As a teenager I used to dread Mothering Sunday because there was a practice in our Church of giving a bunch of daffodils to mums in the congregation. At some point in history it had been deemed unfair that women with five children would get five bunches, while mothers with a single child would get one, so a ruling was adopted that the youngest child in the family would go forward, collect a bunch and take it to their mother, if she was in the congregation, or take it home if she wasn’t. All seemed fair and the people of the church were happy with the idea.
Long before health and safety was an issue, the Church was so forward thinking that to avoid a stampede of children (there were a lot of children in the Sunday School in those days) they would start with the youngest first, so the cute, little children would be coaxed forward and select a bunch, take it to their mum and then go back to their seat. My problem was that as a fifteen year old boy, I was the only youngest child in my age group and would sit dreading the moment when I would be called forward. This was something I never wanted to do, but felt obliged.
My turn would eventually come and I would walk forward, to the sniggers of the kids in the Sunday School and would reluctantly pick up a bunch of flowers and hold it as though I had missed school on the day that they trained us how to carry flowers and I would take the bunch to my mum and thrust it unwillingly at her with no passion whatsoever. The Church folk loved it and it felt as though this was the moment they had been waiting for all morning “give her a kiss!” somebody would nearly always shout and I would stoop and give my mum the least loving kiss imaginable on the cheek and then race back to my seat with my face aglow.
Years later and over thirty years after her death, I wish that I had relished the moment, gone forward with pride, handed over the flowers as though they were something precious and kissed her in true acknowledgement of all that she meant to me. Old and set in my ways as I am these days, I still insist on calling this day “Mothering Sunday” because I believe that it is far more than supermarkets seizing yet another opportunity to offload all their wares and increase their turnover, this is far more than “Mothers Day” although, don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with giving mum a gift and saying “thank you”
For me, the point of Mothing Sunday, is valuing everything in life that has nurtured us and there was a time that half way through the season of Lent those working in service would go back to their Mother Church, would take gifts back to show their appreciation. The journey through Lent is now about to lead us us through the fickle and selfish celebrations of Palm Sunday, the agonies, pain, and suffering of Holy Week to the cross. Here on this Sunday, we stop, take stock of the love that surrounds us, reflect on the values we hold dearest to our hearts and give thanks. That experience in my teenage years galvanised for life to come and embarrassing as it was, I will be eternally grateful.
Prayer (from the Methodist charity “All We Can”)
Gracious God, we pray for ourselves and all women as leaders. Give us and them open hearts and opportunities to serve, give us and them listening hearts so that your words flow through us as we talk, teach, serve, and lead. Give us the courage to step outside of our plans and programs if you have another path for us to take as well as the discipline to stay on course amidst distraction and interruption. We pray for the capacity to welcome all people with love and warmth. Give us patience, endurance, and fortitude. Keep us and them healthy, rested, and full of joy from beginning to end. Amen