Only yesterday did I read the story of the woman who is given credit for creating Mother’s Day. It’s a rather sad story, this woman who was never a mother herself, but loved her own mother and recognized that mothers should be honored. According to the chronicle told, she spent her life and her livelihood trying to protect the fact that it was she who actually was the founder and not others who tried to claim it. When I read this, I was dismayed that history seems to remember this glaring need for her to ensure she received the credit. It may or may not be what is actually true, she isn’t here to tell the tale herself. Evidence says she had strong feelings about the holiday not being celebrated, like so many holidays, by the outward show of expensive gifts—another holiday to commercialize— but wanted it to be a true awareness of what mothers do for us, and the world. She commemorated mothers as having been the world’s peace makers.
I have marvelled many times over the years about all the brave mothers I have known. Those whose later years were marred by losing a daughter or a son, and being left with only memories of the love that filled their heart as they had watched their child grow into adulthood. And the other mothers who held their babies and young children, providing the loving hands that cared so beautifully as these young ones died too soon. I always remember my own mother, on this manufactured day, she who was not perfect—no mother is— but loved so perfectly. I think of all the ways she mothered me over the years, both near and afar, my inner awareness of her love and prayers going with me wherever life’s path took me.
I had the joy of sharing my mother’s love for 50 years. I thought this morning about another woman; some would say she actually didn’t get to be a mother. I knew her some years ago. She had birthed a child that was lifeless, but oh how she had loved this infant. She knew before his birth that he would not survive long, but planned for the hours or perhaps days, or miraculously more than that, whatever she was given, and how she would hold him and comfort him. It was not to be, this wish of hers, and a week before his actual due date his little heart stopped beating. I remember well the breathless swaddled bundle, held with tenderness by both of his parents, and the wee urn that his ashes were later placed in.
It doesn’t seem to matter, the length of time that a mother’s heart is spent with a child. Mothers don’t stop loving, because their child is gone. On this mother’s day, like Anne Jarvis, I know from experience what every mother has given and received— The True Gift— a mother’s love.