Mother’s day is always interesting for me, as I put so much pressure on myself to be a good mom (not really sure what that always means) expectations that come from books and movies, over the top expectations I put on myself …and the fact that I had so little to glean from in the way of a motherly example growing up. I’m sitting here this rainy Saturday thinking about how I haven’t done much for any of the women I love deeply, who have poured into me over the years….nothing for the one who gave birth to me.
I have cards sitting on my kitchen table and I am determined to send them out Monday…late, but a heart full of the same love and gratitude I feel for them every day.
My childhood was a tug of war between a hunger that was more than just “food insecurity” and feeling like I was “good for nothing” ….and the kindness of woman who would call me the “daughter of her heart”.
I love the crazy brave women God deeply rooted in the path before me throughout my childhood…to the point that I had no choice but give them permission to touch my heart and impact my future…He knew I was terrified and would never willingly yield my heart to be vulnerable enough to risk rejection. He hemmed me in from all directions….and with affection I can’t describe, I was loved. I was tenderly touched, never given up on. My life was altered. I was not the same. I drank in their love. I still do. I mimic their actions with my children. Not always with perfection, but always with sloppy, sappy, imperfection…. not one of them giving me life in labor, but through the agonizing groans of allowing God to break their heart for the orphan.
“I will look after you and I will look after anybody you say needs to be looked after, any way you say. I am here.
I brought my whole self to you. I am your mother.”
―Maya Angelou, Mom & Me & Mom
Decked in Wildflowers 