I wrote this post over a month ago when I was waiting to meet the little girl who made me a Mommy.
Love does not boast…
For weeks now, I have been wondering: when this swollen belly will give way to our child, when I will finally break open (in so many mysterious ways), when I will feel the weight of my first child on my chest.
There is the constant questioning: will she be healthy? Will she be wise? Will I know how to love her?
Then there is reflecting on my own mother, marked by 3 children, a conquered disease, a lasting marriage and a thriving faith.
There is remembering: her nodding to sleep as she rocked so many children in that square oak chair. Her hanging laundry out to dry in the sun, knowing full well we’d run that hill, dragging dirty hands and faces through those clean damp sheets. Her cleaning up after I got the gumption to bake. Her braiding my hair. Her cheering us on, hiding her fear while we flew down that crumbling sidewalk on rollerblades, bikes, in wagons. Her cleaning our wounds when we crashed.
This is a love that does not boast, a love that expects nothing in return. This love humbly gives and gives, accepts burnt toast and Cheerios served in bed on Mother’s day morning.
This is a love that raises warriors to fight for the good in this world, raises artists to call it out, raises teachers to remind us of it.
This love is not loud, but constant. An ancient whisper passed on, and passed on–from mother to child to mother.