I remember hurrying to the metro in Kyiv in the early 2000s, four boys in tow all holding hands,
“Oh, a Hero-Mother!” A babushka would stop me, exclaiming over them, tightening one boy’s scarf and straightening another’s hat.
They shared with me the joy of motherhood, the blessing it truly was.
Soviet-era women commonly had multiple abortions. Post-Soviet families often only had one child, with multiple generations sharing an apartment.
The joy of motherhood in Ukraine was mixed with the discomfort of being the “rich American” who could afford my then-four children.
The son who first made me a mother was born nearly 23 years ago, and as I write this my three-year-old and only daughter is pretending to be “a baby who doesn’t cry.”
I’ve made so many mistakes. I haven’t cherished every moment. I’ve sinned against (and hidden from) my kids.
And I’ve loved them. Snuggled them. Read to them. Watched each of them grow into the person God has created them to be.
These six persons in my life who have made me a mother? They delight me, humble me, and bring me to my knees before God.
I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.