Mother’s Day can bring anything from the thrill of celebration to the pit of lament. In joy or sadness, in thought of the day, we’re not the same as we are on other days.
In grieving or triumphant, mother means something special; delivered or unrequited, lost or present, mothers change us.
We think back to a time when we were barely aware, only recently out of the womb. Without blasphemy, as much God’s creation we were mother’s too. With the special sense she bore us, bringing us with her to fruition.
If she was the sort of mother lost to love and not fear, she played with us as we grew. She nurtured us through those younger years. And now though older, advanced in years or gone, we still remember those times, even though we struggle to picture them in our minds.
Either in love or fear, she, like us, was a product of her upbringing — a perhaps very imperfect myriad of circumstance. Her soul wanted to love us, whether she succeeded or not. Thought of her might remind us of our own imperfections or magnify the best there is — probably both.
As we might have watched her struggle with ill health, preparing for, or experiencing her death, we were changed again — God with us, preparing us, to live alone without Mum.
It is a pity that we can’t make a perfect recall of all our experiences — to skip back twenty or thirty years — though some we would happily leave behind.
No matter the relationship we have, or had, with our mothers they are truly the most special of people — God-given, God-entrusted, and as they can or could, God-infused, and finally, God-anointed.
Mum, get well soon we pray. Thank you for bringing me to being, and loving me, especially when I didn’t deserve it.
© 2011 S. J. Wickham.
Graphic Credit: Discover Plants.