Mother's Day comes once a year, but for some it carries more weight than an ordinary Thursday in October. In church this week the men and boys in the room handed roses with baby's breath to each of the women and girls. One small boy held the white long stem in his hands with his eyes focused on his mom. For him, in this moment, there was only her. 

The minister invited ten women, mothers and sisters to read passages from scripture about mothers. Of the ten stories, John and I have written songs for all but two. The tunes scrolled through my mind during the service.

Sarah, Eve, Hannah, Rebekah, Hagar, Elisabeth, and Mary. Three more women remained anonymous. Sampson's mother, Moses's mother, and the Woman clothed with the sun each overcame adversity to protect their child. We heard of the sacrifices, the labor, the uncertainty, and the fear that thrums like a baseline through mothering. 

When I stood at the microphone to read about the unnamed woman whose baby was hunted by a dragon, my heart overflowed with memories. There were fears that never amounted to a hill of beans, and others that caught me by surprise. Then my eyes fell on a young woman whose mother died too soon, and I choked up. I noticed the absence of a man who usually stands at the back of the room, whose mother passed away just a few hours before. 

I thought of my own mother, and wished I could hear her voice again. But just then a little boy I know from the preschool saw me, and waved. I smiled. He smiled. 

We are in this world for such a short time, really. The chances we are proffered to nurture, to hold tight, to protect, to let go are at once elongated and fleeting. 

Lord, let me be gracious enough to give when I have the chance.