Children Are Diamonds

This post is dedicated to the woman who taught me that children are diamonds . . . Florence Cope. She is my friend and I learned a lot from her. She was buried yesterday . . .

One day I was waiting in line for my child’s evaluation with his new kindergarten teacher. A stylish young mother and her son sat in the chairs next to us because the teacher was running behind. I was obviously eight months pregnant and hovering on the huge side of big.
This young mother stared at my belly and asked, “Why do you want to do that again?” Her question caught me off guard. I blushed. “This is it for me,” she added. “Boy am I ever ready to get this last one in school. Now it’s my turn for me.” She was wearing beautifully tailored clothes, her hair was elegantly styled and her long fake fingernails were polished pink with jeweled flowers on the tips. “Just bought that,” she finished pointing to a shiny red sports car in the parking lot. “Nice huh.”
I looked down at my protruding mid-section and asked myself . . . Why am I doing this again? My worn maternity clothes were stained orange across the belly with my preschooler’s spaghetti from lunch. I still had dirt under my fingernails from playing in the sandbox. My wind-blown hair was stuck to several sticky kisses on my cheeks. The old van I drove was covered with mud and still smelled like hot dog and marshmallow smoke from our last family camp out. Yet, I knew exactly why I was doing this again.
I cleared my throat several times, turned to this woman and asked, “What if a highly important person brought you to the opening of a diamond mine and said you could go inside and gather as many diamonds as you wanted? But, there was one condition. You only had a certain amount of time before your opportunity was over and then you couldn’t gather any more diamonds. Would you do it?”
“Sure, who wouldn’t,” the stylish young mother answered.
“What if some of the diamonds were hidden in the rocks and you had to work really hard to find them and keep them?”
“I’d be willing to do whatever it took to get those diamonds because then I’d be rich,” the young mother answered. “Even one diamond is worth a fortune.”
“That’s why I’m doing this again,” I answered patting my abdomen.
I’m not sure that woman understood what I was trying to say. But I noticed that my little boy, who was seated next to me, took my hand and quite literally beamed. Children always know when they’re somebody’s treasure.
Wiping runny noses, changing messy diapers, fixing endless meals, sorting dirty laundry, soothing crying infants, waiting up for teenagers, supervising homework, cleaning up after the stomach flu, washing dishes, bringing in a paycheck and picking up after another toddler tornado doesn’t seem like important work. It is. Loving and serving children of all ages is the only work that really matters. The value of each person’s soul is priceless.
So, the next time you’re in the middle of cleaning up yet another mess, repeat these words . . . Children are my diamonds. I’ll do whatever it takes to nurture their souls because then I’ll be rich with love forever.

Florence Cope
The last thing she said to me on her death bed was,
"I have learned that people are basically good . . .
and even when they're not, they are still trying."

Florence Cope's children at the cemetery.

MOTHER'S BLESSING

1. 
   We had a "Mother's Blessing" for my daughter Ashley last night. She is about to have her second child and all the women in our family gathered to honor her. This is not the standard baby shower where the attention is about cute decorations ...and baby clothes. This is a rich and powerful evening where the women who love Ashley in a deep and meaningful way came together to share our strength and love. We organized visits and meals to be brought to her after delivery. We shared our most sacred birth or motherhood experiences. We created a bracelet engraved with words of power and strength for her to wear when she needs to feel our love. 
   

   

   Ashley will soon put her life on the line to bring a new daughter into the world and devote the rest of her life to nurturing her soul. The world is confused about the true nature of power. Love is the greatest power in the world. My newest grandchild will be named Eden a tender reminder of our mother Eve . . . and the honor, power and strength of motherhood from the beginning of time until the end of days.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL WOMEN WHO MOTHER

1. 
   

