I like the ideals behind Mothering Sunday. It is more inclusive than Mother’s Day. It encompasses all those involved in the mothering process. Parenting at its best is from a wide circle of care. It allows us to celebrate our biological Mothers, Grans, Nannas, Aunties, Godmothers, and the myriad of bonus mothers that land in our lives.

When I was a little girl with a happy, healthy and lovely Mummy I was blessed beyond measure. Mothering Sunday, for us meant one thing ~ a packed-out Church. It was like the Black Friday Sales with loads of little kids turning up to claim their colouring-in card and a free bunch of scraggy daffodils. We would be called out during the sermon to take our treasures back to our beloveds. It was a supreme moment of loving pride where we proclaimed: look at my Mummy, isn’t she glorious?

And then, because my little Mummy was glorious in her humility and grace, she would reign me in and make sure I didn’t get too full of myself. She would instruct me to separate the five daffs off and make sure that Granny was given some. She told me to think of the little ones with neither a Mummy nor a Granny, or even worse ~ the ones who were not loved enough. My Daddy explained that some of those little kids wouldn’t have any means of finding a card or a gift and that as a Church, we were being useful. He made me wait until the end of the sermon to go up, just in case there were children who needed them more than me. I knew he was right but I was desperate not to miss out. My Lifejoy then was propelled by impetuousness.

Thirty years later, I was the one taking the service and giving out the gifts. I must admit I wasn’t keen to do it as at that time, my lovely little Mummy was tortured by a protracted, degenerative illness and was about as ill as it is possible to be whilst still being alive. It was horrid for her and we desperately tried to reduce her suffering as much as humanly possible. When the phone call came, I had to be very jolly whilst my soul was shattered. Somehow I found myself saying yes and hoping I could find a way not to crack open. It had to be extra jolly and extra generous…but how? I decided that I would bake tiny cakes and every woman in the Church would have one waiting in her pew. Mothering Sunday suddenly became Loving Sunday where biological status was usurped by compassionate inclusion. Apparently there was a great need for such actions as they were queuing out the doors! Cake is powerful when its baked with love. Six months later I couldn’t move my car seat, only to find one of those little cakes stuck underneath ~ in perfect condition reminding me that love is really eternal.

The women in my life have given me their all. Their suffering and sacrifices are hard to estimate. And yet, even though I have no children of my own, I know that Mothering Sunday connects us in the most profound way. We must take our sorrow and disappointments about parenting and use them as fuel to appreciate all that we have already been given and then generate some more goodness for some other little soul, even if they do not belong to us  ~ perhaps it is even more important when they do not belong to us.

There is a secret thing about women who have not given birth ~ it is so rarely acknowledged that it must be shouted from all places. We are profoundly helpful to society. We are the Aunties and the Godmothers that matter. We desire to be involved. We offer a wise counsel and loving care that supplements and supports with grace and glee. Our loss is someone else’s gain ~ a mature perception of kindly sisterhood that must strengthen society

The women in my life who were my bonus Aunties were neither married nor mothers and yet have steered the ship of my soul with greatness. Whomsoever you steer, do it with love and appreciation, even if it feels inconsequential. It is not.

After taking almost a thousand loving funeral services, I have seen the lives of hundreds of wonderful women. I have narrated their loving care with pride and seen the ramifications last for generations. And perhaps the hardest part of all, I have taken services for babies and children. After that, I will never complain about anything, ever again.

Therefore, I return full circle to that bunch of scraggy daffodils with a heart that overflows with gratitude and a mind full of hope, that some random little kiddie might just think that I was helpful in their care, a bereaved parent might have been comforted by our service or a sad grown-up child saw that I know what it means to lose a precious parent. A daffodil is just a little yellow flower from a grubby little bulb but it means the world to us all.  I wish you the same kind of hope. Happy Mothering Sunday.

For more inspiration and wise hope see Dr Rebecca’s Lifejoy book shop ~ https://drrebecca.org.uk/shop/

Join the Facebook Group ~ Lifejoy Learning with Dr Rebecca. There are 300 souls waiting to welcome you with arms outstretched.

