Women Are Made To Be Mothers

Progressives often complain that motherhood is a sort of slavery. They only say such things to try and comfort themselves, knowing they don’t have any freedom of their own.

In public, they party and rave; in private, they tell themselves behind veiled tears they love their “liberated life.” There’s nothing liberating about it. They criticize the homemaker because they’re envious of her. They mock young mothers because the virtue of young motherhood mocks them.

Deep down, when these poor progressives peer into their future, they’re scared. They see a destiny where the companies they worked for abandon them for people younger, more competent, and prettier. They see a dreadful fate where their “closest friends” turn out to care more for their families than they do for work acquaintances they met a few years ago. They see a twilight where they’re left to live out their days isolated and alone, trying in vain to convince themselves that “fur babies” are as fulfilling as children.

There’s really no comparison between motherhood and progressive feminism. A mother stands up and claps for her child’s graduation from college; a progressive woman stands up and claps for her boss’ newest promotion. A mother eats a piece of chocolate cake at her toddler’s birthday party; a progressive woman eats a piece of chocolate cake in her company’s cold board room. A mother sits down for afternoon tea with plastic cups and cookies with her daughter; a progressive woman pays $8 for a mediocre cup of coffee to nurse during a stressful rush hour.

That isn’t to say motherhood is all sunshine and roses. C.S. Lewis reminded us “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” That’s certainly true when raising children. We grieve our mother’s when we do wrong, and rake their hearts through coals when we disobey common sense.

That’s why it’s incumbent on us to “honour thy mother.” Our mothers serve us all their lives; the least we can do is serve them in return. We hold their hands because they first held ours. We help them cross the street as they age, because they first taught us to look both ways. We hug them as their eyes draw dim, for they hugged us when ours were wide with fright.

Incredibly, even as we try to serve our mothers (and they deserve all the service we can give them), they’re still serving us. “Take care of my mother,” is the last command Jesus gave to John before He died on the cross. And, while John obeyed Him, I imagine that as much as John took care of Mary, Mary took care of John.

Happy Mother's Day!