Around 10:00 on Thanksgiving morning, just as I finished watching the Macy's Parade and dreaming of the day Shulamith and I can visit New York City and see it in person, I headed out to the convenience store down the street to get a newspaper for the Black Friday ads and Diet Cokes on ice for Shulamith and me. For the record, we generally wait until later in the day to drink Diet Coke; in the morning we really try to drink water. But holidays are exceptions, right? Right. It would not have occurred to me to take Shulamith's baby with me on this little jaunt, except that for some reason, he really wanted to go. He wanted to go so much that he literally followed me down the stairs, sliding on his tummy like toddlers do, and then attempted to follow me out the door, waving bye-bye to everyone in the house. Well what could I do if it was that important to him? I picked him up and put him in the car.
Inside the store, I put him down to fill our drinks and grab the newspaper, and as I was paying, I wondered just how difficult it might be to get back out to my car with two large Diet Cokes, a giant newspaper filled with Black Friday ads, and Swen! Just as I decided I would need to make two trips, a kind man behind me said, "I'll carry those drinks out for you," and he picked them right up. On our way out to my car, he continued, "A mother's arms are filled with many things."
Indeed they are. In this case, he meant that literally, and it's true literally; it's often so very true. Our arms are filled with dishes and laundry and irons and toys and homework and backpacks and lunch boxes and missing socks and, of course, babies! But it also occurred to me that this man's statement is also true figuratively. A mother's arms are filled with many things:
Sometimes, they are filled with worry. Yesterday was the first real storm of the season, and we awoke to a blanket of beautiful white snow but also treacherous driving conditions. I immediately thought about Isaiah, whose car doesn't handle all that well in the snow, driving to school and work and wherever else he needed to go. I texted him. I did. I try really, really hard not to bother my adult children with texts and calls. I rarely initiate contact with any of them; I figure they'll get in touch with me if they want to. But in this case, I deviated from that standard and texted Isaiah. Because I was worried. He texted right back saying he was indeed out and, yes, road conditions were awful, but he was being careful. A mother's arms are sometimes filled with worry.
Other times they are filled with angst. It's not exactly the same as worry. It's that feeling of dread just before our children are about to perform in a recital or play in a soccer game or cheer at a state tournament or dance in The Nutcracker. We so desperately want them to do well, to excel in their chosen activity, and most importantly to feel good about it. We say a silent prayer for them, and we sit frozen on the edge of our seats. I experienced this feeling just last night at Seth's holiday piano recital. He had worked so hard on his two pieces, and I wanted that effort to be rewarded with his best performance. It was. He played beautifully. But as always, I sat with my hands clinched together, praying for every single note to be correct. A mother's arms are sometimes filled with angst.
Other times they are filled with pride and joy. Whether its our kindergartner dressed as a shepherd in the Christmas pageant, our 3rd grader playing Ebenezer Scrooge in his class production of A Christmas Carol, our 8th grader representing his school at the state spelling bee, or our senior in high school singing a solo in his high school's production of Brigadoon, nothing fully describes the joy that fills our bodies from head to toe as we watch our children do whatever it is they do. Even when we don't get to watch in person, the feeling is the same. Just the other day, a church member from Tennessee, whose friend is taking the missionary discussions, posted a picture of Eli at church with this gentleman, and included these words: "I'm so grateful I can trust my friends Elders Webster and Hadlock to teach my friend, Tom, the truths of the restored gospel." Yes, sometimes a mother's hands are filled with pride and joy.
Other times they are filled with sorrow. As the saying goes, "A mother is only ever as happy as her saddest child." If we could, we would shield them from all of it. All the pain. All the disappointment. All the fear. All the judgment. All the danger. We would gladly take it all ourselves if we could only protect them. But of course that's not possible, so instead we live it right along with them. We hurt when they hurt. We cry when they cry. We are their advocates always, their soft place to fall, their forever friends.
Always, our hands are filled with gratitude. Though it is the hardest job we will ever do, much harder than we ever imagined, motherhood is the best job, the very best, and every day we give thanks for the opportunity to raise these precious children. And always, our hands are filled with hope because no one sees more clearly the potential in these beautiful little people than we, their moms. And always, our hands are filled with love, a love like no other, a love we never before thought ourselves capable of. For sure, it's the closest thing in life to understanding God.
A mother's hands are filled with many things.
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