A few years ago, in my ward in the US, I watched the youth hand out flowers to all the mothers in the ward. They missed me because, rightly so, I wasn’t anyone’s mother at the time. I didn’t think anything of it. Then I saw them bypass the sister who had struggled through miscarriage after miscarriage, who had several failed IVF treatments, who had ultimately lost her husband because she couldn’t make him a father.
That’s when I stopped going to church on Mother’s Day. That woman is in every ward, silently struggling with her reality.
During my marriage I was almost a Mother, three times. It’s something that happened that I just don’t talk about, but it too plays a part in my absence at church every Mother’s Day. So it hurt my heart to see that particular sister miss out on her flower that Sunday when she probably deserved them all. Not being an actual mother doesn’t make you any less of a mother and it was a man who told me that.
It was nice to wake up to mothers day messages received during the week and today from the people who matter most. The people who can identify you as a Mother when technicalities say otherwise.
I got my three back though. Those three have a permanent score on my heart enough to give my all for.
Because I am, if not by default, their Mum.