5-14-18<\/p>\n
I never have had the privilege of being a mother. As closely bound as I was to fathering, being present at the births of our children, then nurturing and rearing them; fatherhood in all senses\u2026 I am aware it all is a far-distant second. The special relationship of mother and child \u2013 among all species \u2013 is a unique and precious blessing. <\/p>\n
A birthright, in fact.<\/p>\n
For all the good feelings engendered by Mother\u2019s Day, I reserve a portion of contempt for those creatures who denigrate the institution of Motherhood. Not loutish men alone, but women themselves who, ultimately, are self-loathing. Those who deny the privilege \u2013 to others, not only for themselves \u2013 of sanctifying the foundation of the family; for hating what we love; for hating what is love. <\/p>\n
I reserve a portion of pity, too. I must. What I often call in this space the Culture of Death extends beyond the trashing of motherhood and women\u2019s traditional roles. Biologically, homosexuals cannot naturally procreate (pro-create). Abortion fanatics crusade for death \u2013 disguising their \u201cadvocacy\u201d as concern for \u201cconvenience\u201d for the mothers; as birth-control-after-the-fact. And so on. They are to be pitied, and prayed for. <\/p>\n
In the meantime, my Mother\u2019s Day is filled with memories of the Mom I knew. I loved her, and love her. She was an example whose nurture appears stronger through the years: seeds, planted, and growing in my life. A servant\u2019s heart, making silent and willing sacrifices. Was she perfect? Smoking and drinking were regrettable but did not affect her salvation. Big deal. My sisters and I prayed for Jesus to turn the wine back into water. <\/p>\n
Of vital importance is that she knew Jesus, was active in churches, and related almost every question I ever had to the gospel. <\/p>\n
A preacher in aprons. A saint in curlers. An invariable forgiver.<\/p>\n
And that example was no less special because it is the frequent role of mothers \u2013 not stereotyped, not clich\u00e9d, not pressed upon her as a dirty, leftover job \u2013 the role of imparting life lessons, of teaching values; sharing love.<\/p>\n
Fathers can<\/em> do such things before mothers do, with their children. Life\u2019s circumstances dictate such things, and some fathers might be the more tender of a set of parents \u2013 but we all know that in the vast majority of cases in the Human Family, it is the mother who holds, hugs, shares tears, teaches, and smiles, a little more than the father, or at least a little earlier. And we children remember. <\/p>\n Fathers discipline; mothers forgive. Fathers prod the way forward; mothers welcome us home. Fathers mold us; mothers know<\/em> us.<\/p>\n I believe God created Woman not only as a helpmeet to Adam, but as an Assistant to Himself. As Mothers, to show unconditional love; to bond in unique ways with their children; to bear the essence of comfort, understanding, acceptance.<\/p>\n Think back to the first song you learned, maybe a lullaby. The first prayers you heard, or memorized. The first gentle nursery rhyme or fairy tale. Chances are that was your mother\u2019s voice, mother\u2019s smiles, mother\u2019s tears. And if not\u2026 probably Grandmother\u2019s. This is our DNA, emotions as strong as genetics.<\/p>\n I admired my Dad, oh yes; I still finish every project wondering if he would approve; to be a good professional. But Mom? If I can be as good a man as she was a mother, I will die grateful and content.<\/p>\n There are some women who, by circumstance or infirmity, sadly cannot become mothers. Most women whom I have met from those groups have hearts even more tender for families and for children. <\/p>\n However, sorry to tell all of you radical harridans who hate, you have disinvited yourselves from family reunions \u2013 not at ballparks on summer afternoons, or Grandma\u2019s house on Winter evenings \u2013 but from that mystical, privileged, and sacred Family that truly is a gift of God. <\/p>\n + + + <\/p>\n Does this essay seem to dwell on old-fashioned things? I plead guilty! There are too many old fashions that we are losing. Here is one: a tender lullaby, a mother\u2019s song, written by Stephen Foster 150 years ago. Recently we shared another tender song by this great American poet and composer. This, sung by Alison Kraus, is equally impressive. And some crazed radicals are tearing down his statue in the town of his birth…<\/p>\n