Mother's Day

“What will you do for Mother’s Day?” Jill, a nurse, asked.

“Probably nothing,” Dinah, the DON, answered. “I used to have my son and daughter and their families over. I would cook and clean up. But I’m tired of that.”

“You would cook and clean?” Jill wondered.

“Well, my daughter would help clean up. But, yes.“

“Why don’t they take you out to dinner?”

“They don’t do that. I’ll probably just go to church, pick up my dad at the nursing home and take him and my mom out to lunch. What will you do?”

“Well, my kids don’t live nearby anymore.”

“What did you do in the past?” Dinah asked.

“Nothing, really,” Jill said. “Mother’s Day is another Hallmark holiday. It’s a shame they have to set aside one day to appreciate moms.”

I agreed with the last statement I overheard in Dinah’s office this week – for mothers should be appreciated every day of their lives – but I felt more ashamed that kids can treat their mothers like these kids do.

Mothers do everything for us, from the day we’re conceived until the day they die. For nine months, the carry us. Their own body nourishes us. Then they go through intense pain to bring us into the world. From that day forth they are cooking, cleaning, feeding, driving, listening, finding, cheering, disciplining, laughing, crying, sacrificing, enjoying, frustrating, teaching, nurturing and every other thing in the world for, through, with and to us. Yet most of the time we take them for granted.

This will be my mother’s 31st Mother’s Day, and a novel the size of War and Peace isn’t enough room to state everything she has ever done for me. Much of it I can’t remember. I don’t remember being fed, or changed, or bathed. Holidays were made special, even though I wouldn’t recall them. She brushed my hair, and made my clothes, and took me to the beach, and tried to make life less boring – both for herself and me. Even as sibling after sibling came along, she still moved heaven and earth to get me to school, the dentist, ballet, gymnastics, sleepovers, softball, soccer, basketball, birthday parties and church activities. Then she homeschooled me – yes, all the way through high school. My mom has moved all over the country, hardly ever living in a house that was her own. She’s had to learn to love writing, piano, zebras, computers, swimming, roses, Africa, history, maple syrup and every other passing fancy her eight kids have attempted in their lives. Above all, who else do you go to when you just can’t take life anymore?

I do not understand kids who don’t appreciate their mothers. Who don’t want to cook them a meal or take them out to dinner one day out of the year. Who don’t send her a card, don’t call her on the phone and plainly don’t care. Sit back for a moment and try to picture your life if your mother had just brushed you off like you brush her off. Where would you be today?

For the second year in a row, I won’t be home for Mother’s Day. The gift I’ve sent, the card – even the phone call – isn’t much for 31 years of investment in my life. A mere token. But may it be known that my mom is worth the token – and much, much, much, much more.

“Her children arise up, and call her blessed…” Proverbs 31: 28a