What Does Mother’s Day Mean To You?

When I mention Mother’s Day, what comes up for you? 

I’m so happy for you if you are really celebrated, but many women are not.

Mother’s Day can be a tough day for many. Women who have children eagerly wait by mailboxes and telephones and on the edge of their seat to see if anyone will acknowledge their day.

Women who aborted or surrendered babies for adoption often spend Mother’s Day lamenting what could have been.

For women whose mamas have died or those who have crappy relationships with their moms, Mother’s Day dredges up lots of old memories that either hurt or cement the realization there won’t be any new ones.

There are women who are desperate for children, but have none. They are expected to put on brave smiles and exuberantly celebrate those who do.

Women in the throws of child-rearing years – the ones who could really benefit from a day off, are the ones who work overtime on Mother’s Day to make sure the shopping, meal prep, cleaning and decorating is done so their mother or mother-in-law can be recognized and honored.

Even husbands fret and worry about Mother’s Day. Is a card enough? How about chocolates? Should there be flowers?

Changing the narrative of Mother’s Day.

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It’s True, God Loves You!

We all long to know
we are worthy of belonging.
To have connection.
To be accepted for who we are.
To be loved.


When my boys were in high school,
one played guitar on the worship team.
The other took up acting.

Every time one of them was on a platform,
you can bet I was front and center.
I had my eyes locked on him until
he did something clever or
performed some especially challenging feat,
at which point,
I would turn to the person on my left,
elbow them to get their attention,
point at the stage and exclaim,
See that one in the blue shirt?
That one’s mine.
Isn’t he wonderful?
Then, I’d turn to the person behind me
and say,
Did you see that?
Did you notice how brilliant that boy is?
He’s mine.
He belongs to me.”

Girlfriend,
it didn’t matter what they were doing.
On the stage or loafing on the sofa,
showing off or crashing the car,
my eyes are always on my boys,
loving them.

They weren’t perfect.
They aren’t perfect.
Sometimes, they weren’t even very good.

Their performance never affected
the way I love my children.

I love them because they belong to me.
They are part of me.

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