Mother’s Day, as I hope you have already discovered. There’s no immunity from this Hallmark goldmine, ‘cause we all had one, are one, or are married to one. There’s an old Jewish proverb asserting that “God couldn’t be everywhere, so he created mothers.” That’s an awfully nice sentiment regarding motherhood (although it does make me wonder how God got so otherwise occupied he had to enlist help) and it’s true; mothers are indeed heavenly creatures, without whom we wouldn’t have lasted a skinny minute as children. On the other hand, J. D. Salinger is quoted as saying, “Mothers are all slightly insane.” Having been one myself for the last 26 years, I’d have to agree there’s a grain of truth there as well. Think about it, what sane person volunteers for a job like motherhood? “It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely,” Phyllis Diller once said of it. And yet, by the looks of it, the desire for motherhood continues to be a natural urge. I volunteered for it once, then re-upped two more times after that. And now my own child, full grown and practically normal, is talking about joining ranks one day soon. But isn’t that a compliment, really? Doesn’t that tell me that I didn’t do such a bad job, and just maybe she wants to be a mommy like me? I hope so. And I hope she enjoys the “insanity” of motherhood as much as I have.
Of course, I had a truly wonderful role model for mothering, which brings me to the true topic of this Mother’s Day post...the incomparably cheerful, exuberant, generous, unquashable, honest, bighearted, inimitable woman I am graced to call my mother. She really is a pearl. My mom is the sunny day in a week of clouds, the color red in a sea of manila, a guffaw in a roomful of snickers, a tap dance when everyone else is shuffling. I know that my husband and my daughters love me, but I am certain no person on earth will ever love me as much as my mother. No person will ever be so willing to forgive me, so quick to defend me, so diligent to pray for me, or happy to support me as she. I don’t have to earn her love, and I can’t mess up enough to lose it, either. Erich Fromm, a psychologist and author, once said, “Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.” Erich, I know just what you mean, and what a sweet state of grace in which to grow up!
Of course I can just hear my mother poo- poo any attempt to paint her with a saint’s brush. She’d be the first to state her weaknesses, and to say she grew up too sassy, too brassy and too quickly. If so, those were a young girl’s blunders, and her youthful heart was fallow ground for God’s grace later on. I believe over time the sass and the brass, in His hand, became the candor of heart and shine of spirit that are such a part of who and what she is.
What she is is faithful. Faithful as in loyal, dependable, steadfast, authentic. Faithful to raise three kids, often by herself, while her husband followed God’s call to preach- a call that meant college and seminary and lots of days and nights away from family. Faithful to become a “preacher’s wife,” however ill-equipped she felt for that role at the time. Faithful to share his ministry, as well as his time, with those he served. And later, faithful to stand by his side as he stared into a future that could guarantee only the inevitable ravages of Parkinson’s; and faithful to remain there as that future became reality. And always, faithful to pray, teach, help, encourage, give and serve. It’s not been without cost. There are aches, pains, and hurting places that have come with her faithfulness; but while they sometimes slow, they never stop her.
One day, as much as my heart aches and my eyes fill at the thought, I know her faithful days upon this earth will end. But I also know that at the moment they do, she will without doubt hear the sweet “well done” reserved for the good and faithful servant. I love the idea of that- of God smiling at her, the saints welcoming her, friends and family encircling her, and her there- shining so brightly among all the faithful. Not today, not tomorrow, and not, I hope, for many years to come. But one day.
Until that day, I will celebrate each moment she’s on this familiar earth. I’ll tell her I love her as often as I can. And I will bask in the knowledge that I am dearly loved, wholly accepted and mightily prayed for in return. Even though I am a wife and mother with a home of my own, I will forever resonate with the sentiments of the little girl who, when asked where her home was, replied, “Where mother is.”
If I was damned of body and soul,
Of course, I had a truly wonderful role model for mothering, which brings me to the true topic of this Mother’s Day post...the incomparably cheerful, exuberant, generous, unquashable, honest, bighearted, inimitable woman I am graced to call my mother. She really is a pearl. My mom is the sunny day in a week of clouds, the color red in a sea of manila, a guffaw in a roomful of snickers, a tap dance when everyone else is shuffling. I know that my husband and my daughters love me, but I am certain no person on earth will ever love me as much as my mother. No person will ever be so willing to forgive me, so quick to defend me, so diligent to pray for me, or happy to support me as she. I don’t have to earn her love, and I can’t mess up enough to lose it, either. Erich Fromm, a psychologist and author, once said, “Mother’s love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.” Erich, I know just what you mean, and what a sweet state of grace in which to grow up!
Of course I can just hear my mother poo- poo any attempt to paint her with a saint’s brush. She’d be the first to state her weaknesses, and to say she grew up too sassy, too brassy and too quickly. If so, those were a young girl’s blunders, and her youthful heart was fallow ground for God’s grace later on. I believe over time the sass and the brass, in His hand, became the candor of heart and shine of spirit that are such a part of who and what she is.
What she is is faithful. Faithful as in loyal, dependable, steadfast, authentic. Faithful to raise three kids, often by herself, while her husband followed God’s call to preach- a call that meant college and seminary and lots of days and nights away from family. Faithful to become a “preacher’s wife,” however ill-equipped she felt for that role at the time. Faithful to share his ministry, as well as his time, with those he served. And later, faithful to stand by his side as he stared into a future that could guarantee only the inevitable ravages of Parkinson’s; and faithful to remain there as that future became reality. And always, faithful to pray, teach, help, encourage, give and serve. It’s not been without cost. There are aches, pains, and hurting places that have come with her faithfulness; but while they sometimes slow, they never stop her.
One day, as much as my heart aches and my eyes fill at the thought, I know her faithful days upon this earth will end. But I also know that at the moment they do, she will without doubt hear the sweet “well done” reserved for the good and faithful servant. I love the idea of that- of God smiling at her, the saints welcoming her, friends and family encircling her, and her there- shining so brightly among all the faithful. Not today, not tomorrow, and not, I hope, for many years to come. But one day.
Until that day, I will celebrate each moment she’s on this familiar earth. I’ll tell her I love her as often as I can. And I will bask in the knowledge that I am dearly loved, wholly accepted and mightily prayed for in return. Even though I am a wife and mother with a home of my own, I will forever resonate with the sentiments of the little girl who, when asked where her home was, replied, “Where mother is.”
If I was damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o'mine.
Despite the fact that this verse from the poem “Mother o’Mine” by Rudyard Kipling sounds like something a sentimental Irish tenor might sing after downing a pint too many at the local pub, I love it. Rudyard, I know just what you mean.
