A Mother's Prayer...

Mama wore a white rose to church Sunday to honor her mother. This old custom, a red rose for a living mother and a white rose for a mother who has died, is rarely observed except by our older generation. As a child, I remember going to the red rose bush in our front yard early on Mother’s Day Sunday to clip four red roses, one for each of us with Daddy included, to wear to worship. We pinned them to our Sunday finery and joined all the other folks in our little church honoring those who gave us birth. The pastor always honored the oldest mother, the same one every year, the mother with the most children, also the same each year, and the newest mother, that changed from year to year. We sang hymns from the section labeled “Mother’s Songs”… Memories of Mother, The Sweetest Story Ever Told, Tell Mother I’ll Be There, Faith of Our Mothers, Mother Knows, O Blessed Day of Motherhood, My Mother’s Prayer, My Mother’s Bible. Schmaltzy? Yes. Sentimental? Yes. Fun? Yes. True? Yes.
I know some who love theology scoff at these “secular cultural observances” in worship but I miss them. Our faith does not exist in a cultural vacuum. It never has. Christians have always appropriated the culture and transformed it. Our most sacred holy days correspond in many ways with holy days from earlier faith traditions and we sing Christmas carols to tunes not written for worship. Mother ‘s and Father’s Days seem to me to be a wonderful opportunity to teach and honor parents who lay down their lives for their children. Even those who have struggled with the pain of being childless or for those who have had children die, there is or was a mother. For those who suffered at the hands of their mothers, there is the possibility of redemption and resurrection.
God, our mother and father, the birth parent of us all, holds us close to his breast (how is that for a mixed metaphor?) and sets us free to find other mothers and fathers in our world. I am grateful for all the other mothers in my children’s lives. I couldn’t have done it without you. You took them to church and Sunday School, let them come over to your house to play, hosted the church youth group, were their friends on mission trips, listened to them gripe about me and never snitched, were their friends when life got messy, showed up for their weddings and keep up with them now that they are all grown up. Thanks for being the Mother Face of God for my children. And I need to thank all the women who have been my mothers over the years. You taught me how to cook for crowds, to wear beautiful hats, think for myself, pray without knowing exactly how prayer works, play the piano in church, patted me on the back and kicked me into action, challenged and supported me as I struggled to find my voice.
Mark reminded us in worship Sunday that Jesus’ first recorded words in the Bible are when he sassed his mother. She had the nerve to take him to task for staying behind at the temple instead of coming home. Mary’s anguished on my last nerve question…What were you thinking? Didn’t you know your father and I would be worried about you?...was answered with all the assurance a young boy could muster…You should have known where I was. I have begun my career as God’s Son. Makes you wonder if Mary yanked him up by the scruff of his neck to haul him home. Whatever she did, it worked because we read that he went back to Nazareth , lived with his parents and was obedient. And at the end of his life, his last task was to speak to his mother, giving her a son to take his place, his beloved disciple, John. His ministry at its beginning and its ending was bookmarked with words to his mother.
So for all my mothers out there, imperfect as we all are, I tip my Sunday hat to you and give thanks for your persistent love, the persons of Mother God in my world. I think I will wear a red rose this Sunday to worship in your honor and hold your names in my heart as I pray.