A Tribute to Moms
An excerpt from Angela Thomas' book Tender Mercy for a Mother's Soul.
This is for all the mothers who froze their bottoms off on metal bleachers at soccer games Friday night instead of watching from cars, so that when their kids asked, "Did you see my goal?" they could say, "Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world," and mean it.
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up chunks of wieners and cherry soda that suddenly reappeared, saying, "It's okay, honey, Mommy's here."
This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled the night and can't find their children.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they will never see … and the mothers who took those babies and made homes for them.
This is for the mothers of victims of school shooting … and the mothers of the murderers … for the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school safely.
This is for all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes … and all the mothers who don't.
This is for reading Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year … and then reading it again, "just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who mess up, who yell at their kids in the grocery store and stomp their feet like a tired two-year-old who wants ice cream before dinner.
This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school … and for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair, milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.
— Author Unknown
I have added my own words to this tribute:
Dear working mom, stay-at-home mom, single mom, married mom, mothers without, and mothers with everything: God sees you. He knows you. He loves you. You are His hands of love, His arms of compassion and His gift of grace to the next generation.
I read these words in my e-mail late one night and cried unto sobs. I am still moved when I recount the depth of love and the potential for heartache in these simple lines about the everyday tasks of mothering.
What makes my lips quiver and the lump jump into my throat when I think about the power of a mother's love? I cry because being a mother is such a privilege. I cry because I forget that it is a privilege. I cry because I love my children so. I cry because I want to love them more. I cry because I sense in my soul that this love transcends all my understanding. I cry because I am humbled to be the vessel entrusted with their care.
When I think about the grace that mothering requires, I am amazed that I have any at all, and yet, by faith in Jesus Christ, you and I are being given a supernatural grace, a grace that causes us to love and protect, a grace that brings us to tears when we consider its magnitude.
This is for all the mothers who have sat up all night with sick toddlers in their arms, wiping up chunks of wieners and cherry soda that suddenly reappeared, saying, "It's okay, honey, Mommy's here."
This is for all the mothers of Kosovo who fled the night and can't find their children.
This is for the mothers who gave birth to babies they will never see … and the mothers who took those babies and made homes for them.
This is for the mothers of victims of school shooting … and the mothers of the murderers … for the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school safely.
This is for all the mothers who run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes … and all the mothers who don't.
This is for reading Goodnight, Moon twice a night for a year … and then reading it again, "just one more time."
This is for all the mothers who mess up, who yell at their kids in the grocery store and stomp their feet like a tired two-year-old who wants ice cream before dinner.
This is for all the mothers who taught their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school … and for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
This is for all the mothers who show up at work with spit-up in their hair, milk stains on their blouses and diapers in their purse.
This is for all the mothers who teach their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.
— Author Unknown
I have added my own words to this tribute:
Dear working mom, stay-at-home mom, single mom, married mom, mothers without, and mothers with everything: God sees you. He knows you. He loves you. You are His hands of love, His arms of compassion and His gift of grace to the next generation.
I read these words in my e-mail late one night and cried unto sobs. I am still moved when I recount the depth of love and the potential for heartache in these simple lines about the everyday tasks of mothering.
What makes my lips quiver and the lump jump into my throat when I think about the power of a mother's love? I cry because being a mother is such a privilege. I cry because I forget that it is a privilege. I cry because I love my children so. I cry because I want to love them more. I cry because I sense in my soul that this love transcends all my understanding. I cry because I am humbled to be the vessel entrusted with their care.
When I think about the grace that mothering requires, I am amazed that I have any at all, and yet, by faith in Jesus Christ, you and I are being given a supernatural grace, a grace that causes us to love and protect, a grace that brings us to tears when we consider its magnitude.
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Excerpted from Tender Mercy for a Mother's Soul. Copyright © 2006 by Angela Thomas. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Excerpt may not be reproduced without the prior consent of Tyndale.
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