She Carried the Body, So You Could Carry the Light

On Mother’s Day, we don’t just honor the wombs that birthed us—we honor the women who stayed when power fled, who anointed the broken, and who saw Resurrection first.

There’s a love so steady, so unshakable, that you don’t notice it until it’s gone.
That’s the kind of love most of us received from a mother—or someone who mothered us.

She didn’t need applause.
She didn’t need theology.
She didn’t wait until we were holy, clean, successful, or grateful.
She just loved.

Before you knew language—
Before you had worth according to capitalism or doctrine—
She held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And it was.

Today isn’t about pastel cards or curated brunches.
It’s about remembering the woman who made it possible for you to survive.

Even if she was tired.
Even if she was hurting.
Even if she never got back what she gave.

If your mother showed up,
if she stood between you and the chaos,
if her love carved out a space for your soul to land—
then you carry God’s clearest signature in your memory.

And if she didn’t?
If you were failed, forgotten, or abused?
Then I honor the mother-figures who stepped in.
The ones who taught you love by giving it, not defining it.

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📿 This Week’s Practice:
Call her. Visit her. Thank her if you can.
And if she’s gone—light a candle. Speak her name.
Remember that the love she gave still lives in your nervous system.

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🕯️ Final Blessing:
May you remember the arms that held you before you believed in anything.
May you become that kind of safety for someone else.
And may every mother who loved well—whether she birthed, adopted, mentored, or protected—be honored like a saint.

Because she was.

—Virgin Monk Boy

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