If August was a Mother

some prose from me to you

If August was a mother she’d bring flowers from the grocery store, a few bouquets combined into one, just to see you smile. She always knew the value of pretty things.

Her bible would sit next to a cup of coffee by the window, a leftover scene from her quiet time with the Lord that morning. As you peaked passed the cover, you’d see scribblings of thoughts, learnings, and revelations packed into the margins, sticky notes fluttering as you flipped through the pages. No wonder she has the heart of God, you’d think to yourself. She spends so much time with Him.

“I know, I know,” she’d say. “I should just get a new bible. There’s hardly any space left.”

“Mom, how do you take so many notes?” You’d ask.

“Honey, the Word is alive. Every time I read it the Lord shows me something new.”

You’d pull out a chair and have a seat, gazing at her as she watered the hanging house plants.

“Mom, what would you say is your ministry? Our family, your church, that exercise group you go to sometimes?”

“Honey, when Jesus is your life, everything is your ministry. No need to call it ‘ministry’, just call it Monday. Or whatever day of the week it is,” she’d say, examining a new leaf on her philodendron.

“Mom, how do you think we become more like Jesus?”

“A loaded question!” She’d laugh and pause to think lowering the watering can. “Be humble. Spend time with the Lord. Read the Word like it’s your daily bread, like you’ll starve if you don’t. And just love Him. He loves us so much. He’ll do the rest.”

She’d start cutting the ends of the flower stems and place the flowers in a vase. Arranging them with her gentle hands.

“Some people believe in Jesus, but it doesn’t seem like they want to be like Him,” she’d add, a hint of sadness in her voice, talking to herself more so than answering the question. There it is, the heart of God, you’d think.

“C’mon she’d say. Let’s get in the sun one more time before summer ends,” and for a moment you could imagine her young and vibrant, in awe that though she’s aged, her spirit really hasn’t, and how easy it would’ve been to be friends even then.

You’d hope your bible looks like hers one day. And hope your heart does too.

Disclaimer: There have been some folks who have thought that these are real, true-life conversations that I’ve had with my own mother. This monthly series is a work of fiction, prayerfully written in hopes that it either inspires mamas like myself to be godly women in motherhood or is a comfort to those who do not have mothers, do not have Christ-following mothers to ask questions to or be loved by, or those who have lost their own mothers from death, dementia, or some other means. And as always, thank you for reading and being here!

Katie Donohue Tona

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If September was a Mother

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