Sign up for lovely giveaways on the email list at www.drrebecca.org.uk

 

I like the ideals behind Mothering Sunday. It is more inclusive than Mother’s Day. It encompasses all those involved in the mothering process. Parenting at its best is from a wide circle of care. It allows us to celebrate our biological Mothers, Grans, Nannas, Aunties, Godmothers, and the myriad of bonus mothers that land in our lives.

When I was a little girl with a happy, healthy and lovely Mummy I was blessed beyond measure. Mothering Sunday, for us meant one thing ~ a packed-out Church. It was like the Black Friday Sales with loads of little kids turning up to claim their colouring-in card and a free bunch of scraggy daffodils. We would be called out during the sermon to take our treasures back to our beloveds. It was a supreme moment of loving pride where we proclaimed: look at my Mummy, isn’t she glorious?

And then, because my little Mummy was glorious in her humility and grace, she would reign me in and make sure I didn’t get too full of myself. She would instruct me to separate the five daffs off and make sure that Granny was given some. She told me to think of the little ones with neither a Mummy nor a Granny, or even worse ~ the ones who were not loved enough. My Daddy explained that some of those little kids wouldn’t have any means of finding a card or a gift and that as a Church, we were being useful. He made me wait until the end of the sermon to go up, just in case there were children who needed them more than me. I knew he was right but I was desperate not to miss out. My Lifejoy then was propelled by impetuousness.

Thirty years later, I was the one taking the service and giving out the gifts. I must admit I wasn’t keen to do it as at that time, my lovely little Mummy was tortured by a protracted, degenerative illness and was about as ill as it is possible to be whilst still being alive. It was horrid for her and we desperately tried to reduce her suffering as much as humanly possible. When the phone call came, I had to be very jolly whilst my soul was shattered. Somehow I found myself saying yes and hoping I could find a way not to crack open. It had to be extra jolly and extra generous…but how? I decided that I would bake tiny cakes and every woman in the Church would have one waiting in her pew. Mothering Sunday suddenly became Loving Sunday where biological status was usurped by compassionate inclusion. Apparently there was a great need for such actions as they were queuing out the doors! Cake is powerful when its baked with love. Six months later I couldn’t move my car seat, only to find one of those little cakes stuck underneath ~ in perfect condition reminding me that love is really eternal.

The women in my life have given me their all. Their suffering and sacrifices are hard to estimate. And yet, even though I have no children of my own, I know that Mothering Sunday connects us in the most profound way. We must take our sorrow and disappointments about parenting and use them as fuel to appreciate all that we have already been given and then generate some more goodness for some other little soul, even if they do not belong to us  ~ perhaps it is even more important when they do not belong to us.

There is a secret thing about women who have not given birth ~ it is so rarely acknowledged that it must be shouted from all places. We are profoundly helpful to society. We are the Aunties and the Godmothers that matter. We desire to be involved. We offer a wise counsel and loving care that supplements and supports with grace and glee. Our loss is someone else’s gain ~ a mature perception of kindly sisterhood that must strengthen society

The women in my life who were my bonus Aunties were neither married nor mothers and yet have steered the ship of my soul with greatness. Whomsoever you steer, do it with love and appreciation, even if it feels inconsequential. It is not.

After taking almost a thousand loving funeral services, I have seen the lives of hundreds of wonderful women. I have narrated their loving care with pride and seen the ramifications last for generations. And perhaps the hardest part of all, I have taken services for babies and children. After that, I will never complain about anything, ever again.

Therefore, I return full circle to that bunch of scraggy daffodils with a heart that overflows with gratitude and a mind full of hope, that some random little kiddie might just think that I was helpful in their care, a bereaved parent might have been comforted by our service or a sad grown-up child saw that I know what it means to lose a precious parent. A daffodil is just a little yellow flower from a grubby little bulb but it means the world to us all.  I wish you the same kind of hope. Happy Mothering Sunday.

For more inspiration and wise hope see Dr Rebecca’s Lifejoy book shop ~ https://drrebecca.org.uk/shop/

Join the Facebook Group ~ Lifejoy Learning with Dr Rebecca. There are 300 souls waiting to welcome you with arms outstretched.

Sign up for lovely giveaways on the email list at www.drrebecca.org.uk