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.

my Colton on a spring morning

my Colton on a spring morning



I’m blogging over at How to Homeschool High School today, sharing some thoughts about this whole mother thing. Hope you’ll join me there.

Yesterday was all wind and cold. Carter and I, in town for errands, run from vehicle to post office, vehicle to bank, vehicle to cafe, our coats pulled tight against the weather. We stop for a slushie at the Sub Shop, waiting for the phone call that will tell me the baby chicks are ready to be picked up.

This morning my house is chilly and I turn up the kitchen thermostat. Carter sits on the electric heat register, bouncing up and down when it gets a little too warm on his scrawny bottom, hardly able to open his eyes while he waits for the porridge to finish its work on the stove.

And this the last bit of April in Saskatchewan. Cold. Wind. And the possibility of snow on the weekend. And I know that when my husband walks through the door at the end of the day, he’ll be worn right out from the battle.

He heads out to do chores. I’ve been wondering¬†okay, worrying about the babies in the chicken house. They seemed fine last night, nestled under the red glow of the heat lamp. I ask Lyndon to text me from the barn so I will know right away that they survived the night. And he does, good man that he is. He sends a video to my phone and the babies, chirping and scrambling over each other, are fine.

I watch through the window as he opens the barn door, and the goats charge out into the field, ready to stretch and romp and the wind and the cold seem to bother them not a bit. Even runty little Fudge is happy to be out and in the fresh.¬†They’re goats, I say out loud. They like being outside.

I turn to check the tomatoes and the peppers and the chives. They seem to be taking forever to show themselves, and then, just when I’ve almost given up I see them, tiny and new. Babies breaking free from their blankets, reaching up for sun and warmth and life.

In my kitchen, the air warms slowly as the heat seeps into the room. I stand at the windows. The old panes shiver a bit in their frames and the tree branches in the yard whip noisy in the wind. The old tire swings listlessly.

Yes its windy and cold and my heart struggles against the dreariness, but all the babies are fine. In my little world, everyone is keeping warm, and the mother in me is good with that. Today, keeping warm is enough.