Did you know that Mothers Day is around the corner?
Of course you do.
Like me, you’re hoping for a “surprise” house cleaning and a glorious sleep-in. Perhaps breakfast in bed?
You’re hoping to be Queen for a Day.
You’re hoping your labor of love and daily sacrifices and long hours and sleepless service and hard, hard work might be acknowledged in a way that will make your mama-heart go flutterflutterflutter, I. am. seen.
And I hope that for you too.
Your love runs deep. Your reach stretches far. Your presense breathes safe. Your work speaks holy… and so you deserve to be honored, oh Mama-Queen for a Day.
But this year, as you prepare for the day that’s all about you…
Remember her who has no babies to embrace.
Remember her who has experienced loss in the womb or loss in her arms.
Remember her who reluctantly entrusted her heart-in-the-shape-of-a-child to someone else’s care because, at the time, it was the highest form of love.
Remember her who is separated through deployment or assignment or illness or disease.
Remember her who aches in her soul while her baby is in prison.
Remember her who has waited and counted and worn her knees ragged praying for the day when those two stripes would appear.
Remember her who loves our babies because she’s not yet found a man to give her some of her own.
Remember her who burns with regret for letting go when there seemed no other way.
Remember her who parents alone, with those sweet littles still too young to form the words “I love you” on their lips.
Remember her who waits in agony for applications to be approved and a judge’s ruling telling her what she already knows. (That she, too, is a mother.)
Remember her who’s broken-hearted from being pushed away by a wayward teenager.
Remember her who lacks access to the kind of medical care we take for granted and instead waits in fear of her birthing day.
Remember her—in a far off land—who pushed to her death, while delivering life into the arms of the world as she said hello-goodbye.
And you, dear Mama-friend…
Your surrender is noble and your service is seen in the heavenly places.
You—who are so like God himself in your creating and nurturing and laboring and the handing over of your very glory to another—will you remember how precious the privilege of doing what he does?
Will you remember that your children, your role, your name—Mama—is not something you’re entitled, but something released to you as a gift?
Your gift—the one you give and the one you receive—is far sweeter than any that could be packaged up and wrapped with a bow this Mothers Day.
Happy Mothers Day to you, Mama.
May you be celebrated, esteemed, and affirmed in your joy. May you wake up that sweet Sunday morning to reviece your beloved hand-drawn cards.
And as you do, may you remember her, and whisper a prayer for her too – the one who is unable to share in your joy.
(And please, for the love of all that’s good, may you also receive your breakfast in bed and a tidy house as you undoubtably deserve. And flowers, many flowers!)
Another Mama Trying to Remember
Dear friends, last Mothers Day my husband was away in Papua New Guinea on an outreach. Pregnant and alone I lamented internally about how my one-year-old couldn’t give me the Mothers Day I “deserved.” There would be no sleep-in, no breakfast in bed, no house-cleaning service, no flowers, no finger-painted card. “How miserable and sad”, I thought to myself. And then I began to think about the mothers in rural PNG where 1 in 7 die in childbirth, never even getting to hold their babies in their arms. It put things into perspective for me. Fast. That’s where Bloggers for Birth Kits was born out of – my mopey pity-party turned reality check where I decided that life was bigger, and more important, than my “perfect” Mothers Day fantasy. Click here if you’d like to read more (or watch the video) and find out how you can make a difference for one of these precious mamas by making a clean birth kit (which costs around $2).
This post is part of the Mother Letters project. Read them, mama-friends, and find nourishment for your soul.