Sunday was The Day, I know. But really, around here, it wasn’t a big deal. Mother’s Day, schmothers day.
I left my sick husband at home and the three boys and I went to church. Just me on the back row and the boys scattered throughout the room and I really just wanted to be done with it and go home, to tell you the truth. Not feeling so joyful and lovely that Mother’s Day, to tell you the truth.
So I sit and stand and sing and pray when I’m told to, and I close my eyes and drift a little, there on the back row with everyone in front of me.
And then the older kids’ class is called to the front, two of my boys with them, and they stand in a line to share a Mother’s Day poem with us. Carter had been practicing his lines that morning, and he’d debated with himself over changing a word or two to make it a little less mushy. Whatever you want, I’d said, and when it was his turn to speak he included his revisions. That’s how he rolls.
Then it was Colton’s turn, tall boy up there at the front, and he didn’t say anything but only looked up from his paper and his eyes glanced around the room.
He’s nervous? He’s lost his place in the poem? He’s holding the wrong paper?
My thoughts immediately went to what’s wrong and oh no and I fretted for him.
But then his eyes found mine, and he spoke his lines deliberately, one by one, straight across the room past all the other people and directly into my mother heart.
And love found me, there on the back row, on Mother’s Day.