Not always eye to eye. But always heart to heart.

What can I say about Mothering Sunday?

A pair of swallows are busy building a nest under my porch and as they flit by I try to think of something meaningful about nesting and protectiveness. Nope.

My usual research sources are piping on about pagan festivals on the one hand and on the other, something convoluted about gaining freedom through the Mother Church. Nope.

Being a mother is not something I wish to celebrate just once a year. Having a mother is also not a once a year type of thing. I understand the origins of coming home to one’s mother church once a year and seeing family, but nowadays we have birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, bank and school holidays. Not to mention the good old internet. Even the great mother figures of Christianity have their own saint days. Nope.

So what should Mothering Sunday be? I would rather spend 5 minutes of every day, or even 30 minutes a week, telling my mother I love her. I prize the tea made for me when I was ill or the way my daughter always lets me have her orange smarties far more than the card Daddy made them draw under threat of no TV the night before. I read today about one company offering hug-a-grams for those kids who can’t make it home. I know what a stranger turning up at my door and trying to hug me would get. And it’s not a cup of tea.

What I’m trying to say, is don’t do it for the sake of it. Think about your relationship. If you must join the circus, then be pro-active. Use today as an opportunity to schedule a visit or a call. Maybe, if those rascals don’t call you enough, take the initiative and call them. Or maybe, if you’re in my camp, take a moment to think that the symbolism of special days can be very important to some people and that your mum might be one of them. And get her some flowers!

Being Ordinary

Tomorrow is the feast of St. Paul, born Saul of Tarsus, Jewish zealot dedicated to the eradication of all Christians. He was an intelligent, educated man and yet it took something quite amazing to make him see the error of his ways. He saw the Light and it was so bright it blinded him!
Paul’s dramatic conversion touches something inside me.  My Christian journey has been mostly uneventful. No major crashes, no awesome experiences. The most exciting bit has generally been like finding a really good restaurant at the services. Jesus has never tap danced across my bonnet or even kept the lights green at the roadworks. When I read about Paul I think “I want that!” I want that clear message, that personal visitation. Am I being ignored?
But then I think about it a bit more. Jesus was really rather narked off with Saul, and I think I’m rather glad that I’ve never upset Him that much. I have always believed, and I have always tried to live accordingly. Maybe It’s not that I’m left out, maybe I don’t need that level of intervention.

Maybe I’m like my cat, curled up against Jesus’ leg, purring away whilst he absentmindedly strokes me. My life is sheltered, I am cared for on every level. I may not see His face too often, but at least I don’t have to endure that stare.
So for all those who sometimes wonder if they are praying to the answering machine; you are doing ok. He knows exactly what’s going on and has decided you don’t need a kick in the rear. Lucky us!