Every year I dreaded the Mothers Day service. Would it happen this year? Would I be singled out once again? Would I have to smile and graciously receive a potted geranium for being the youngest mother in church? Yes, I was a child bride. Yes, I birthed our eldest just two months shy of my twentieth birthday, but did they have to emphasize it over and over again? One year we stayed home. But, Mothers Day is too significant to ignore so I hunkered down in the pew, hoping against hope that another young mother would materialize. Maybe we’d have visitors from out-of-state. Year after year, I endured and then one glorious Mothers Day another young mom received the geranium award. Hallelujah! God answers prayer!
Several uneventful years passed and I’d almost forgotten the geranium conundrum until it happened again. I was incredulous. Again? Why now? My youngest was eight for crying out loud! Tears of frustration spilled out, appearing like tears of joy. I don’t believe that geranium lived to tell about it, if you catch my meaning.
Finally, I called the pastor’s wife and cried on her sympathetic shoulder. The next year, nothing remotely resembling a geranium could be seen anywhere near our church.
That was fifteen years ago. Our eldest is expecting our first grandchild. The church we now attend awards each mother chocolate, which is agreeable with just about everyone. However, if the geranium award took place in our church awarding the youngest grandmother, I would gladly stand up and take a bow. Tears of joy would spill out unhindered. I might even throw in a curtsy for good measure. Then I would call our pastor’s wife and praise the geranium program. I’m amazed at the way my thoughts have changed since we’ve been expecting and the baby’s not even born yet!
Pictured above: Jan-29, T- 8, B-9, Greg 33