I've been thinking about motherhood for a few weeks now. I think it was a speaker in Sacrament Meeting who mentioned the mother of Jesus being at the foot of His cross. That impacted me. Everyone at some point or another had deserted Jesus, had denied Him, had ultimately betrayed Him. But not his Mother. She was there through it all. As a mother is. In the movie "Forgotten", you see how nothing, not even alien life forms and their lab tests, can erase the love a mother has for her children. Nothing can stop a Mother from doing whatever she has to do to reclaim her relationship with her children.
I enjoyed bearing children. There is so much hope for the future in the weight of a newborn baby snuggled in your arms. Revelling in each new idea, concept, abilty and insight a child masters is an opportunity to watch a wooden creation become a human being and then strive to become an eternal being. When I came home from the hospital with my fourth child, I knew she was my last. It was a melancholy Mother's Day that year as I stood in church to get my soon-to-be-dead flower. I remember standing up thinking, this will be my last Mother's Day. Oh, how I did not yet understand the reach and eternal calling of a Mother!!
Rather than bearing children now, I bear burdens and worries and concerns - all of which I have no control over but still feel vaguely, strangely responsible for. When I look at my children, I see all that they have become. I don't see the pile of moldable clay I saw when they were little. The clay has been molded and shaped and in many instances fired more than once. Surely this cannot be our ultimate destiny - to be carefully sculpted into a beautiful, priceless work of art; unique in every way, and then be fired in the kiln over and over until we are hard. The firing is to perfect us, but it is much easier to allow it to harden us, protecting and burying what small inner pocket of softness we can preserve.
Maybe the challenge is not in surviving the firing but in staying moldable even though the inside of the oven is all too familiar. Not moldable as in constantly changing - chameleon-like; but moldable as in allowing touches from other people to leave a mark, adding dimension, depth and texture to this work of art of ours. Well, this blogspot is appropriately named, for I have just rambled.
However, I hope the mothers of my grandchildren know how proud I am of them and the job they're doing. Each one of you is an awesome Mother! I hope all my children know how grateful I am for them allowing me to be their mother. I am so glad you survived!