Mothering Sunday

We had standing room only in Church yesterday, ran out of service books and hymn books, more than a hundred people took communion and a further sixty went up for a blessing,  and the reason for this? Well apart from Mothering Sunday and natural enthusiasm for our little country parish, there was a popular Christening. The little baby son of one of the school’s teachers came, and for a while David has been discussing baptism with the children in assemblies. Mums, Dads, aunties, everyone rushed along to share in this happy event.  I had a special role in all of this, as I helped his mum change his nappy during the final hymn, hiding behind the  font.  He was a very quiet little chap with b ig blue eyes, and all of 14 weeks old.  I looked at him and thought hard about the life which faces him, wondering where he will go and how it will be for him. Babies do that to you, bringing on a bit of philosophical musing.

Yesterday was the first Mother’s Day without my mother, so it was bound to be rather emotional.  I was with her for 59 of her 89 turbulent years, and the last two years in particular have been very intense.    It takes a while. I still find when I go into the Co-op that I gravitate towards the deli counter to buy one slice of turkey, or scan the pet food aisle for special offers on Whiskas.  But I was so happy she could go without too much pain and incapacity, and stayed at home until almost the end.

The generations hand on the relay baton, one to another. Our DNA somehow runs through the various generations. I feel my ancestors more these days than ever before, especially the unknown ones, as there are many mysteries in our past.

We build on the past for the future, and yet all have this unique life and character which no-one else will mirror.  That is perhaps the most exciting part of motherhood, producing  new life which can shoot off in any direction.

Ho hum.


About mrsgarnettsgarden

After a life in International Development where I have seen many resililent women farmers bring abundance out of almost nothing, I'm now more often at home in Derbyshire with my husband David, a retired Archdeacon who runs the churches on the Chatsworth estate. Our garden and my allotment are the setting for a little diary of plants and pottering, aided and abetted by our dogs, Spaniel jess, and Collie, Pip. David is a hen fanatic so the chicken runs encroach ever nearer the house. I work freelance as an assessor for Comic Relief International grants, and also run a little not for profit agency to help African women get going in business, called "Lasting Solutions."
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