I once read a newspaper article that made headlines about the pop star Madonna and the maternal love she showed toward her first daughter, Lourdes. When an ordinary mother loves her own child, we think nothing of it — it hardly merits a front-page story. But because Madonna had lived so publicly, so recklessly, dismantling every convention of ethics and morality without apology, many people genuinely wondered whether she was capable of being a mother at all.
And yet Madonna seemed almost determined to prove the world’s doubts unfounded. She poured every ounce of tenderness and devotion into her daughter, and in doing so began to reveal the truest nature of womanhood.
What struck people as particularly remarkable was that she almost never turned on the television for the child. She took great care to shield that young and impressionable spirit from the violence, crime, and moral chaos of the world. More astonishing still — she had no intention of ever showing her daughter the videos of her own scandalous past. This, from Madonna.
And that, I believe, is the maternal instinct that lives in every mother in the world. Whatever my past has been — no matter what I have done or failed to do — I want my child to be set apart from the evil of this world. I want them to live a good and righteous life. That is a parent’s heart. That is, above all, a mother’s heart.
I sometimes stop by a dry-cleaning shop near my home to drop off clothes. A middle-aged Korean couple runs it, working with remarkable dedication. Because they are Korean, our visits rarely end at simply leaving the clothes — we talk. Over time, they have shared with me their struggles and their prayer requests. Some days, when I haven’t visited in a while, they greet me with faces full of relief, as though they had been waiting. And whenever we talk about their children, I have often seen the wife break into tears mid-sentence, her heart too full to hold. Sometimes we stand together at the counter and pray.
They had been schoolteachers back in Korea. After immigrating, their eldest child never quite found his footing and drifted for years. He dropped out of university, traveled back and forth to Korea repeatedly, unable to let go of the life he had left behind. Along the way he made many mistakes, accumulated considerable debt, and became a source of deep grief for his parents.
The husband, worn down by heartbreak, grew increasingly unwell. He labored all day and still found no hope in life. The marriage was strained constantly by the tension surrounding the son. Yet through all of it, the wife rose every morning before dawn and went to church to pray through her tears for her child, without missing a single day. Through the long hours of work, she prayed without ceasing for her son’s wellbeing and future. And through it all, she continued to believe in him — more than anyone else did. There were times she had to send him money without her husband knowing, and debts he had incurred from relatives in Korea that she quietly paid off herself. She called him across the ocean again and again, guiding him in faith. Through tears, she pleaded with him: “Seek God. He will help you.”
That son, in the midst of countless failures and hardships, remembered his mother’s tears. Moved by her prayers, he began to walk in faith. He met a wise and intelligent young woman and married her. His own business eventually found its footing. Every time I hear news of how well he is doing now, my heart is genuinely glad.
“Woman is weak, but mother is strong.” There is no other way to describe the tenacious love a mother has for her child — it is simply extraordinary. A mother’s eyes and ears are always open, always turned toward her children. She might lay a small one down and drift off for a moment — but the instant a cry rises, she is already at the baby’s side before she is fully awake. A mother’s love does not rest as the child grows. Even as her own body weakens and her strength ebbs away, even if it costs her everything — the eyes and ears of her flesh and her soul remain wide open toward her children. Even when a child is gripped by despair about the future, a mother’s wings of dream and hope for that child never fold. They beat on, with every last breath, lifting toward the sky.
I have the blessing of two living mothers in my life. One is my mother-in-law, now eighty-two years old. The other is my own mother, who turned seventy-seven this year. These two women are the load-bearing beams of prayer in our lives, holding everything up with quiet strength. Not one day passes in which they do not rise before dawn to pray — for their children, for the church, for peace in the world.
The year my mother-in-law turned eighty, she undertook a fast. Her younger son and his wife had been neglecting their faith, and she fasted for days, crying out to God on their behalf. Then, at the family New Year gathering when everyone had assembled, after receiving the traditional bow of respect from her son and daughter-in-law, she said to them: “Children, I fasted and prayed this time — asking God to restore your faith and bring you back to Him. If He calls me home today, I am ready to go. I don’t think my body can endure another fast. Before I leave this earth, I want to see the whole family come before God.” She straightened her bent back as best she could and wiped her tears. A holy hush fell over all of us. Those words carried more weight and conviction than a hundred of our own sermons or pleadings ever could.
