The Young Mother

Many of you are young mothers who will celebrate a Mother's Day tomorrow. Your day will be busy. You have small tykes to wake, feed, clean, and clothe, all before church. This is of course along with getting yourself ready, and climbing into the car; fastening everyone's seat belts; settling everyone's squabbles.

(If church isn't on your agenda, you might want to try it: there would be at least ONE HOUR OF PEACE AND QUIET! plus, it might just surprise you).

https://www.flickr.com/photos/automania/88568278/

Before you go to sleep tonight, I want to tell you each 'thank you', for doing this job. Being this mom. Knowing that it isn't about you anymore, really, because it needs to be about them, for now. It won't always be thus; these days are speeders - unstoppable. 

When our two were tiny, I came across a poem that added to my perspective greatly. Here it is:

Song To My Son

My hands were busy through the day,

I didn't have much time to play

The little games you asked me to,

I didn't have much time for you.

I'd clean your room, I'd sew and cook,

But when you'd bring your picture book

And ask me, please? to share your fun,

I'd say "A little later, son."

I'd tuck you in all safe at night,

Then hear your prayers, turn out the light.

Then tiptoe softly to the door,

I wish I'd stayed a minute more.

For life is short, the years rush past,

A little boy grows up so fast;

No longer is he at your side,

His precious secrets to confide.

The picture books are put away,

There are no longer games to play,

No good night kiss, no prayers to hear,

These all belong to yesteryear.

Oh help me, Jesus not to wait,

And see the truth when it's too late,

And help me take the time to do 

The little things, he asks me to.

I never found who wrote the poem, but I bless them for it. The words arrested me and strengthened me whenever I thought I was too busy with the mundane - I learned it was the *'sacred mundane'. 

God bless you, Mothers. You are doing the highest job in the land. It may not pay real well, but your Thank You's will be non-monetary.

An old soldier once told me that during his experience of WWII, wounded men on a battlefield didn't call out for their friends, or neighbors, or secretaries back home. 

They called out for their Mothers.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

*The Sacred Mundane, blog by Kari Patterson

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/automania/88568278/">Automania</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>