What I Really Need for Mother’s Day

My sweet husband asked me yesterday (a full week before Mother’s Day, I might add), “What do you really want for Mother’s Day?”

Poor fella. He married an elaborate gift giver, while he himself is more of an acts of service kind of guy. This means he wants to clean my car, but I feel very comfortable in my semi-tidy vehicle which doubles as my office (and thus needs books, tissues, pens, and scissors in its door-side compartments).

I toyed with saying, “Anything in the accessory section at Target.” After all, that is easy. There is no chance a purse won’t fit and might send me into a body image spiral. But then I decided I don’t need another linen tote to fill with journals and books.

I moved on to books, but then I remembered the stacks of beloved books that already line my bedside. We literally have no more walls to build shelves upon which to keep the books. So no to the books.

I thought about flowers. But the pollen gets all over the table and doubles my work. And you know I feel terrible when I kill the potted plants in record time. Maybe a cactus? But we have many of those!

And, I may be unpopular for saying this, but I don’t want a card that tells me in over-the-top flowery language that I am the world’s best mom. I know my own heart, and I know our home. I’ve been around the block enough to know that I am the best mom for you all, but that I am not always at my best.

This year has been a year marked by significant internal (and thus largely unnoticed-as-yet-to-others) growth in our little family. Roles are changing as my boys need me less visibly. It has been a joy-that-hurts-like-a-wound to give them space to figure things out, hang out with friends, put themselves out there and risk failure. I have not felt this tender-souled in ages.

As such, here is my honest list of what I most need this Mother’s Day:

  1. Tell me where you’ve seen me grow. Although your feet grow at warp speed, most souls grow more at a snail’s pace. I never, ever want to be a stagnant, settled human. I always want to model growth to you. I want to show you, not just tell you, that risk is a beautiful thing, even if it leads to failure. I want to show you, not just tell you, that discomfort is a prerequisite for growth. So tell me where you see me growing into my identity in Christ, because it is very likely that I don’t notice it (2 Corinthians 3:18; Philippians 3: 7-10; Hosea 6: 1-3).
  2. Tell me you see eternal light through my abundance of cracks. You see me and I see you guys more than anyone else. This means you know my fissures and foibles and failings well, as I know yours. But in my weakness, I try to point you to the perfect One. Tell me where you have seen me grown quicker to repent and forgive, slower to anger and quicker to listen. Remind me that the light is the main event, not my cracks (2 Corinthians 4:7-12; 2 Corinthians 12:19).
  3. Remind me when we laughed so hard we nearly cried this past year. Church planting and teenager-shepherding tend toward heaviness in your momma’s heart. There are burdens and tragedies in this broken world that scare the living daylights out of me. Please keep me laughing with your ridiculous antics and horrible impersonations, even if they are sometimes at my expense (Proverbs 17: 22).
  4. Keep sharing your dirty laundry with me. And I don’t mean the clothes primarily. Keep being honest with me about what is hard. Keep letting me into your fears and insecurities. Keep telling me when your days are hard and you are frustrated with me, dad, your teachers, and/or this broken world. Drag it to me. I’ll gladly help you sort through it; together, we will drag it all into the light of His presence. And we will wait on Him together (1 John 1: 5-10).
  5. Keep letting me pray for you and with you and over you. There are no moments that I love and cherish more than when I get to bring you (your body, mind, soul, and spirit) into God’s presence. There are many places where I feel weak as a mother, but I know I am strong when we pray (2 Corinthians 10:4).

I don’t need candles. I will just forget to trim their wicks. I don’t need chocolate. Dad will eat it all anyway. But you could try to hang up your own wet towels at least two times a week – that would be a major improvement.

Sincerely, Mom

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s