Mother’s Day blogging is upon us. I am reading them this week. I’ve written my share. What else is there to say?
As a mother of a grown up son, I long to hear the words, “well done.” I want to hear that I did a good job, or at least that I didn’t leave permanent physiological damage.
We women are known for comparing ourselves with other women. We wonder if we are keeping up, if we are good enough at this high calling, or are we failing at the most important task of our entire lives?
Looking back, I see lots of places for a do-over. But life does not offer a rewind.
Perhaps that’s why we enjoy grandmothering so much. We get a little bit of a chance to do things differently, realizing that some things we thought were so important just were not.
I miss my own mother on Mother’s Day. I always will. When she was alive, I tried to tell her how much I loved her, how I appreciated her role in my life. I hope I did it enough so that she felt like she had done her work well.
Mothering is the most rewarding and sometimes the most heartbreaking of jobs. We celebrate and we cry. We hold close and then we let go. We teach and instruct only to come to the place when we must keep our mouths shut.
It’s not easy being a good mother.
Yet is it the way God planned for children to be raised, nurtured, loved, trained, and set off on their own as young adults, just so the cycle will repeat itself.
God’s tender compassionate heart is reflected in mothers. They don’t give up on their children. They don’t turn away from them when they make mistakes, end up in jail, turn out badly. They keep loving, keep praying, keep hoping for better days.
I am thankful for women who have poured their love into my life in so many ways. While some will have the title of “mother,” others will not, but their hearts still mother in ways only women can. God made woman that way. She is unique, a creature like no other.
William Ross Wallace said it well:
Woman, how divine your mission,
Here upon our natal sod;
Keep—oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled,
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Where would we be without the love of mothers, the love of good women? Blessed are they.