If September was a Mother
some prose from me to you
If September was a mother she’d be making a list of all the autumn activities to do. She’d place small pumpkins around the house, drape garlands of orange and yellow leaves over the mantles, jazz would play from the family room as fresh coffee brewed in the kitchen. Autumn pillows would decorate every couch and armchair.
“Mom,” you’d say, a quiver in your voice.
She’d turn to look at you so quickly, already walking towards you with concern. “Yes, baby? What’s wrong?” Her arm would be around your shoulders, her compassionate gaze patiently waiting for your reply.
“I’m sorry,” you’d say.
“For what?” she’d ask, confused.
“I’ve been so selfish. I haven’t been nearly as good of child to you as you’ve been a mother to me,” hanging your head, unable to meet her face, shame consuming you. “I think I, I just, I realize how much you love me. And I’ve snapped at you in my youth, been unhelpful when you needed me, turned from your guidance and rules when you were just trying to protect me and point me towards what’s best for me. I just haven’t loved you like you love me. I’m so wretched.”
Your brow would begin to ache as the tears begged to be released from your eyes. You’d squeeze them shut, holding them in for just a moment more.
“Honey,” she’d say, pausing to gather her thoughts. “I love you. I forgive you.”
“How can you be so patient with me?” you’d whisper, your face growing wet with tears.
Her voice would break as she began to cry with you, not because she was hurt or relieved at your long awaited apology, but because it hurt to see you hurt.
“This is the gospel,” she’d say. And for some reason those words would hang over your head like a heavy banner. “It’s only because of Jesus. Because this is how He has loved me, so this is how I love you.1 And it’s no longer I who live but He who lives in me.2
She’d kiss your forehead and you’d collapse into her embrace, feeling unworthy of her love.
“I don’t want you to bring this up ever again, okay? All is forgiven.”
You’d nod and wonder how it could be so simple. She’d walk to the kitchen and come back with two coffees, a hint of cinnamon rising from the mugs.
Jesus, you’d pray, is this what Your love is like?
A strange peace and warmth would wrap around you, like the Holy Spirit was saying, “Yes.”
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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“We love because he first loved us.” 1 John 4:19
“I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.” Galatians 2:20
Beautiful 😭 a godly, motherly love is nothing less than heaven on earth 🙏🏻
Beautiful, Katie 🍁