It’s been raining for a week straight in Colorado.  With its 300 days of sunshine a year, this surely must mean the beginning of the apocalypse.  As I sip my coffee and mindlessly caress the top of my dog’s head, I debate whether I truly want to run in the cold rain again – or whether I just need to.  I think about the muddy shoes, mud-splattered legs, and soggy clothes that have been the end result of the last five mornings spent on the wet, cold, gloomy trail.  That’s when I realize, it’s not raining anymore.  Sometime in the middle of the night, the rain quietly transformed into snowflakes leaving behind a six-inch blanket of heavy, slushy snow.  It doesn’t take more than a few more sips of coffee to know that I will be running outside today – this Sunday, Mother’s Day 2015.

The best part of the morning is that my daughter, McKenna, is running alongside of me.  She wanted to make my day extra-special, so along with the homemade card and the half-sized poster she painted and embellished with foam butterflies, she announced that she was going to take a run with me.  My “Church of Sunday Long Run” is usually one that I take alone with the Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church livestream playing through my earbuds for the last 7 or so miles.  Or, on other days, I run before the service and watch the livestream from the comfort of my living room, with one or both of my little ones.  But today, I have the best of both worlds – as McKenna and I head out the front door for our run, we’ve got the service streaming from my iPhone.

“People are gonna’ think we’re crazy,” says McKenna laughing.  Honestly, I’m not sure if she means because we’re slogging through the slushy snow in 30-degree weather on Mother’s Day or because we’re doing it with the Gospel of John playing aloud from the speakers as we go.  I just say, “Well, I like being different, don’t you?” McKenna gives me the raised-eyebrow-pursed-lip-look and says, “Oh yeah!”  The neighborhood is very quiet except for a man up ahead carefully shaking the heavy snow off one of his bowed willow trees.  I wonder what he’s thinking as we pass him by.

The run is glorious with the snow-dusted mountains above and in front of us shrouded in delicate wisps of cloud.  We laugh as we deliberately smash down on the mounds of melting snow and kick through the tiny rivers of melt-off.  McKenna is strong and carefree, making a few comments about the message being preached as we hit mile two.  I always see the world differently on the run – often with my memories clicking by like an old filmstrip projector.  Everything from animal footprints, to shadowy tree shapes, to sunrises trigger thoughts that generate the stories in my mind’s eye.  Along the sidewalk, a small bird is pulling a worm from the earth and my memory seeks out the light blue cover of an old children’s book called, “Are You My Mother?” It was a book my Nana had read to me as a child that I have since read to my own children dozens and dozens of times.

The story is about a mother bird who, thinking her egg is not yet ready to hatch, leaves her nest and flies off to find food. The baby bird hatches early and embarks on a journey to look for her – having no idea what she even looks like – he asks a kitten, a hen, a dog, and a cow if they are his mother.  His journey is lonesome and frightening and he finally yells, “I just want my mother!” At that moment, he is fatefully dropped back into his nest where his mother has returned with food.  He is safe and sound and she is thrilled that her baby has finally arrived.

As we duck beneath the weighted down, snow-laden trees along the sidewalk, I think about how many nights I read that book to McKenna and how it comforted her.  But, her comfort was only at the end when she had heard the good news that the mama and baby had been reunited.  It was as if each time, though, she had to hear me tell her about the baby bird’s difficult journey and desperation to then feel the relief of the reunion.

It’s at this very moment that I notice McKenna is struggling up one of the steeper hills along the route.  Out of breath she says, “This part of the sermon is so depressing, Mom. It’s kinda’ dragging me down.”  I understand what she means and I try to explain that the pastor is painting a picture of our desperation so that we may then welcome our deliverance.  I realize this probably means nothing to her.  She is a child who is completely loved and cherished by both of her parents – parents who protect her and care for her and love her without conditions.  She doesn’t know what it means to feel desperate.

So instead, I try to explain what this all means to me and why I have faith.  I recall a quote from Gigi Graham, daughter of Reverend Billy Graham, and repeat it to McKenna. “God is a Father with a mother’s heart.”  I explain that without God’s motherly love for me, I’d have no power to love her or anyone else. “His love flows through me, which then flows into you, which then flows from you unto others. Does that make any sense at all?”  McKenna nods and says, “Well, I’m glad He loves you.  And I’m glad He made you.  And I’m glad He made you my mother.”  I hug her as we stay in stride and I kiss her on the cheek.  I look up at the sky as the clouds are making way for the light and think, these are the moments.

We’re coasting down the back side of the hill and McKenna says, “Oooo, mommy, this is the good news part of the sermon.  I like this part.  I feel a lot stronger now – a lot better.”  Funny how that works, I think.  I do too.  It’s the part of the sermon that often creates the tears of relief and allows me to breathe more deeply.  As we head for home, we listen to the end of the service as it closes with prayer and music and I pray that McKenna will never, ever question that I am her mother.  That I will love her forever with no strings attached.  But, I also pray that she will someday have no doubt that her Heavenly Father loves her even more.  That someday she will rest in the truth that He is her Father – her Abba – the One who loves her unconditionally with a mother’s heart.  This was my Mother’s Day 2015.