   

   
   

   
   When I was twenty-two years old, I celebrated my first Mother's Day as the terrified, brand-new mother of a three-week-old premature baby with jaundice. I'll never forget standing in church to receive my very first Mother's Day potted plant. I took that healthy, thriving plant home and promptly murdered it. Panicked, I was certain that the deader-than-a-doornail plant was a barometer of my mothering abilities.
   I still can't believe that my first baby survived my perfectionist craziness. Back then, I had the foolish notion that real mothers were saints or angels. I've since learned that angels and saints are just people who take themselves lightly. So should mothers.
   I heard a pregnant mother say in church one Mother's Day, "All you old ladies always say you're glad you're not raising your children today. You say the world is so awful. Well, I want you to stop it. You're scaring me to death."
   "Don't worry, dear," an elderly lady answered, patting the young pregnant woman on the shoulder. "My grandmother used to say the same thing to me fifty years ago."
   
   When you're a first-time expectant woman, mothers who have been through childbirth love to recite their most horrific stories of marathon labors to scare you to death. When you're a walking zombie trying desperately to soothe a newborn, more experienced parents tend to say things like, "They're only babies once. Just enjoy them, dear." When you're on the brink of a nervous breakdown with a house full of insomniac toddlers down with the chicken pox, older parents say, "Just wait till you have teenagers. You aint' see nothing yet." When you're battling fire-breathing teenagers, older parents say, "Don't wait for the children to leave home before you get a life, because . . . they come back!"
   Younger mothers think their older peers have grown senile and forgotten the hard parts. Older mothers think their young peers will soon regret not having enjoyed their children while they still had them home to tuck into bed each night. The unwritten code of maternal martyrdom states, "All other mothers must have it easier than I do, because if I really believed things were going to get worse, I wouldn't get out of bed."
   In fact, if we really knew what was ahead, we'd probably avoid making the very choices that ultimately bring us the most joy. Motherhood doesn't get easier as we go along, it just gets different. In truth, older mothers look back at younger mothers with a certain tenderness only experience can bestow. Perhaps it is time to stop comparing the hardness of our lives and start loving each other. It is time to appreciate and celebrate each woman's mothering contribution.
   
   Though not every woman can have children, every woman can mother. Though nobody has this nurturing business all figured out, we can collectively relax and enjoy the learning process. Though we often make mistakes, we can feel greater peace knowing we can try, fail, and try again. As we move from one mothering season to another, we should celebrate our progress. A mother's love ignites the forces of good and changes the world one soul at a time.
   
   One quiet day when we have grown old, we will realize we are not the same person we once were, because once you learn to truly love one human being completely, loving everybody else comes so much easier. See More

The Magic, Mystery, and Wonder of Christmas

If, after all the hustle and bustle of holiday shopping, baking, sitting through long, stuffy programs, and attending an endless series of parties, you feel like you want to stop the holiday wagon and jump . . . do not give up. If you're paying attention, something will happen to make it all worthwhile.

One December evening after I finally finished my nightly wiping up of slop, heave-ho, and potato cement from under the dinner table, I slipped into the living room alone. All... the children were scattered around the house: some yelling, some hibernating, and others imitating sumo wrestlers. I pushed the hair away from my face with my dishpan hands and took a slow, deep breath before I sat down and began quietly playing Christmas hymns on the piano. The music must have slipped through the heat vents, for one by one the children spontaneously wandered into the living room. Except for a single brass light above the piano, the room was dark. The hard wooden piano bench soon grew warm as my 2-year-old snuggled up on my right side while her 10-year-old sister squeezed in on my left. Then the baby crawled across the carpet, elbowed her way through my legs, and started playing with my big toe as it bobbed up and down on the sustaining pedal. Seven-and 8-year-old sumo wrestlers untangled themselves and tumbled into the room long enough to belt out a few tunes while standing guard behind me.

You’ve never really heard “Joy to the World” until you’ve heard a 7-year-old, with total abandon and a little off key, command from the depths of his soul, “Joy to the world! The Lord is come! Let earth receive her king! Let every heart repair him room! And saints and angels swing!” Later, when our voices were tired and squeaky, we did “Silent Night,” complete with “Round John Virgin.” As we rounded the corner to “Sleep in heavenly peace; Sleep in heavenly peace,” it hit: that skin-tingling, hold-your-breath moment when the magic, mystery, and wonder of Christmas was mine.

