In May we honor mothers, but many of us living outside our home culture miss the usual Mother’s Day celebrations. That’s a perfect opportunity for homesickness and self pity.
One year we were on a short-term trip to Malaysia. We stayed in the college dormitory and taught courses. As Mother’s Day approached I was feeling a little sorry for myself. Though my sons usually don’t do a great deal for Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, they always remembered the day in some special way. Here I was half a world away from them, and might not even be able to arrange a phone call on the day.
Then, on Mother’s Day morning, there was a tentative knock on our dorm room door. One of the students handed me a small package and an envelope and said, “Happy Mother’s Day.” She left quickly, not even waiting to see me open the package or card.
The card was home-made and signed by several of the girls in the dorm. They said they knew I must be missing my sons on that Mother’s Day, but wanted me to know how thankful they were that I shared my Mother’s heart with each of them.
The package was a tiny, hexagonal box with flowers on the lid and velvet on the inside. It was easy to pack and would never to be forgotten. With tears running down my cheeks, I thanked God for all the sons and daughters He had blessed me with. Only two were born to me, but so many more have made a place in my heart.
So, what is the definition of a mother?
Here’s a conversation one woman had when she went to renew her driver’s license.
Clerk: What is your occupation?
Woman: I’m a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations.
Clerk: What?
Woman: I’m a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations.
Clerk: What do you do in your field?
Woman: I am involved in a continuing program of research–(aren’t we all?)
In the laboratory and in the field–(indoors and out)
I already have 4 credits– (all daughters)
for my Master (The Master!)
I often work 14 hours a day–(more like 24)
And the rewards are more satisfaction than money.
The clerk seemed appropriately awed. She wrote the new title on the form. And the woman walked out of the office with her head high as the record now showed her as more distinguished and indispensable than just a MOTHER.
I’m in touch with two new moms who have been having trouble starting to breastfeed. Both have made success with breastfeeding a measure of their motherhood. I guess they thought they were the only ones who could not make it work, and therefore felt defective.
Experienced moms know the truth. Whether you succeeded, failed, or didn’t even try to breastfeed, you know that motherhood is much more than the way you feed your infant.
But moms like us face other situations that can make us feel like defective mommies. We live outside our home culture, and that presents all kinds of challenges.
Our youngest son had more trouble adjusting to living in Africa than our eldest did. Probably it was because we had not prepared him adequately for what it meant to move to Africa. It never entered our heads that he would not know that living in Africa meant living mostly with black Africans. After two long airplane rides, he landed in a country where nearly everyone he met was black. We had some embarrassing situations with him in the weeks after arriving.
One day he stayed with the American secretary in the office while we went shopping. One lovely African woman came to visit the secretary. Our son would not greet Latitia. The secretary tried to coax him to some polite response to her friend. Then she got a little more forceful, but nothing worked. She was quite frustrated by his behavior.
After Latitia left, she asked him why he was so rude to her friend. “I didn’t like her. She had snakes on her head!” Latitia had long hair that had been parted and wrapped with black thread into long cords. She had nicely arranged these cords in loops all over her head. But to our son, those were snakes! The secretary could only laugh when she saw the hairstyle through the eyes of a four year old American boy.
Our children often don’t know the cultural reasons for the things we do and don’t do in our new home. My son came to me one day and announced that his African playmate, the son of the associate pastor of the huge church we served, was stealing his toys. I tried to placate him and tell him he needed to be kind to his little friend.
One day, after mentioning it yet again and getting what he thought was a clueless response from Mom, he marched over to his friend’s home. He knocked on the door. The boy’s mother answered the door and our culturally insensitive son announced, “Your son is a thief.” She was shocked and shut the door, not too softly.
He returned home to tell me of his failure to get his toys back. Calling someone a thief in that culture was one of the very worst epithets you could use. We did our best to apologize. About a week later, his African friend along with his brothers and sisters brought several large bags to our apartment building. In the bags were toys from all the white children in our building! Our son was right about where his toys were going, but I am not sure he ever really learned about cultural sensitivity.
Kids! Why can’t they seem to stay asleep all night? It’s the plaintive cry of stressed out moms the world over.
One night, after a particularly busy day with house guests, my eight year old put his face right next to my sleeping face and whispered, “Mom! Mom!” I woke with a start and tried to make sense of the urgent face just an inch from mine. “What? What do you want?” “Mom, come quick! There’s a snake in the kitchen!”
I sneaked out of bed as quietly as possible. (Why wake the whole household when he had been so careful to just wake me?) Sure enough, in the middle of our kitchen was a snake. I told my son to keep his eye on the snake while I went to get a broom. I hit the snake hard, fast, and continuously until I was sure he was dead. I put him into a jar and closed the lid. (Just in case he wasn’t yet dead, lack of oxygen would surely do the job by morning.) No one else woke up, and I was a little proud that my son was sure I was capable of dealing with this tropical threat.
Moms are never off duty. A number of years later, our eldest son chose those precious nighttime hours to open his heart. I’ve never quite understood why the nighttime is the preferred time for teenagers to talk.
As he poured out his heart, I was so glad I hadn’t just rolled over and mumbled something inarticulate that night. It was the turning point of his young life. I’m not saying he could not have found another way to make his turnaround, but I’m so thankful he chose me and his dad to talk to and trust with his broken heart.
As they say in Malaysia, “Syabas!” to all the moms in the Peter’s Wife community. It means, “Good Job! Well done!” You love your children and have a responsibility to do your best to raise them. You have sacrificed some of the comforts and supports of moms back home. Then God added others for you to mother. Your heart has been stretched. God will bless you and all your children as you continue to honor Him.
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