Motherhood is for everyone

Her name is Jasmine.

Actually I think her name is something else but she told me she likes to change her name every day for fun. I guess yesterday was a “Jasmine” kind of day.


She loves the color purple. She wants to be a soccer star when she grows up.

She smiles all the time and pretends she’s a princess. And yet–life is hard for her.

Throughout the day I learned that Jasmine’s sister died, her mother can hardly take care of her, and she’s never met her dad. So she comes here after school to play, get help with math homework, and have something to eat.

I wasn’t sure what to expect yesterday when I went with my company to do volunteer work at a group home. But I certainly didn’t expect to meet Jasmine–or any of the other twenty-something kids who seemed to just blow in with the wind.

These kids come every day after school since they have nowhere else to go. They’re wandering souls not yet immune to the poison of a hard world.  My heart couldn’t help but break as I scanned the room that day. A group of teenage boys sat alone at a table playing a card game and erupted into laughter and playful jests as soon as someone won. A toddler sat on someone’s lap, his shirt soaked with apple juice. A group of young girls with braided hair and pink shoes formed a circle in a far corner, talking with their hands. So many kids. So many struggles. So little moms.

snack time

And then, of course, Jasmine broke my train of thought.

“Do you have kids?” she asked me. I shook my head no.

“Well, you can be MY mom now!” she exclaimed during snack time.

And the words struck me.

Maybe it struck me because I’m not yet a mom–and because of medical reasons, it’ll be awhile before I am. Maybe it struck me because motherhood always went hand in hand in my mind with pregnancy, painting a new nursery, or driving a car strapped down with car seats. It never really struck me before that moment that I can still be a mom. So can you.

help with math

It really is the most sacred calling.

I have a world against me on that opinion– I realize this. You might be too.

Bloggers, columnists, extreme feminists and modern-day thinkers join in a fight against motherhood. Motherhood is restricting, they’ll say. Motherhood is a 1950’s approach to oppressing women. Motherhood, some say, is for those women who don’t have any other ambitions in life or for those who wind up chained down. And with this line of thinking we slowly forget what being a mom even is. We forget that it’s all about reaching out to someone who needs it. It’s about selflessness. Mentorship. Nurturing. Compassion. God’s work.

I think back now to not only my amazing Mom, but the countless other women along the way who loved me, taught me, sacrificed for me, and wound up on their knees for me. They were women who had no children of their own, women who had quite a few mouths to feed at home, women who were young, women who were so old that I only remember them in my early childhood memories. They were women who taught me patience or music or writing well or faith in God. Women who stayed after school to help me with long division. They were strong, selfless, beautiful women consistently taking on the role of mother. Those are the women I remember.


We aren’t called to live a life dedicated to ourselves. It’s never the reason we came. And I’m tired of living in a world where selflessness is equated with weakness.

Elder Holland once said in an address, The work of a mother is hard, too often unheralded work. Please know that it is worth it then, now, and forever.”

It’s always been worth it.

Eve understood this when she stepped out of Eden just so we could be born. Sarai understood this when Abraham told her their generations would be as numerous as the stars and she thanked God for it. Mary understood it when she rearranged her entire life and lost friends and a good reputation all to make way for the Savior. Jesus himself understood the value of motherhood when some of the last words he spoke were to John, asking him to take care of his mother. From the beginning of time we’ve been reminded of our responsibility to God’s children and the eternal principle of it. Why have we forgotten?


Be the woman that changes everything for someone. Jasmine’s simple, childlike plea reminded me of the urgency of it all.

Whether you have six children or no children, whether you grew up in a home with a mother who loved you or a home without one present–be someone’s rescue, if only for a period of time in their lives.

Be someone’s mom.

Oh, and I promise you–it’s not old fashioned to change the world.

with kids

The day I became an American: A look back to 9/11

It’s been 12 years.

But tears still fill my eyes when I see those towers fall.

I still get goosebumps as firefighters take off their hats and surround memorials.

I still remember. And I was barely 12.

But it was the day I became an American.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I was born a citizen, and for many, many generations my family has lived here in America and each of them probably have different days within their lives that they would consider that pivotal point where they went from citizen to American– the time when they realized they don’t just live here by accident. They weren’t just given this land.

I was walking to the bus stop when my friend from across the street called me over, telling me that planes hit the World Trade Center. At the time, I didn’t even know what those were. But I had a feeling it was bad. I knew that people were probably in those buildings. A knot formed in my stomach right away.


At school they grouped us all in front of little televisions mounted in the corners of every classroom, explaining to us what was happening and giving us time to open up our little journals and write about what we felt. Looking back, I still remember how I didn’t know much about anything involved in that day–I didn’t know about terrorists or the Taliban. Or government affairs. Or foreign relations. I didn’t know much about hate. But suddenly, I did know something. And that was loyalty.

In my journal that day I wrote a poem called “The Flag was still there”. Because that’s all I really knew.

The flag, I noticed, amidst the huddles of people crying out, arms stretched toward a spot of vacant sky once hidden by towers, was still fluttering on a rooftop. The flag on the fire station where hundreds of firefighters had ran for the last time through those doors that day, lunging into crumbing buildings and giving their lives to the flames, was still hanging. The beautiful flag, a symbol even my 12-year-old self knew that represented “home”, was still dotted among those already gone and laid to rest in the cemeteries of fallen soldiers; soldiers that would soon welcome so many lives home that day.


That flag remaining above the debris was my confidence that we’d make it through. I knew that much. And within moments, eyes glued to the television, my heart racing at the horrible sights of planes striking towers, people running in the streets and falling from hundreds of stories high, and news anchors grasping for words amidst their own tears and horror as we all watched together–within moments I became an American. An American so proud to call this place home. An American angry at the lives taken so violently that day. An American who didn’t know much about the country other than the fact that all these people sharing this land with me were Americans too, sharing freedoms together and dreams together. And when the planes hit those people, it hit every single one of us too.


It’s been 12 years, but I still remember that day. And although I know a little more than I did then as I scrawled a poem in my journal, I still think that the most important thing is the little piece of knowledge I held on to as a middle-school kid.

The flag is still there:

Reminding us of what makes us Americans.

Beckoning us to never forget.

APTOPIX Sept 11 America Remembers