As we prepare to honor our mothers Sunday, I wanted to share three articles that I hope you enjoy as much as I did . . .

A woman named Emily renewing her driver’s license at the County Clerk’s office was asked by the woman recorder to state her occupation. She hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself.

“What I mean is,” explained the recorder, “do you have a job or are you just a . . .”

Of course, I have a job,” snapped Emily. “I’m a mother.”

“We don’t list ‘mother’ as an occupation . . . ‘housewife’ covers it,” said the recorder emphatically.

I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself in the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall. The Clerk was obviously a career woman, poised, efficient, and possessed of a highsounding title like, “Official Interrogator” or “Town Registrar.” “What is your occupation,” she probed.

‘What made me say it, I do not know . . . The words simply popped out. “I’m a Research Associate in the field of Child Development and Human Relations.”

The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair, and looked up as though she had not heard right. I repeated the title slowly, emphasizing the most significant words.

‘Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written in bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.

“Might I ask,” said the clerk with new interest, “just what you do in your field?”

Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice, I heard myself reply, “I have a continuing program of research, (what mother doesn’t), in the laboratory and in the field, (normally I would have said indoors and out). I’m working for my Master, (the whole darned family), and already have four credits, (all daughters). Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities, (any mother care to disagree?) and I often work 14 hours a day, (24 is more like it). ‘But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers and the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money.” There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk’s voice as she completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door.

As I drove into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career, I was greeted by my lab assistants—ages 13, 7, and 3. Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model, (a 6-month-old baby), in the child-development program, testing out a new vocal pattern.

I felt triumphant! I had scored a beat on bureaucracy! And I had gone on the official records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than “just another mother.”

Motherhood . . . What a glorious career! Especially when there’s a title on the door. Does this make grandmothers “Senior Research Associates in the field of Child Development and Human Relations” and great grandmothers “Executive Senior Research Associates”? I think so!!!

—CC—

Our thought about our mothers change over the years. Let’s start with our earliest memories and go thru our life up to the present.

YEARS OF AGE—My Mommy can do anything!

YEARS OF AGE—My Mom knows a Lot! A Whole lot!

12 YEARS OF AGE—My mom doesn’t understand me.

15 YEARS OF AGE—My mom doesn’t let me do anything.

18 YEARS OF AGE—I’m an adult. My mom can’t control me anymore

25 YEARS OF AGE— I should have listened to mom.

35 YEARS OF AGE— Before we decide, let’s get Mom’s opinion.

50 YEARS OF AGE— I wonder what Mom would have thought about it.

65 YEARS OF AGE— I wish I could talk it over with Mom.

Appreciate your mom before it is too late!

—CC—

And last of all one of my favorite stories from the Civil War era.

When John Todd was only six, both his parents passed away. A loving aunt sent her horse and a slave, Caesar, to fetch John. On the way home, John asked Caesar if his aunt would love him, if she would have things ready for him. Caesar replied, “Oh, yes. You fall into good hands.” When John arrived, his aunt was waiting with open arms and heart. As she neared the end of a long and productive life, John wrote to her:

Years ago, I left . . . not knowing where I was to go, whether anyone cared, whether it was the end of me. The ride was long but . . . there we were in the yard and you embraced me and took me by the hand into my own room . . . I felt safe in that room—so welcomed. Now it’s your turn to go, and as one who has tried it out, I’m writing to let you know that Someone is waiting up . . . You’re expected! I know. I once saw God standing in your doorway—long ago!

Like John’s aunt, a mom is not always a birth mother, and there are countless aunts, grandmothers, stepmothers, foster mothers, and adoptive moms who have nurtured and reared the offspring of others. Just as He watches over birth mothers, God gives special grace to those who choose to take on the role of motherhood.