Let us recognize that many women yearn to become a mother, but can not; let us remember the women who prayed for a miracle, for a child that did not come.
Let us pray for the women who are mother’s but secretly wish they were not; for those who are overwhelmed, scared, stressed and feel alone even though they are surrounded by others.
Let us not forget the fragile, delicate women who are tasked with raising the children of the future.
On Mother’s Day let us remember the motherless children, whether they be age 9 or 90; those who would give anything they owned for just ten seconds with their mother.
Let us comfort those who have lost what we have not. Let us comfort those who will lose a loved one we have not (yet) lost; for everyone will loose their mother and understand the sorrow of death.
Let us remember the children who prayed for the kind of mother they needed, a love-filled one instead of one filled with anger, hate, and wrath. Let us remember the children placed in harm’s way who did not ask for, nor will they ever receive, a loving mother who protects them.
Let us not forget the Mother’s who will keep a phone close at hand praying that this year, yes, this year, their prodigal, their estranged, their imprisoned child will call. Let us recognize that there will be thousands of Mother’s who will not hear from their child, not today or any day; and that this is through no fault of their own, not for lack of love, bad parenting, or any other societal “fault” we tend to heap upon the weary shoulders of women.
Let us remember that there are many women who will receive nothing for Mother’s day: not a card, letter or flower.
Let us remember that children, once grown, make their own choices and those choices continually pierce the heart of women.
Let us remember the Mother’s who outlived their children, for their hearts are perhaps the heaviest.
Let us give women grace, and more grace because we are already our own worse enemy.
Let us start a Women’s Day movement, because the heart of a woman is a fierce, yet delicate thing.
Let us purpose to be kind to the women we meet today, for each of us belong to this tribe we call “Mother,” and each of us bear our own battle scars, whether the wounds be at the hands of our own mother, our children, or ourselves.
Let us love; even when we feel like crying. Odds are the person you meet feels like crying too. Odds are they feel so broken that they may shatter at any moment.
Let us bind together the brokenness with loves and hugs; because that is what mother’s do.
Renea Winchester is the award-winning author of Farming, Friends, and Fried Bologna Sandwiches; Mountain Memories: True Stories and Half-Truths from Appalachia. A Hardscrabble Christmas. Her first book, In the Garden with Billy: Lessons About Life, Love & Tomatoes earned her a SIBA and GAYA nomination. Order signed copies or, email her through her website at www.reneawinchester.com. She welcomes new friends on Facebook. Follow her on Twitter Here.