God Be With the Mothers and Motherers
God,
Be with the mothers and motherers,
Those awesome women,
Who play such a significant role and part in our lives,
Who embody for us so much of your love and character.
Gift them patience,
As they wait and hope for us to discover our potential.
Gift them grace,
As we so often take them for granted or abuse or disrespect their love.
Gift them forgiveness,
For us and themselves as we all make mistakes and fall short in our love.
Grant them strength,
For their load is heavy and the burden of their care for us unrelenting.
Gift them persistence,
For theirs is an ever unfinished work.
Gift them rest,
For their efforts and concern for our wellbeing and prospering is unceasing.
Gift them tears,
As they weep for our hurting and failing in their empathy and compassion.
Gift them grieving,
For love is full of loss
And they lose much as we grow into our independence.
Gift them insight,
The wisdom to see the best way of being.
Gift them gentleness,
To speak guidance to us who so want to be independent.
Grant them space,
To be themselves and chase their own dreams and goals.
Grant them peace,
Knowing that like you, we are our own selves,
Who make our own choices,
In our own way and time,
Carrying the consequences that come,
Hopefully shaped by their love and care,
But not always in the way that they would have us,
For in the end we are our own people,
As they nurtured us to be.
May we in return,
Treasure their part in our lives,
Be grateful in real and practical ways,
Honour their legacy to us by becoming our best selves,
And love them as they have loved us,
Just as we have been loved by you.
Be with the mothers who cannot be,
Who long for the children they cannot have.
Be with the mothers who have lost their children,
Whose souls have been tom and the ache of their grief is incessant.
Enfold them and all in your mothering love.
God,
Be with the mothers and motherers.
In gratitude we pray.
Amen.
(Source: Jon Humphries, Sydney, Australia)
A Prayer for Mother’s Day, 2020
(written in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic, and with U.S. references)
God, shattered around us shine
broken pieces of mothering this year -
the longing to touch hands
that are sheltered in place
but not this place,
that is surely the color of love,
new grieving
and old grieving renewed,
surprising nurturers found -
some who have
no biological links.
Also scattered here are the good,
the bad and the not-facebook -
of eight weeks gentle-grumpy caring
for pre-schoolers,
the hair-pulling of home-schooling,
or roller-coaster of adolescence
never intended to be endured peer-free
and queasy with spring semester
disappointments.
Here is newly imperfect parenting,
some hard old mistakes,
and the recognition that few relationships
resemble pieces of chocolate
in the russell stover box
(descriptions on inside cover)
so much as a mix of glass and stones
from which pieces
we form a unique, wholly personal
mosaic of being mothered
and of nurturing,
for some of us, the uneven floor
upon which we stand,
for others an icon into which we gaze
to glimpse the sliver of love.
(Source: Maren Tirabassi, Gifts in Open Hands)
God,
Be with the mothers and motherers,
Those awesome women,
Who play such a significant role and part in our lives,
Who embody for us so much of your love and character.
Gift them patience,
As they wait and hope for us to discover our potential.
Gift them grace,
As we so often take them for granted or abuse or disrespect their love.
Gift them forgiveness,
For us and themselves as we all make mistakes and fall short in our love.
Grant them strength,
For their load is heavy and the burden of their care for us unrelenting.
Gift them persistence,
For theirs is an ever unfinished work.
Gift them rest,
For their efforts and concern for our wellbeing and prospering is unceasing.
Gift them tears,
As they weep for our hurting and failing in their empathy and compassion.
Gift them grieving,
For love is full of loss
And they lose much as we grow into our independence.
Gift them insight,
The wisdom to see the best way of being.
Gift them gentleness,
To speak guidance to us who so want to be independent.
Grant them space,
To be themselves and chase their own dreams and goals.
Grant them peace,
Knowing that like you, we are our own selves,
Who make our own choices,
In our own way and time,
Carrying the consequences that come,
Hopefully shaped by their love and care,
But not always in the way that they would have us,
For in the end we are our own people,
As they nurtured us to be.
May we in return,
Treasure their part in our lives,
Be grateful in real and practical ways,
Honour their legacy to us by becoming our best selves,
And love them as they have loved us,
Just as we have been loved by you.
Be with the mothers who cannot be,
Who long for the children they cannot have.
Be with the mothers who have lost their children,
Whose souls have been tom and the ache of their grief is incessant.
Enfold them and all in your mothering love.
God,
Be with the mothers and motherers.
In gratitude we pray.
Amen.
(Source: Jon Humphries, Sydney, Australia)
A Prayer for Mother’s Day, 2020
(written in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic, and with U.S. references)
God, shattered around us shine
broken pieces of mothering this year -
the longing to touch hands
that are sheltered in place
but not this place,
that is surely the color of love,
new grieving
and old grieving renewed,
surprising nurturers found -
some who have
no biological links.
Also scattered here are the good,
the bad and the not-facebook -
of eight weeks gentle-grumpy caring
for pre-schoolers,
the hair-pulling of home-schooling,
or roller-coaster of adolescence
never intended to be endured peer-free
and queasy with spring semester
disappointments.
Here is newly imperfect parenting,
some hard old mistakes,
and the recognition that few relationships
resemble pieces of chocolate
in the russell stover box
(descriptions on inside cover)
so much as a mix of glass and stones
from which pieces
we form a unique, wholly personal
mosaic of being mothered
and of nurturing,
for some of us, the uneven floor
upon which we stand,
for others an icon into which we gaze
to glimpse the sliver of love.
(Source: Maren Tirabassi, Gifts in Open Hands)
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