On Mothering

I grew up with the best mom ever.

The mom who put on her swimsuit and took her kids out to play in the rain.

The mom who hauled giant snowballs up apartment steps so we could have a snowman on our deck.

The mom who hatched chicks on our kitchen floor and baked a cake when I got a D in calculus because I was always too hard on myself anyway.

The mom who took her church girls to sit at the bedside of a friend dying of AIDS because this too is love. This too is part of life.

The mom who told me a million times that I was beautiful and strong and smart and could do anything in this world that I chose to do. So many times, in fact, that I actually believed her.

The mom who wrapped up a bunch of tiny advent gifts for me in college and when she dropped them off, she had brought enough for my roommate too.

The mom who drove her twenty year old daughter to spend a year in “the most dangerous city in America” because we both absolutely knew I was supposed to be there.

The mom who spent long nights learning how to care for my daughter’s coily hair so that my girl would have a fresh style each week.

The mom who bathed my infant son in the kitchen sink and fell hard for him before either of us knew it was forever.

Nurturing is in her blood. Motherhood seems to fit her perfectly. She is mother to many– not just to my sister and I, but to anyone who needs to be mothered for a season. And I love her for all of it.

It doesn’t feel instinctual to me, but in the last year or so, I have also found deep joy in the practice of mothering. Of paying attention to the ones in my life who need “kind and protective care” (this, google tells me, is the definition of mothering). I’ve known, of course, that a biological connection isn’t a prerequisite for mothering. I love my children more than life and know with certainty that there is no way that I could possibly love a child born from my body any more. But mothering is bigger than this too.

It’s different from the “unconditional positive regard” that teachers have for our students. It’s different from the respect and professionalism that we extend to our coworkers. It’s different from the casual hellos and polite conversations that we have with young adults at church.

It’s a different kind of looking… a heart searching for another heart that craves encouragement and affirmation, someone to have their back, and sometimes a snack or hug or the gentle nagging to make a doctor’s appointment and for the love of God to stop texting and driving. It’s the practice of whispering blessings over your sleeping teenager and rocking your big kid like a baby when he runs through the door screaming.

It’s hard to wrap up in words, but for me mothering is entwined with intuition and discernment and prayer. And, friends, these are things that we can practice. We can slow down enough to hear that still small voice. We can look past what the world sees and listen hard for hearts that need our kind and protective care. And we can lean into the relational nature of prayer. Bringing our people to Jesus and Jesus to our people. Fighting for them on our knees. Asking how we can pray and doing it right then and there.  And a thousand times later too, as they come to mind.

Friends, this practice of mothering is filling my soul in this season. It’s taken me by surprise a little- I was not the girl who always dreamed of being a mom. I’ve had to stretch out the idea of nurture to make it feel comfortable enough to fit. But I’ve found this mothering to be a sacred practice. One that brings deep meaning and contentment that still catches me off guard sometimes. It’s come into my life in all kinds of ways. And I am here for it.

We all need mothering sometimes- even those of us with the best moms ever.  And for those of us who practice it- no matter who we are or what our “actual” title is- this day is for us. Happy Mother’s Day, friends!