“Being responsible for someone’s childhood is a big deal. We not only create our own memories, but we create our child’s memories.” ~ Rachel Macy Stafford
Here’s to the mom who makes the memories. Who teaches the finger plays, lip syncs the songs, kisses the raspberry knees, cheers on the cartwheels, pins up the artwork, supplies the lemonade stand, pitches the ball, pushes the swing, shops for the dress and falls in bed long enough to do it again the next day.
Here’s to the mom who keeps the plates spinning. Lunches packed and dinners served, birthdays planned and haircuts done, doctors seen and braces checked, pictures made and posters glued, forms filled out and game snacks bought, church clothes ironed and purse all packed.
Here’s to the mom who shows up. On the field trip, at the practice, for the parent meeting, to the recital, with the school book, before every game.
Here’s to the mom who steps up. To bring the game snacks, host the slumber party, manage the fundraiser, be the room mom, drive the carpool, buy the gift.
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Here’s to the mom who stays up long after the rest of the world is asleep wrapping carefully chosen Christmas presents, setting out Easter baskets, finishing the costume. And in those moments when the work feels unglamourous and overlooked, know that mothering and making a home and growing kids is a significant and holy calling for our audience of One.
Here’s to the mom who has learned what it is to share — sips from her straw, time on her phone, part of her closet, her side of the bed, some of her jewelry, the hidden stash of chocolate — and always her lap, her tears, her love, her hard-earned wisdom.
Here’s to the mom who may not get to the gym but who can lug groceries, wrangle toddlers, sprint the mall and push a sit-and-stand while training the 5-year-old on a new two-wheeler that would give Cross Fit a run for its money.
Here’s to the mom whose time is not her own – who spends nights up tending a fever, who claimed she was awake when the college girl called late, who stopped her world to join the game or listen to the story or bring the forgotten uniform.
Here’s to the mom who heads out to work each morning, who has learned that balance is elusive but connection is real, that moments should be lavished and that each one can hold extravagant life.
Here’s to the mom who has advocated long and persistently for her child, who has struggled through and asked questions and researched possibilities and found resources, who holds onto hope and who knows her heart has deepened and widened and softened because of the struggle.
Here’s to the mom who sees another face at the table, who has prayed and waited and sought answers and taken tests and read books and tried treatments and cried into a pillow on countless nights. The mom who’s done the paperwork and done without to save up and doesn’t know how this will turn out but isn’t done trusting God.
Here’s to the mom mothering without her own mom, who longs for one more conversation, who stops short just before dialing the phone, whose rejoicing is always laced with missing, who catches her breath at glimpses of her mama in the faces smiling back at her.
Here’s to the mom who lies awake praying for God to hem her child in, to captivate his heart, to draw him home; the mom who has rescued and let go a hundred times, who still hopes the 101st will be different and who fiercely turns the enemy’s work into stubborn prayer.
Here’s to the mom who has a child waiting in heaven, who knows what it feels like to die and still go on breathing. Who has buried not just her child but hopes and dreams and who has found that time and God soften the sharpest edges of pain but leave a cavernous missing. Here’s to this mom who bravely puts feet to floor to fight for joy and love the ones who still need her.
Here’s to the mom who has seen firsthand that mothering stretches her, chisels her, challenges her, unmasks her, empties her, schools her beyond anything she could have imagined, who has spent nights despairing her great weakness and mornings praying for great strength.
Here’s to the mom who’s seen firsthand she desperately needs a Savior.
Here’s to the mom who has felt the fullness of release. Did they warn her it would start so soon?
She felt it in his first steps, on that first day of preschool, a slackening of his hand in hers at every milestone. Loosening and lessening of his need for her — at away summer camp, then the driver’s license, junior prom, a missions trip, high school graduation, the dorm room –until finally he reached for a new hand, dashed through waiting wedding guests and into his own family.
Here’s to you mom, whose hopes have dawned into years that stretch into memories that gild a life.
You are celebrated, honored, adored.
Behold, children are a gift from the Lord, the fruit of the womb is a reward. Psalm 127:3
*Special thanks to the readers who sent in these precious snapshots of them with their children.
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