At that precise moment, it didn’t matter that our budget was having a hard time stretching for a family of twelve. It didn’t matter that within seconds my “heavenly choir” would return to sumo wrestling on the living room floor. For I had learned that moments like these are fleeting. Like winter’s frost, with a breath, childhood melts away. So I sighed, detached the baby from my toe, and kissed all those Junior Tabernacle Choir members on the forehead before they could pull away, yelling, “Yuck, kissing. I hate kissing.” Christmas comes but once a year, with or without the mistletoe—you have to grab those kisses while you can.Pin It

I NEED A KISS AND HUG!

My daughter Amy taught our entire family a ritual that persists to this day. It happens whenever someone leaves our house for any reason. It doesn't matter if we're walking outside to get the mail or if we'll be gone for several days.

When Amy was young and she saw any member of her family walk toward the door, she would immediately run to our side and plead, "I need a kiss and hug!"

Amy's request could not be taken lightly. She simply could not bear to see any of us leave the house without an intimate show of genuine physical affection. Mind you, not just any sort of hug and kiss would do. The hug had to be the wrap-your-arms-around-the-neck variety, and the kiss had to be one to knock your socks off. You could not fake it, because Amy would keep calling you back until you got it right.

Once, when I was in a hurry, I tried to sneak out of the house before Amy noticed. But Amy had extra-sensory perception. When I was halfway out the door, she appeared out of nowhere, grabbed my leg, and held on for dear life.
"Just kiss my leg," I said, trying to shake her off. "I'm in a big hurry, Amy. I'm going to be late." Amy would not let go until I did it right.
After all this hugging and kissing stuff, Amy would move into the next phase of her ritual, which involved racing to the front-room window, parting the curtains, and waving. If you didn't wave back, Amy would cry, hard, for a solid hour.
Amy trained her family well. No one slammed the front door without hugging and kissing or raced out of our driveway without looking up at the front-room window, waving and throwing kisses.
Amy's little sister Ashley took night classes from her older role model. So soon instead of one voice screaming, "I need a kiss and hug!" we had a vocal duet. It took twice as long to get out the door.
All this good-bye stuff and waving business used to bug the tar nation out of the whole family. We were always saying things like, "Amy, I can't. I'm in a hurry. I'll hug you when I get home. For heaven's sake, Amy, relax. I'll be right back. Oh, Amy."
But Amy won out in the end. Because of her persistence and insistence, the whole family readjusted routines and priorities. We all gave ourselves a few extra minutes before we left because we knew parting was such sweet sorrow at our house.
All this attention by our twosome had a way of making the rest of the family feel rather downright loved. And once you get used to it, hugging and kissing isn't so bad after all. In fact, if Amy and Ashley happened to be busy playing with their dolls and didn't notice one of us leaving, we'd search through the whole house for those two sets of soft arms before we felt like facing the cold, cruel world out there.

"Where are Amy and Ashley?" I heard my older children, my husband and myself say when we left the house.
What we meant was: "I need a kiss and hug."
We all need to be acknowledged and cared for. Though we quit asking for it as we grow older, we all need lots of love and someone standing in the front-room window blowing kisses when we close the door and walk away.Pin It

STUPID BOOTS

STUPID BOOTS
One of my sons loved to wear rainbow colored moon boots to school every day – come rain or shine. Who was I to discourage such a free spirit? One day he came home from school and told me that the older boys at recess had called him "stupid boots". I told him I was sorry he had a bad day.
He replied, "I didn't have a bad day. I just had a bad two seconds. The rest of the day was great!"

And. . . my son wore those boots the next day and the next . . . until they were too small for him. Pin It

I'm a New Grandma!

My grandson Gideon Michael Cope was born yesterday.

Holding him in my arms was a piece of heaven.

What a wonderful Mother's Day gift for my daughter Arianne.

