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When I was a young child, my parents got my brother and I a paper route. This 75-paper duty was shared by the whole family and on Sunday mornings, involved my dad driving us around at 5:00 in the morning with the side door of the mini-van open so Jordan and I could dart in and out and ensure that every elderly folk in town had their paper on their doorstep before dawn. We secretly loathed this Sunday morning duty, and I still remember crawling back into bed just as the sun was coming up every Sunday morning.
Until they woke us up for church, that is.
There was one Sunday every year, however, that I didn't crawl back into bed. We got home, washed our ink-stained fingers, and as Dad and Jordan crawled back into bed, I got to work. I quietly found the plastic fruit cup I snuck in the cart at the grocery store, put some toast in the toaster, and did my very best to not leave any egg shells in the muffin mix. Although I now realize that Mom heard every sound coming from the kitchen, I tiptoed around that kitchen and sought to prepare the very best breakfast in bed for a mom who deserved the world. I did this for years on Mother's Day, and remember feeling so clever, so proud, and so blessed to honor her.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You've been there for the paper routes, the prom dresses, the girl fights, and the breakups. You've hugged me, prayed for me, and taught me what it means to love your children with your heart and soul. Thanks for raising us, and loving us, and always being there for us. The older I get, the more I see what a presence you were in my life.