The news came later that her son and his wife had returned to the faith.
What my mother-in-law desires for her children is not material prosperity. Her highest joy is to see them walking faithfully with God. When we visit and kneel together in prayer, she beams with a gratitude so full her eyes fill with tears.
I am also sometimes startled to find how much I still lean on my own mother — a woman so physically frail that it seems almost wrong to place such weight on her. On days when my spirit is low, when I have been badly wounded and am struggling to find my footing, simply saying the word “Mom” is enough to begin restoring my calm.
My mother can read the whole of my situation in that single word spoken into the phone. “You’ve pushed yourself too hard. You need to rest. Pray. Even if people don’t understand — God knows. Don’t let bitterness take root in you.” In an instant she sees into my soul as though looking into a mirror. There are times when something difficult is happening and I haven’t called, not wanting to worry her — and without fail, she calls me. She asks very gently: “Is everything alright? I had a dream about you last night…” And when she begins to speak, I always find that she has already entered into whatever it is I am going through — joy or sorrow — without my having said a word.
By rights, I should be the one caring for her now. But somehow she is still the one watching over me. When she comes to visit, she moves through every corner of the house and cannot sit still for a moment. Every surface she touches seems to take on a new gleam. Even the plants in the garden seem to straighten and brighten under her hands. Frozen food that had been sleeping in the back of the refrigerator for months, wilted vegetables — all of it is transformed in her hands into a table full of wonderful food. Socks with holes, clothes with torn seams — they, too, find healing and new life in her hands. Her gift of making something out of nothing does not stop at her children. It flows into everything she touches.
My mother was widowed at forty and raised six children on her own. When my father died, I was only eleven years old — so at the time, I simply thought of my forty-year-old mother as someone who could do anything. Now that I am past my mid-forties myself, I am only beginning to understand the weight of what she carried in that season of her life. She walked that long, dark tunnel of a life’s journey through constant, tearful prayer to God. Even now, though we do not live together, I can hear her prayers from wherever I am. Wherever in the world I go, I know that the cord of her love is always holding me.
There is a Jewish proverb: “A child without a mother is like a door without a handle.”
Children nourished by a mother’s love and the warmth of her heart go out into the world grasping the handles of their future with strength. Sustained by that love, their thinking grows sound, and their lives unfold with creative balance and purpose.
To have a living mother is to possess one of the greatest treasures life can offer. And even for those whose mothers have gone ahead — the longing and the memories remain, and simply being able to call out the word “Mother” is itself a profound comfort. And what a mercy it is that even when our own mothers are no longer near, there are mothers all around us — neighbors, friends — to whom we can offer the love we were not able to finish giving. For at their core, all the mothers of the world share one heart.
As Mother’s Day comes and goes, I find myself sitting with a quiet self-reproach — a sense of how far short I fall, as a mother, as a woman. I tend to my children’s physical lives — but am I truly tending their souls? Am I conveying to them, in living and breathing moments, the reality and faithfulness of God? In my motherly love — am I grieving for them deeply enough, weeping the tears of the soul that they need? And as a Korean mother entrusted with a mother tongue and a heritage — how earnestly am I passing that language and those customs on to my children?
They say that the maternal love God has given freely to all women is the love most closely resembling God’s own love. Through mothers, God reveals His own nature. He sent mothers into this world so that He could hold His beloved children — all of them — in His arms through a mother’s embrace.
The love of God for human beings — undying, eternal, unchanging — He kindled as a flame of love in a mother’s breast. The sacrifice and love of Jesus, who came as a lamb offered for us, He poured into the souls of all the mothers of the world. And the Holy Spirit, our Comforter, gave to mothers a spirit of comfort like wool — gentle, enveloping, warm — to guide and instruct His children.
The news is that pop star Madonna, through her daughter, is at last discovering what has always lived within her — the motherly love that is the truest nature of womanhood. Even a life lived as though God did not exist can be broken open by a child — and from that breaking, a spring of tears rises, a rusted door of love swings open, and the beauty of purity is found again. This mystery of love — given only to mothers — feels especially fresh and wondrous in this season.
— WanHee Yoon, May 5, 1998
Daily Sauntering 
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