In Honour of Mothers

Who sat and watched my infant head When sleeping on my cradle bed, And tears of sweet affection shed? My mother. When pain and sickness made me cry, Who gazed upon my heavy eye, And wept, for fear that I should die? My mother. — Ann Taylor, "My Mother" (1804)

My late mother, Perpetual Nana Ama Owusu-Twumasi, was a remarkable woman — one of those unsung heroes who quietly shape the lives of everyone around them. She sought neither fame nor recognition. She simply gave to her children, to her grandchildren, to the children she raised who shared no blood with her at all. Her quiet determination and selflessness remain, for me, a lasting reminder of how much one life can hold.

Today, as the world celebrates mothers, I want to honour the women like her — those whose work goes largely unseen. Their reward, often, is nothing grander than watching their children, and perhaps their grandchildren, live fuller lives than they did. This is the essence of motherhood. This is what mothers fight for.

Let us pause to acknowledge the work of mothers everywhere — the visible labour, yes, but also the unseen hours that hold a household together. A mother's love is unusual in its persistence: it tends to us even when we have stopped tending to ourselves. For a mother guided by faith, that love reaches further still, into prayers offered for her children's physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being. These quiet devotions shape us in ways we may never fully recognise.

The dictionary defines mother as to nurture and protects. That is precisely what mothers do — not only with their actions but with their words. Always there. Somehow always knowing what to say. On a day like today, it is easy to remember the encouragements, the yeses, the okays. But the harder words deserve our gratitude, too. The corrections that were cut at the time. The nos that taught us life would not always bend our way. We see, now, that even your refusals were meant for our good. You can rest, knowing we did not turn out to be a mess.

Still, Mother's Day is not, for everyone, a day of joy. For many, it is a day of grief. For mothers who are divorced, abused, or abandoned, raising children alone in fractured homes. For women who have longed for children and could not bear them, an emptiness words rarely reach. For mothers who have lost a child, through miscarriage, abortion, or untimely death — a wound that does not close.

To them I want to say: you are not alone. The children of your womb are not the measure of your worth, and the emptiness you carry was never meant to be filled by a child, a job, or even the most faithful of grooms. For those of us who hold our faith close, there is something more to say. There is life where death once reigned. The blood of Christ was shed so that this pain need not be the end of the story. The resurrection put death on its heels. Your loss does not have the final word; through Jesus, the heart is mended and healed.

And to the women who became mothers not by birth but by adoption — in a courtroom, in a church, in the long quiet hours of stepping into a child's life when no one else would — you have not been forgotten. We see what you do behind the scenes. We know what it costs.

So today, to all the mothers — those celebrating, those grieving, those quietly holding everything together — thank you. We cherish you as God's gift to us.

And to mine, especially: rest well.