Last Sunday my son gave a talk in Primary for the first time in years. It was short, but he thought of it himself, and knowing how standing in front of people gives him anxiety, I felt proud of him. A couple of weeks ago he gave a package of Oreos to a boy he’s disliked for years. He told me about it like it was no big deal, but I knew better. It was a huge deal. I am still learning a lot from parenting this child, but I can’t let the weight of the future steal my joy in him right now. These moments represent progress, and I am grateful.

It’s a different type of gratitude or pride, though. I can’t really explain how much he has grown without telling his whole story, which I won’t do here, or even to most people. My husband and I are the ones who know the whole story. We are the witnesses to his growth. It’s us, and God.

***
It’s recital season. I stood in the wings last night and watched my daughter dance, her blond hair spilling down her shoulder as she leaped. And last week at the piano recital, I listened to her and my son play the songs they have pounded into their fingers for months. I’ve seen the practicing, and the not-practicing. I’ve reminded and nagged, knowing that at the moment of performance all of us will wish they had practiced more. But in the end, in that moment of watching them, I see all those hours come together into one performance, and I witness their greatness. It’s not about the notes so much as it is the labor that made playing them possible. I don’t know if I communicate to them well enough how great they are.

***
As I walked with my son to his soccer game last week, a car pulled up and an elderly lady called out. “Are you going to the soccer game?” She wanted us to ride with her and show her where to go. She was going to see her granddaughter’s first game, because her parents couldn’t come.

We rode with her, and when we arrived I realized she used a walker and would need additional help to find the right field and see her granddaughter. I found the right field, and went back to join the woman. “My granddaughter waved at me,” she said. “It’s important she knows I’m here.” She sat down on the seat of her walker and watched the game.

She reminded me strongly of my own grandparents, who did not miss a chance, as long as they were healthy, to witness their children and grandchildren. And of my own parents, who came to the soccer game, and to the recital. She knew the power of being there, and paid the price to be present.

Witnessing is not just about recitals, though. Those are the public moments when your child and the whole world know you’ve done something praiseworthy. Mother-as-witness means that you see all the moments that no one else sees, and you know their meaning and their significance in the life of your child. I saw my son speak, nervous but still there, facing the other children and facing his fears. I know what that meant to him to give a package of Oreos to his arch nemesis. I know, and my husband knows, and probably the only person who knows better than we do is God. I have felt the power and strength of my own parents’ witness in my life. They have watched me care for their grandchildren, for my mother-in-law, for my father-in-law. Just knowing that they are aware of my life and my struggles, even though nothing can be changed, brings me greater strength.

And perhaps the relentlessness of parenting requires just that: mourning with those that mourn, comforting those who stand in need of comfort, and above all, standing as witnesses of God at all times, and all things, and all places.

Happy Mother’s Day.