It was the most dreaded day of the year.

Maybe I should just skip church and stay home under my covers. Pretend it's an ordinary day, I thought. Instead, my husband and I headed for church. Once seated in the back, rather than in my regular pew, I looked around at the other women who seemed to glow this morning. They wore corsages. I buttoned my raincoat, grateful for the morning drizzle that gave me an excuse to hide my uncorsaged dress.

As long as nobody says anything, I thought, I'll be okay.

The music started with Bach. I studied my bulletin and almost believed I'd make it through the service until the pastor got to the microphone … "Happy Mother's Day!" he said to the congregation of proud moms. Happy Mother's Day.

For seven years I'd wanted children, prayed for children—but my womb wouldn't hold a child. Mother's Day underscored what felt like my failure to become a mom. My husband tried to help by giving me a corsage or volunteering to stay home with me.

In church, when all the mothers were asked to stand so we could pray for them, my pain came to a head. I knew women were standing who'd never wanted to become mothers. I'd heard other women complain regularly about the burdens of motherhood. Yet there they stood, and there I sat. Mother's Day hurt.

A world of possibilities
It was a week after a particularly grueling Mother's Day. I'd been attending an inner-city church in Chicago, where I taught a small Sunday school class of junior high students. One girl, Tanya, belonged to a gang and brought me to wit's end dozens of times during the year. That Sunday, I'd spent half our class time trying to get Tanya to stop punching the other girls.

Tanya didn't stay for church. But as she slipped out the back door, she called to me over her shoulder, "See you around, Mom!" She laughed and made her exit. But before she turned away, I caught her eye. She meant what she said. In some way, I was like a mother to that strong-willed girl who liked to act so tough.

	I started actively praying for children who needed someone to act like a mother to them.

That Sunday, God gave me a glimpse of an extraordinary calling: I could be a surrogate mother to people who need the love I have to give! He could give me spiritual children.

I started actively praying for children who needed someone to act like a mother to them. As soon as I opened my heart, my mind began filling with possibilities.

There was one seventh-grade boy in my class who needed someone to talk to. He thought he should be able to date, but his parents said no. I didn't tell him anything his parents hadn't already said—but it helped him to hear it from someone else.

Another classmate, Rosa, came to Sunday school only twice. But God urged me to pray for Rosa "like a mother" long after she left.

Many mornings when I awoke, Rosa was the first thing on my mind. I prayed God would reveal himself to her, and that she would listen. I asked God to give her a Christian friend, a classmate to help her say no to temptations. I prayed for her school work, her teachers, her parents.

Telling my Sunday school kids I loved them didn't go far enough. I had to show it. So I took them to the zoo. Sunday afternoons we played softball in the park. One girl started showing up before Wednesday night prayer meetings so I could help her with her math homework.

Several times Tanya stopped coming to my class. Each time, I went looking for her. And every time Tanya was amazed that I wanted her back.

Doing motherhood
I wasn't the only spiritual mother in the small church. I got to know Karen, who studied nights at a city college. Despite a busy schedule, she still found time to look out for Juanita, a 13-year-old living with a grandmother and 11 siblings. Karen made sure Juanita stayed in school and did her homework.

About the same time, Karen's mother took a 10-year-old girl under her wing. She bought the child school supplies and talked regularly to her about the Scriptures. Another woman in the church bought eyeglasses for a boy whose mother couldn't find the time or money to take him for an eye exam.

At my own church, the youth pastor and his wife have no children of their own, but they are like parents to dozens of kids. They have a God-given capacity to love and relate to teens, some of whom barely speak to their own parents.

One teenager says, "When they ask me how I'm doing, they really want to know. Most people just want you to say 'fine.' I always feel they actually care how I'm doing."

Unseen results
In some cases, we see the effect we have on another's life. But in others, we never realize this side of heaven the powerful impact of our mothering.

That's the case with Margaret, a widow, who showed unconditional love for her neighbor, eight-year-old Steven, one of the least lovable kids in the neighborhood. He and his mother had lived in a commune for more than a year. Steven never knew his father.

Some days Steven responded to Margaret's love, coming over unannounced to rake her leaves or bring her the morning paper. Other days, he made fun of "the old lady" behind her back.

But every day, Margaret showed Steven she was glad to see him. She cut out newspaper articles about his class at school—field trips they had taken, subjects she knew interested him. She asked for a picture of him. Margaret invited Steven and his mother for dinner. And she prayed for both of them.

When Steven and his mother moved away, Margaret grieved. But she knew she'd played an important role in his life. She tried to keep in touch through cards and letters, but eventually lost contact with them. Yet to this day, she hasn't stopped praying for Steven and his mother.

Like Steven, Peg was a rebellious child who benefited from a spiritual surrogate mom. Now sixtysomething, Peg lights up when she talks about Mrs. Kowaski.

"For as long as I could remember, Mrs. K. lived next door alone," she says. "Her home was a second home to all of us kids in the neighborhood. We didn't go there for the Bible stories she'd tell us. We went for cookies. But we knew her and trusted her as a mother.

"To this day, I believe God used her prayers to bring me to Christ. I went the long way around—through alcohol and back. I wish Mrs. Kowaski hadn't died before I made it 'back.' But someday, I'll tell her about it in heaven."

No age limits
Spiritual mothering doesn't have to be limited to young children.

A college friend of mine was known as "Mom" by four sophomores. Only two years their senior, she had been instrumental in leading them to Christ.

Another friend, Janice, talks about a time when she needed a mother. Her husband left her with three small children and no money. She couldn't make the rent and didn't know where to turn. That's when her aunt stepped in.

"Aunt Ruth took me in with all three kids," Janice says. "She listened to me, but never asked about things I didn't want to talk about."

Dreaded no more
When we long for children but don't have them, a vacuum can develop deep inside us. I believe it's God who gives us the desire for children, the desire for motherhood. God may eventually give you biological children. That's up to him. But we can also allow him to fill that vacuum with spiritual children.

This Mother's Day I'll rejoice, as I have for a number of years now, in my two adopted daughters and son. I'm now legally one of the standing moms in church on Mother's Day. But I pray that I never forget the pain of those past Mother's Days or the high calling God challenged me to.

John wrote, "I have no greater joy than to hear that my children [spiritual children] are walking in the truth" (3 John 4). Don't miss those joys!

Condensed from Today's Christian Woman (May/June 1997), © 1997 Dandi Daley Mackall. Used by permission.

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