HAPPY MOTHERS DAY to All Woman Who Choose to Mother

When I was twenty-two years old, I celebrated my first Mother's Day as the terrified, brand-new mother of a three-week-old premature baby with jaundice. I'll never forget standing in church to receive my very first Mother's Day potted plant. I took that healthy, thriving plant home and promptly murdered it. Panicked, I was certain that the deader-than-a-doornail plant was a barometer of my mothering abilities.
I still can't believe that my first baby survived my perfectionist craziness. Back then, I had the foolish notion that real mothers were saints or angels. I've since learned that angels and saints are just people who take themselves lightly. So should mothers.
I heard a pregnant mother say in church one Mother's Day, "All you old ladies always say you're glad you're not raising your children today. You say the world is so awful. Well, I want you to stop it. You're scaring me to death."
"Don't worry, dear," an elderly lady answered, patting the young pregnant woman on the shoulder. "My grandmother used to say the same thing to me fifty years ago."

When you're a first-time expectant woman, mothers who have been through childbirth love to recite their most horrific stories of marathon labors to scare you to death. When you're a walking zombie trying desperately to soothe a newborn, more experienced parents tend to say things like, "They're only babies once. Just enjoy them, dear." When you're on the brink of a nervous breakdown with a house full of insomniac toddlers down with the chicken pox, older parents say, "Just wait till you have teenagers. You aint' see nothing yet." When you're battling fire-breathing teenagers, older parents say, "Don't wait for the children to leave home before you get a life, because . . . they come back!"
Younger mothers think their older peers have grown senile and forgotten the hard parts. Older mothers think their young peers will soon regret not having enjoyed their children while they still had them home to tuck into bed each night. The unwritten code of maternal martyrdom states, "All other mothers must have it easier than I do, because if I really believed things were going to get worse, I wouldn't get out of bed."
In fact, if we really knew what was ahead, we'd probably avoid making the very choices that ultimately bring us the most joy. Motherhood doesn't get easier as we go along, it just gets different. In truth, older mothers look back at younger mothers with a certain tenderness only experience can bestow. Perhaps it is time to stop comparing the hardness of our lives and start loving each other. It is time to appreciate and celebrate each woman's mothering contribution.

Though not every woman can have children, every woman can mother. Though nobody has this nurturing business all figured out, we can collectively relax and enjoy the learning process. Though we often make mistakes, we can feel greater peace knowing we can try, fail, and try again. As we move from one mothering season to another, we should celebrate our progress. A mother's love ignites the forces of good and changes the world one soul at a time.

One quiet day when we have grown old, we will realize we are not the same person we once were, because once you learn to truly love one human being completely, loving everybody else comes so much easier.
Pin It

Mothers and Fathers. . . What You Do Really Matters

If you get discouraged and wonder if what you're doing as a mother or father really matters, consider that your influence will reach out to future generations.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"While resting in a hospital bed after giving birth to my tenth child, I answered a phone call from my oldest daughter.
“Mom,” April gulped, “my back hurts and I can’t walk.”
“Some people feel labor pains that way, “I answered. “Better get over here and get checked.”
“But what if it isn’t labor after all?” my daughter answered. “I don’t want to go to the hospital and have those guys send me home.”
Now I know most mothers and daughters don’t go into labor that close together but that is exactly what happened to April and me. A few minutes and pain pills later, I was in the labor room again, only this time coaching instead of pushing.
I became a new mother for the last time and a new grandmother for the first time so close together it left me panting. My husband and I used to watch our young children growing up and sentimentally lament, “Boy I hope it won’t be too long between the time we have our last child and when our first grandchild is born.” Little did we know.
Experiencing pregnancy, childbirth and new motherhood along with my daughter felt like a mystical linking of generations one moment and a medical experiment gone mad the next. My daughter and I raced each other for the bathroom, craved the same frozen yogurt and kept each other company in the waiting room at the obstetrician’s office. Everybody we met asked us if we’d seen the movie “Father of the Bride Part Two.” Talk about a crazy way to bond.
Yet the moment I saw my grandson enter the word, I was awe struck - like flying without leaving the ground. The circle of life, love and family didn’t end! My baby was having her baby.
There in that labor room as I stroked my daughter’s moist forehead, I realized in the most tender sort of way that everything I’d done as her mother for the past twenty-three years was worth it . . . absolutely everything. Every single moment I’d chosen to spend caring for my child was far more important than anything else I’d determined to do with my life. As I watched my first grandchild enter this world, I knew my part in the creation and development of his mother was my life’s most important work. I understood that the whole purpose of this life was bringing down children from God and helping them find their way back to Him.
Before that moment, I simply could not begin to comprehend the importance of loving someone. It occurred to me that a thousand years from now, my babies would still be rocking their babies and the miracle of life of life and love would go on forever. I also understood that taking part in the creation and development of another human being was the greatest way to give birth to my own best life. I’d never even imagined I could feel so much joy.
Now when I see an exhausted and discouraged mother, I pat them on the back and whisper, “It matters. Everything you are doing for your family matters – so much more than you know.” (taken from "For Every Mother" by Janene Baadsgaard)

Dear Mothers Everywhere, You're Doing Better Than You Think You Are!

Most information out there that tells mothers something else we should be doing . . . like we don’t already know that. It helps to remember that real life is hectic and trying to do it all is impossible. We women try to do so much but never... give ourselves any credit and or celebrate our efforts. Mothers, in particular, are way too hard on themselves. In fact every mother I know is infected with a dreaded disease called . . . maternal guilt.

Seven deadly maternal guilt symptoms include:


1. No matter how much we have done right, we always focus on what we’ve done wrong.


2. Taking blame for all our children’s poor choices.


3. Believing that we have the power to stop bad things from happening to our families.


4. Thinking we should be able to handle everything.


5. The inability to slow down, do less and learn the fine art of muddling.


6. Never feeling good enough, smart enough, thin enough, or attractive enough.


7. Placing our health and well-being on the bottom of our things-to-do list.

Remedies for Maternal Guilt:

Celebrate who you are right now at every stage and age of motherhood by awarding yourself with one of these mother school degrees:

A.O.A. Associates of Amateurism We earn this degree when we stop feeling sorry for ourselves.

B.O.B Bachelor of Blunders We earn this degree when we stop being SO hard on ourselves.

M.O.M. Masters of Muddling We earn this degree when we master the fine art of muddling.

D.O. H. Doctorate of Humility We earn this degree when we give ourselves permission to learn and grow from our mistakes just like our children do.

Instead of focusing on how your children turn out,
focus on how YOU turn out.
Hang in there and keep smiling -
you're doing better than you think you are.

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TAKING CARE OF THOSE WHO CAN'T TAKE CARE OF THEMSELVES IS A MISSION WORTH OUR BEST EFFORTS

I remember the years when I was basically home bound with many young children. Sometimes I wondered if I should be doing something more important “out there.” On my hard days I had moments when I wondered if I was throwing myself away for c...hildren who didn’t seem to appreciate anything I was doing for them. When we are mothers of young children we are generally young ourselves or at least new to being a parent. It is not easy to painstakingly extract our selfishness. So we hang on as long as possible, hoping someone will eventually appreciate all we do. One day it dawns on us – the eyes God see everything and that’s enough.
Most of our behavior with our young children is a private experience even they won’t remember – consciously. Yet there is another memory of the heart – a deep personal feeling we carry inside that tells us if we are loveable or unlovable, safe or unsafe and whether or not we can trust others. We learn these things from our parents and we take those feelings with us when we leave home.
On those hard days when the baby is screaming, the toddler paints his entire bedroom in petroleum jelly, and the preschooler gouges the new sofa with a butcher knife it’s hard not to feel like you’re going to go crazy. Feeling overwhelmed is a chronic parenting condition. It’s not easy to work very hard every day without pay, recognition or reward for little people who throw up all over us, scream in our face and throw things at our head. It’s not easy to fix nutritious meals that mostly wind up on the floor. It’s not easy to clean a house that is being destroyed even as we work. It’s not easy to be romantic with our spouse when we haven’t even had a chance to take a shower all day. It’s not easy to be a parent of young children. It takes years to grow into our role.
We know we’re making progress when we finally stop feeling sorry for our self. We’re ready for the next school in parenthood when our life becomes less about us and more about them. Our perspective shifts. We realize being a child isn’t easy either. Hey, it’s not easy being three. Try climbing up on a commode that is twice as big as you are. When we begin to look at our children the way an educated art patron in a museum looks at Michelangelo’s David or the Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, we will see them as the masterpieces they really are.
Taking care of those who can’t take care of themselves is a mission – a calling and worthy our best effort. If we work very hard and give our all to our parenting career, our children might turn out well and they might not. We are an important part of our child’s life, but we can’t realistically take all the credit or blame for the adult our child becomes. We only have to take the blame and credit for how we turn out.
No matter how many battles we fight on the home front, our name will not appear on a monument. We will work our whole life for something we never see finished. But if we make the necessary sacrifices, parenthood will be a personal cure for self-centeredness and an anecdote for false pride. The primary relationship we have in this life is with our self. There is nothing like parenthood to make us face our self and seek divine help. Then when we lay our head on our pillow at night, we may not see the dream of CEO printed on our office door or visions of mansions and luxury cars. We will see the radiant faces of our children and hear the echo of their laughter.
(taken from "For Every Mother" by Janene Baadsgaard)

Coping with the Heartache of Miscarriage

My daughter Arianne had a miscarriage this week. She was in so much physical and emotional pain when I arrived at her home and I could do so little to help.  I longed to find the right words to comfort her but words are little consolation at a time like this.

She is my baby  . . . and she is losing her baby.

"I'm so sorry."

My daughter is a brave, wise woman full of courage and strength. She was willing to put her hand into the hand of God and offer all of herself to bring new life into the world.

"How many times did this happen to you?" she asked through her tears.
"Three times," I answered.
"Thank you for being here with me," Arianne whispered. "I wish I could have been there for you."

I placed a cool cloth on her forehead and took the blood drenched towels into the bathroom to soak.

I've never liked the word miscarriage. It sounds too much like mistake.
Every time a couple conceives a child it is a miracle.
When that child dies before it is born a woman still goes through labor and delivery.
When an unborn child dies, a parent's heart is broken.
And now I know that heartbreak includes
brothers
sisters
aunts
uncles
grandfathers
and grandmothers.
Goodbye sweet baby.
We all miss you.

A MOTHER'S LETTER TO HER UNBORN CHILD

Dear Child,
It's been only a day since I lost you. Yesterday I had such plans for you and now today you are gone and where you are I cannot go.
You were the answer to your parents' prayers. You should have seen the look in your father's eyes when I told him you were coming. We were so happy. We told everyone you were on your way.
Each morning when I woke, I would stoke my palm across the place where you were growing.
Your father teased me about wearing maternity clothes before I really needed to. But I wanted the whole world to know. Even morning sickness reassured me of your presence.
Whenever I went somewhere, I knew you were with me. It made me complete. I could never get over the miracle that somehow God and your father and I had created a human life.
Then I lost you.
I'll never forget you. Your are my child. You have been part of me. But I miss you,and when I go out now, I feel alone. I don't see life in the same way since I lost you. I walk softer now; life is more fragile, more precious. I hope someday I will be able to have another baby. But it will never be the same as it was with you. The feelings I've had with you are separate and unique. I do thank God for the time we had together.
I love you. I may never be able to hold you in my arms, but I will always hold you in  my heart.
Your Mother

A FATHER'S LETTER TO HIS UNBORN CHILD

Dear Child,
Last night I took your mother to the hospital. She was in so much pain. I wanted to stop what was happening, but I couldn't.
We were so excited for you to  come. When I found out you were on your way, I wanted to stop people on the street and tell them the good news.
I used to call your mother every day to find out how she was feeling. She always laughed and said she was fine. Sometimes during my lunch break at work, I would walk through the toy department of a store near my office. My life seemed to count for more. I felt like someone important. I was going to be some one's father. We put your crib on lay-away.
I don't understand why this had to happen. Our house is too big and too quiet. I have so many questions.
I didn't carry you inside of me, but you were part of me. When ever I took your mothers in my arms, you were there too.
It's hard to say good-bye when I never had the chance to say hello.
Your Father.

Years ago I wrote an article about miscarriages. You can read it here.

My daughter Arianne wrote a beautiful tribute to her child. You can read it here.

I love you Arianne and Jared.

I'm so sorry.

MOM
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Happy Mother's Day

DOWN HOME with Granny B

Happy Mother's Day
A wise man who understood the marvelous miracle of children and the mothers who love them once wrote:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

for they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

for life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and he bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Lat your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

(Kahlil Gibran)

Sometimes with all the bending, we mothers fear we'll break. But when we hang in there a little longer, we find more bend inside than we knew we possessed.

Being a mother is a tremendous responsibility and an unequaled joy - a lifelong, exhilarating/exhausting, exuberant/exasperating task.

I'd rather make a home than a fortune. I'd rather bow for the tender kisses of my children and grandchildren than before millions of fans.

I believe a loving home is the greatest gift one person can give another.

Being a good old average mom is truly one of the few irreplaceable jobs in the world. Whatever else I do with my life, someone else can do it, even if I become President of the United States. But I'm the only person who can by my children's mother.

Years ago my fourteen-month-old daughter Amy struggled for oxygen in the hospital pediatric ward. Amy was terrified and screamed when the nurse tried to place her in a croup tent. But when I slipped off my shoes, lifted my body up onto the hospital bed, maneuvered myself into the croup tent, and reached out for her, Amy quickly crawled into the ominous hissing enclosure and into my waiting arms. Her small shaking body lovingly molded to mine as she gently laid her tiny head on my shoulder. You see, Amy knew that if her mother was there, no matter how frighteng it it appeared, she would be home and safe in my arms.

Through all the carrying, delivering, holding, feeding, changing worrying, comforting, cleaning, encouraging, and working - the burdens of motherhood sometimes grow heavy. Yet because of that weight, we discover a stronger person inside.

Through loving our children, we are born again. 
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Mother's Blessing

My daughter Ashley will be giving birth any day now.

All the women who love her most gathered on Saturday to honor her. . .
to remind her of her beauty and her strength.

Each of us wrote our blessing for her and created art to symbolize our joining of hearts.

We pampered her, we spoke lovingly to her and joined our lives in love. 

The following is my blessing to my precious daughter. 

Mother’s Blessing

Dear Ashley,

You are about to embark on a journey that will take you to a place you have never been before. Any day now you will have your first child. On that soul-changing moment you will give birth to your new daughter . . . and you will also give birth to a new self.

You will be a mother.

Nothing will ever be the same.

Today all the women who love you gather to celebrate your choice - for you live in a time and place when women have a choice. I cannot promise you an easy road, for I have been down that road. Yet I can promise you an adventure as you learn what it means to love someone.

You might worry about how you will react to the pain of childbirth. I can promise you that anything worth having always follows great pain; for pain opens the door to our understanding. Pain is no less important than joy for you can’t have one without the other.

You might worry that your child will have challenges. She will – we all do. Every parent takes a life-altering chance each time they conceive a child, but the choice is whether you will accept the life-altering privilege to learn the true meaning of devotion in the midst of those challenges.

Don’t try to keep pace with the world around you. Slow down. Find your own pace. Do less. Listen. Savor the moments you have with your child. Create a sacred sanctuary for your family. Live in grace. The great gift you have to give your child is you . . . unhurried and refreshed.

Though it may seem insignificant, everything you do as a mother matters –so much more than you can now comprehend. Your journey will not be easy, but it will be worth it. I promise you that every sacrifice you make for your child will contain your life’s greatest meaning-every choice to love, your life’s greatest purpose.

Love is true power – the only power that lasts.

So join hands with all the mothers who came before and those who will follow you. Feel our blessing, our strength, our compassion and understanding for you - as you join with us to change the world - one child at a time.

Love,

MOM

Faces of Adoption

A brand new brother and sister forever.

A brand new mother and daughter.

A brand new family.

A brand new father and daughter.

If you've ever wondered about adoption - think again.

Are there any guarantees the children you adopt will turn out just the way you'd like?

No . . . but no parent has that guarantee. 

Loving a child unconditionally will change you forever.

For where there is great love, there are always miracles.

In the end, I guarantee that you will be happy with the way you turn out.

  

Don't Stop Having Children Too Soon

 Even though I'm fifty-seven, I have a daughter in sixth grade.  She starts her final year of elementary school on Monday.  Alisa is the last of my ten children.  Watching her grow up has touched my soul in a tender way  that only comes at the end of your children's childhood.  I'm savoring these sunset days with a singular awareness and gratitude.

Yes, my doctor told me I was too old. Yes, I'd read all the statistics about having children in your forties along with all the possible problems.  Yes, the pregnancy was difficult.  Yes, I was told my baby would have significant genetic problems.  The medical people were wrong.  My daughter was born perfectly healthy. 



Janene and Alisa

God had a gift for me and I chose to receive that gift with faith, trust and deep rejoicing.  So to all you women out there who feel too tired or too old to have more children I say, "Leave your options open.  You don't know how you will feel a few years down the road.  You don't know what message God will whisper in your ear.  You don't know what gift God is waiting to give you." 

Inner Stillness

As a mother of a large family I often find myself wishing that I could be in more than one place at a time - for I so desire to meet the needs of my husband, children and grandchildren.  But because I am only one I must be still and ask, "Who needs me most now," then listen and respond. The greatest desire of my heart is to love each member of my family the way they need to be loved. 

Yet each day I must accept my limitations and trust God to fill in the places where I can not be.  When I am still, very still, I watch in awe as God's tender mercies play out on the stage of my family. Without a word from me, I quietly observe God's healing hands in action as my husband, children and grandchildren step forward to serve and love each other.   

"Let us, then, labor for an inward stillness--

an inward stillness and an upward healing;

that perfect silence where the lips and heart are still,

and we no longer entertain

our own imperfect thoughts and vain options,

but God alone speaks to us,

and we wait in singleness of heart,

that we may know His will,

and in the silence of our spirits,

that we may do His will and do that only."

                                                                                    Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tessa's Blessing Day

My dear little granddaughter Tessa was blessed on Sunday.  It was a wonderful peaceful day.

But sometimes life comes at you pretty fast. 

The next day her mother (my daughter Amy) had abdominal pain and within hours her appendix ruptured. 

 She is now in the hospital recovering after emergency surgery. 

Life is so precious, unpredictable and fragile.  Please send your prayers.

Building Nests

In an old cherry tree just outside my kitchen window, I watch robins build a nest for their young every spring.  

Nest building is a careful and deliberate job.  For days the robin hops around my garden carefully collecting bits of mud and tiny pieces of grass and twigs.  

One sunny morning it happens - tiny eggs appear inside the feathered cocoon.  If I foolishly suppose the mother is away and climb a ladder to get a closer look at the delicate blue orbs -  the mother, who is always near, suddenly swoops and dives around my head to protect her young. 

Then comes warming and waiting.  One bright morning, quite unexpectedly, I see tiny heads and beaks bob up and down above the matted mud and straw.  These are busy days - searching for worms - constant feedings.  

Soon the young birds with new feathers take their first awkward free fall from the nest.  For several days the mother stays near by keeping guard - watching, teaching, and protecting her young from preditors as they gradually learn the secrets of flight.

Mothers . . . nest builders, guardians, nourishers and teachers of the next generation.  Mothers . . . inspiring, uplifting with gentle watchcare as their young find their wings . . .  and learn to fly.   

Happy Mother's Day to Women Everywhere

You might think these words would make me the happiest . . .

"You just won the lottery!"

"Your book just made the New York Times Best Seller List!"

But these are the words I treasure most . . .

"I love you Mom."

"I love you Grandma."

"I love you Sweetheart"

There is no treasure so rare and precious as the love of a child.

Happy Mother's Day

to all women everywhere
who choose to
nurture,

encourage,

uplift,

teach

and love. 

What is the true measure of a year - or a life? 

 As we willingly care for the needs of those around us,

 we are renewed and reborn,

for real mother love transforms both the lover and the beloved.  The true value of a year or a life

is not measured by the number of our children

or by our seasons

but by our personal capacity 

to love. 

Each woman's contribution is meaningful;

each choice to love is significant and profound.