I hope your Mother’s Day is spent being pampered, cared for, and acknowledged with all those things you continue to do tirelessly, effortlessly, and without complaint. I realize you all have two full-time jobs and when 5 p.m. rolls around, the real work has just begun. You have to leave the office to begin your “second job” … a job that doesn’t afford you nights and weekends off. It’s a second job that comes with messy fingers and innocent smiles, loud cries and quiet wants, big hearts and small hands. It is said that being a parent is the hardest job you’ll ever love.
You are all remarkable and have my utmost respect and admiration.
On a very personal note, when my own mother passed away we were asked by the pastor to write something special about her to share at her funeral. Of all the stories and anecdotes I had written thousands of times before, nothing seemed more important, yet completely inappropriate. I wrote nothing. I had no written or spoken word for the thirty-three years of unconditional love by this woman. I couldn’t put in a paragraph what my heart felt. She had seven children with a twenty year age difference and not one of us, not one day of our lives, did we ever not feel loved by her. During one of my final visits to the hospital, I held her hands and actually looked at them for the first time. They were nothing like mine. Hers were small, feminine, and pretty. They were fragile, yet so strong. My sister, Bobbi, was blessed with mother’s hands. Of course, I had seen her hands before and had held them many times, but on that day I really began to acknowledge the years of love they held.
It occurred to me at that moment how hard those fragile hands worked over the years. Those hands that prepared our meals, packed lunches, brushed our hair, made the beds, washed clothes, rocked crying babies, bandaged boo-boos, wiped tears, held dying pets, hugged our friends, and carried our hardships.
They were perfect and I’ll never forget them.