Behold Thy Mother
By Ronnie Bray

I watched the mothers, some young, some not so young, who had carried their fretful babies to the back of the auditorium at the conference. Though quite different women, each held their little ones close in roughly the same way, swaying gently, cooing softly into their ears, and enticing them to sleep.

The scene before my eyes misted over and changed. In my imagination I saw their babies grown to manhood and womanhood, and I knew what they would never know: that their mothers carried them, bore them, held them, sacrificed their time, comfort, and health to love them through bleak and cheerless days, troubled and tormented nights, and did whatever the moment demanded to make them well again and restore their sweet smiles of baby peace. Children grow up ignorant of every sweet or troubled moment so spent on them by their mothers.

Once assumed, motherhood can not lightly be laid down. It endures beyond the narrow confines of mortality into the far reaches of eternity, where the attributes of matriarchy are known for what they are – characteristics of deity.

The wages of motherhood are not paid in full during mortality. A mother’s labour does not stop when her heart beats its last, and her breath slips from her with a sigh. Mothers know this, but undertake the role with love and thanksgiving, accepting that ingratitude will often reward their efforts to render help or advice.

Each memory of the earliest months and years are imprinted into the mother’s heart, and burned into her brain, but the child often forgets, acting as if those days had never been, and that makes for the worst kind of pain.

Mothers are not perfect. There is no prior requirement for would-be mothers to be faultless or expert. Even so, most strive for perfection, and many get close enough to pass with honours. Children of any age who harbour the expectation that their mother should be perfect are labouring under a delusion whose identical twin is the idea that life will be fair. The best that can be said of any mother is that despite her imperfections, she tried always to do her best to raise her children well.

This upward striving, often against her intrinsic nature, is the willing sacrifice of a mother’s loving heart, swiftly turned from her own interests when the badge of “Mother” is pinned to her breast. She is always ‘mother’ although the direction and intensity of her role changes as her family grows.

Now a girl, little more than a child, nursing a newborn that demands all her devotion so that he can live, be healthy, increase in wisdom, and grow to adulthood.

Now a mature woman with three or more little ones tugging at her skirts, juggling her time, coping with the many calls and tasks that fly at her with the velocity of machine gun bullets, without diluting the love, care, and tenderness she imparts to each.

Now a matron, watching her teenaged children hover on the edge of maturity, but who still desperately need to hold her hand as they unfurl their wings before the wide blue arc of life.

Now a grandmother with smiling eyes, silver hair, and tears in her eyes cradling her grandchild and remembering.

Then a great-grandmother remembering little with clarity, her wrinkled face reverting to angelic gentleness when she is visited by sweet children whose parent’s names she has forgotten.

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As Jesus hung on the Cross of Calvary, he made provision for his mother by commanding John the Beloved, Son, behold they mother. In these few words, Jesus defines our responsibilities to our mothers.

How appropriate, that even in the hour of his glory, as he made the perfect Atonement, he recognised the part his mother had played in his preparation to become the Saviour of the World, and he made provision for her to be comforted at the hour of his death, and for her continuing welfare, through the good offices of one whom he loved and trusted.

In the Fellowship of the Cross, Jesus teaches us about mothers, and the regard and esteem that he and his Father in Heaven have for them. Through this, we begin to realise the exalted station of motherhood. Someone said that mothers go down to the edge of the grave to bring their children into the world, and this is true. What is equally true is that mothers never stop loving their children, even when their children are ungrateful and, sometimes, unkind.

When I was young, I was disappointed that my mother had not made me better than I was. My feelings towards her changed when I realised that she had done her best, and I began to appreciate all that she had done for me, rather than count what I considered to be her failings. Since then, I have felt much better, and so has my mother.

Whatever our mothers may or may not have done for us, they gave us life, and nurtured us according to their imperfect best. To each of us, especially we who have not managed to be sufficiently grateful, the Voice from the Cross commands,

Behold thy mother.

Are you listening?

Copyright © Ronnie Bray - 14 May 2000 All Rights Reserved