Sleepless Nights
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping their feverish brows and saying, “It's OK, baby, Mommy's here.”
This is for all the mothers of Kosovo and Sudan and Macedonia and Lebanon who fled in the night and can't find their children.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see. And the mothers who took those babies and made homes for them.
For all the mothers of the school shooting victims, and the mothers of their murderers. For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their children as they arrived home safely from school.
For all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes. (And all the mothers who don't.)
What Makes a Good Mother?
What makes a good Mother anyway? Is it patience? Compassion? Broad hips? The ability to nurse a baby, cook dinner and sew a button on a shirt, all at the same time?
Or is it heart?
Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib, at 2 a.m. to put your hand on the back of your sleeping baby?
The need to flee from wherever you are and hug your child when you hear news of an explosion, a fire, a car accident, or a baby dying?
This is for all the mothers who sat down with their children and explained all about where babies come from. And for all the mothers who wanted to but just couldn't.
This is for those who had to read The Cat in the Hat aloud twice a night for a year. And then again the next night, “just one more time.”
This is for all the mothers who make mistakes. Who yell at their kids in the grocery store, swat their bottoms in despair and stomp their feet like a tired two year-old who wants candy before dinner.
This is for all the mothers who took the time to teach their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school. And for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who bite their lips — sometimes until they bleed — when their 14 year-olds come home with their hair dyed green.
And for those who have to lock themselves in the bathroom to compose themselves when their babies simply refuse to stop crying.
Learning to Let Go
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up highlights in their hair, milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
This is for all the mothers who sent their kids to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just fine once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later asking them to please pick them up as soon as possible.
This is for young mothers stumbling through diaper changes and sleep deprivation. And mature mothers learning to let go.
This is for all mothers whose heads turn automatically when a little voice cries “Mommy?” in a crowd, even though they know their own children are at home.
This is for mothers whose children have gone astray, and who can't find the words to reach them.
This is for mothers who put pinwheels and teddy bears on their children's graves.
For working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. Single mothers and married mothers. Mothers with money, mothers without. This is for all of you.
We love you and wish you God's grace and peace.
