A Mother's Day Service

At church, Mother’s day is called Mothering Sunday and is said to be the day when people would traditionally revisit their mother church – the one where they were baptised.

But I have always held this to be an evil rumour put about by clergymen who have forgotten to buy their mothers a card.

Mother’s Day is about ME.

Obviously.

So although I’m a regular churchgoer at St Luke’s, I usually eschew Mothering Sunday Services and force my benighted children to accompany me on a day trip into the countryside.

However, due to current guidelines, I couldn’t gather my offspring this year.  We phoned Nigel’s Mum in Northumberland, mine in Cornwall.  My kids Skyped and Zoomed in.

However, the thing that really made it feel like Mother’s Day was, paradoxically, church.

The church Mother’s Day service was not held this year owing to Covid 19.  In the Vicar’s garden paraded a legion of brightly-coloured pots of polyanthus. They had been purchased to hand out on Mother’s Day, but were now unclaimed.

A few of us who could not think up an excuse quickly enough were delegated to place these on the doorsteps of the women who should have received them.

Initially, the freezing East wind and the fact that my recipients were dotted all over town made me curse.  But then I got into it. 

I began to feel a bit like the Easter Bunny come early.

And in the end, one of the nicest things about my Mother’s Day was the thought of those other mothers opening their doors to an unexpected splash of colourful flowers.