I never used to esteem holidays.  Especially birthdays, or (as I became one) Mother's Day.  I never liked all the fuss.  They seemed like a lot of work for not much profit.  I mean, I don't like being the center of attention, and usually all I ever felt on my birthday was general embarassment.  "Happy Birthday!" everyone said all day long.  Well, sometimes I didn't feel happy; other times, I wondered why this day... can't I be wished just as much happiness the other 364 days of the year?  (It also didn't help that my birthday happens to fall on April 1, so I was the butt of many April Fool's jokes as a schoolchild.)

And Mother's Day.  Sheesh!  I know my family loves and appreciates me.  They are kind enough to tell me practically every day of my waking life that they love me, and often they even thank me for the things I do for them.  In recent years, as my adult children have chosen to work with me in our homeschooling ministry, I've been so aware of their love, their forgiveness, and their true regard for me and for my husband.  Co-laboring with our children for the gospel has been one of the sweetest phases of my life.

But I digress.

For the last few years, I've managed to avoid my birthday.  At first, this seemed like a terrific idea.  Three years ago, I was in a car with Charity driving to Tenessee on my birthday.  We had a merry old time, and my poor family caught up with "happy birthday" wishes by cell phone.  I felt smug... but a little distant.  Last year, we scheduled ourselves to speak at the Nebraska state conference on my birthday.  Furthermore, Scott scheduled himself to speak at the high school graduation associated with the conference.  I, naturally shy of 2,500 or more knowing it was my birthday, asked him to keep it dark.  He, naturally, didn't.  So, the sweet conference hostess brought a lovely sheet cake to my booth (that I then snacked on and handed out to customers all day) and sang to me.  My poor kids tried to call me on my cell, but I was teaching sessions all that day, so they either interrupted them and were cut off, or found an unresponsive cell phone and left messages.  Bless them!  Then, that night, I went back to the hotel alone, with my half-eaten birthday cake and a sugar high.  After sitting there a few moments, I decided to go and get a festive dinner -- alone --and set out on foot.  Well, I couldn't find a suitable place.  I ended up eating hors d'oevres alone in a bar and coming home as quickly as I could.  I then fell asleep waiting for Scott to come back.  It was pretty bleak.

THIS year, Scott said, "No!" to all conference engagements on my birthday.  So far, so good, until our little field trip to Europe had to be pushed back two weeks to avoid Easter.  This put us in England for a very busy day of touring (responsible for 32 other teens and parents) and flying across the English channel to Paris late that night.  Sigh.  If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know how much I love flying. (Not.) 

I had had a particularly difficult spring, and was struggling with discouragement, and, thinking back on the last few holidays, I bravely spoke up and said to my family (two days before leaving for Europe), "I'd like to celebrate my birthday before we go."  Gulp. I was crying.  I knew what they would do.  They would smother me with encouragement: specific, meaningful, verbal encouragement.  And they did.  We went to our favorite restaurant, and had a wonderful evening that filled up my emotional tank and blessed my socks off.

Well, it was a good thing, because my actual birthday turned out to be worse than just having to tour all day and then fly.  Through a series of events, our group (with my husband) flew to France as planned, but I was left alone in London on my birthday, and for two more days.  I was staying in a youth hostel, so after feeding my solitary self, alone again on my birthday, and tucking into a bunk in an eight-bed dorm, I slept... until 2 AM.  At that point, seven French teenagers came in, and were wound up, noisy, and downright rude until 4:30 AM. 

This year, we also were speaking on Mother's Day weekend in San Diego.  Scott decided we would stay over on Sunday and visit our sister church out there, rather than grabbing the red eye home.  But my kids were determined to bless me, even though I was a continent away.  When I arrived at my host's home on Saturday night after the conference, there were flowers on the doorstep.  "Oh, look!" I said, "Someone left flowers for you."  She swooped them up and looked at the card.  "Not for me," she said, "For you!"  You could have knocked me over with a feather!  Then began to flow emails (complete with mother-loving sentiments, poetry, Wikipedia articles about the origins and purposes of Mother's Day) and blog entries, all honoring me way beyond my just due.  I was blessed.  I was encouraged.  I was strengthened.  I felt loved.

Maybe holidays aren't such a bad thing after all...?

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I just had to share my email from Marjorie, because it so glorifys God, and, I hope, gives you younger mothers still in the trenches a foretaste of good things to come.  She wrote: