I love my mum. I love the way she stops what she’s doing and gets on Skype as soon as possible when I’ve texted her. I love the way she lets me ramble, then will reign me back in with one simple, profound word of advice. I love how she encourages me to speak out the truth of God when the promises seem thin… to hold on to Him when all else seems so dim. I love the way she brings her own experience into it, which makes it more real for me, rather than empty lessons, there is a reason behind every “do this” or “do that”. That is love.

Yet there’s something more than just being a “good mom” that she carries. The goodness I have received is not her own. That’s what makes her love powerful. For in the midst of grading papers and baked bread rolls and spotty china and New Zealand paintings there was a mum who had her Bible and journal every morning… there on the bed when I woke up… praying for us rascally (but lovely too!) kids… but most importantly, cultivating intimacy with her Beloved, Jesus. 

That’s what impacted me. For she follows Him wherever she goes, she seeks to obey, she seeks to love and that just overflows to her husband and children. Then, not just me and the three boys, but to everyone… to her colleagues, to her students, to our friends that just come over to our house because they know she will have a toy box open, a cuppa tea ready, and a heart that’s open for whatever’s going to happen. There you see the kindness of Jesus.

What a heritage. I get to call her mother. But so many more do, too. I can only glimpse her through Skype at the moment… through late-night emails… through long-anticipated care packages… and unexpected love letters from her. There’s so much more than I ever saw as a little munchkin… and a blind teenager. I’m beginning to see how I can love, too. So here’s an honour, for her, for God. Thank you. Thank you for all you do, yet also for loving Him. For I’m just starting to see that’s what it all came down to.