Mother’s Day is almost here. It’s a day that is very close to my heart, but not just for the reason(s) you think. This year, I’ve been reflecting on the many women I’ve been privileged to know, the women who have mothered me as often as I’d let them—and even when I didn’t.
My natural mother served in the army for 22 years; she has
that casual assertiveness that comes from two decades of being 5 feet tall and
in charge of people who could fold her in half. She is confident, unflappable, and a provider. Thanks to her, I never believed being a woman
was any kind of limitation.
My mother-in-law was fiercely loyal and protective. She was quick to open her house and her heart
to strays, particularly human ones. There was always an extra plate at her table; no one went away hungry.
My paternal grandmother was a dragon. After thirty-five years in a abusive marriage
that kept her acceptably small, she found herself and lived loudly for the next
forty years, the iron-fisted and iron-browed queen of a sprawling, wild family.
My husband’s grandmother has been polished by years of love, faith, and dedicated service, with a patient gentleness and solidity that well
suits a matriarch who has weathered nearly a century in this tumultuous world.
I am rich in sisters, thanks to my husband’s family. Together we have weathered the stormwrack of addiction,
death, adultery, poverty, and mental illness.
We have lifted each other in victory and cherished each other’s children. We have fought and loved and forgiven.
I have had sisters in the military and the gospel who,
though not blood, are still family. Some
of them were so in passing—women who brought a meal or corralled a feral
toddler at the airport or gave offhand advice about how to do something
better. Women who saw me struggle, and
took the time to ask why, or to offer a hug and a few words of comfort. Friends who reached out after years apart to
check in. Women who reached out to the
new neighbor and welcomed me into the community every time I had to start over. A high school teacher who taught me how to write, and a college professor who let me find my voice. A cousin who will drop everything when I need help. A free-spirited bohemian in the Yuma
desert. The friendly extrovert who adopted
me in San Antonio. The mad violinist with six girls of her own and zero qualms about barging in when she hadn’t
heard from me for a couple days, and shared her sofa for long hours of conversation. The women who shared Mondays with me during
the last deployment, one full of gentle humor and faith and the other a foodie
full of zest and cheeky adventure. The women who took my horde on a moment’s
notice in emergencies. A retired Marine wife who was an example of grit, competence,
and strength of character. A neighbor who was always up for brunch and a vent session. Another whose laser-focused,
sincere attention made me feel seen and heard. Women who shared their soft
testimony or outrageous laugh or their company so freely that I never felt
alone. Women who loved and served my girls
as if they were their own. There are so
many, many more. I am who I am because
of these women who encouraged and challenged, loved and rebuked, inspired and
taught me.
Thank you.
I’m past the stage of diapers and sleepless nights and
always smelling faintly of old milk. I’m
at the much harder phase where my girls batter themselves against me, roughing
out who they are by where I end and they begin. We are closer to dating and college than we
are to story time and kindergarten; it’s hard watching them grow and knowing
that I won’t always be there to comfort or defend or counsel. It’s even harder to deliberately hang back and
let them test their limits.
To be honest, I’m not
really ready for it.
It's a little easier, though, knowing that they will have a
thousand mothers and sisters to help them along the way, just as I did. For those already here and those to come,
thank you.
I’ve tried to help in turn. I’ve brought meals and random
surprises, shoveled driveways and watched children, listened to sorrow and had hard
conversations. It always seems so little compared to what I have received.
So thank you to all the mothers I’ve known for what I can
never repay. You made more of a
difference than you’ll ever know.
Happy Mother’s Day.
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