The Gift of Motherhood

On this fine May day, we pause to honour a wonder as ancient as humanity and as present as our very breath—the gift of motherhood. There is something splendidly paradoxical about mothers: they are both the quiet architects of daily life and the fierce keepers of our hopes.

When a child is born, something else is born too: a profound hope. It stirs not in the grand halls of Parliament or amidst lofty philosophical debates (though I confess a bias toward those), but rather in the heart of a mother holding her child for the first time. This hope is not naive; it is muscular and enduring. It believes in life before life has yet proved itself. It believes in goodness before goodness has been chosen. That first gaze—tired, teary, and incandescent—holds a dream of who the child might become, what gifts they might offer the world, and what love they might both give and receive.

Childbirth, I’m told, is a curious blend of agony and ecstasy—a kind of divine slapstick, if one dares to put it so. There’s the grandeur of creation happening in real time, and yet, there’s also the screams, the sweat, and the honest possibility that one might say unrepeatable things to one’s partner. And still, in that hour, life wins.

Motherhood, though, is not a single moment. It is a vocation lived out in the hundred invisible gestures of care—packed lunches, whispered prayers at bedside.

As children grow, mothers remain—steady, present, adaptable. They become confidantes, gentle challengers, fierce protectors, and, on occasion, late-night taxi drivers. And when the world is too much with us, we turn, sometimes even in memory, to their voices—voices that remind us we are more than our failures and that love is not lost.

Of course, not all mothers are biological. Some mother by choice, by necessity, or by calling. Some are with us now; others have passed into mystery. But all who have nurtured, guided, and believed in us carry the soul of motherhood.

A Blessing for Mothers

May the light you gave in birth

Return to warm your heart each morning.

May you know the quiet pride

Of love planted deep in hidden places.

May the labour you bore—of body, of soul—

Be honoured by those who now walk strong.

May laughter visit often, and sorrow find you never alone.

For mothers who are near, may your days be gentled.

For mothers who are far, may your memory be fragrant.

For mothers who are gone, may heaven hold your face in light.

And may you, who have poured out life for another,

Now receive back—grace for grace,

And peace like a quiet stream.

So to all mothers—whether your children are small, grown, hoped-for, or remembered—we lift our teacups (or something stronger) in deep gratitude. You are, quite simply, the beginning of everything.