As a child, I spent every Mother’s Day celebrating “Homecoming Day” at Mount Olivet Missionary Baptist Church between Munfordville and Cub Run in Hart County. Mom would cook all day on Saturday, get up early Sunday morning to cook more and then we’d pack it all up and take it to church with us. After Sunday school and the morning worship service where we honored mothers, we would pig out and then around 1:30 we’d all return to the sanctuary for an afternoon of good southern gospel singing.

At some point I realized the irony of having the women prepare a huge meal and bring it to church on a day set aside to recognize their efforts as mothers. The matriarchs in my church, however, never let anyone know if they resented the work involved in pulling off the Mother’s Day festivities.

I’ve never attended another church that went to those great lengths to celebrate moms, but the ones in which I’ve worshipped on Mother’s Day have all spent time recognizing mothers in some way, whether by giving small gifts to each mother present or simply by having someone speak about mothers’ importance in society.

I don’t remember the first Mother’s Day service that made me uncomfortable, but at some point I started to despise going to church on the second Sunday in May. My heart already ached every day at not having a child of my own, so I had no desire to sit in my pew and ponder my childlessness while mothers stood to be honored. Although I’m not proud to admit it, I eventually stopped attending church on Mother’s Day.

If you’ve been reading this column for a while, you know I struggled desperately with my infertility for years—especially during the last three years before I finally decided to trust God’s plan for my life.

On Mother’s Day 1998 I awoke planning to skip church again until I felt this overwhelming impression that I should attend church. The congregation where Jeff pastored had become accustomed to having me skip out on Mother’s Day, so a very loud silence permeated the building when I walked in.

Two amazing little girls descended on me, begging to sit in my lap almost before I’d sat down. I was so busy keeping those girls entertained that I didn’t even hear the part of the service where mothers stood to be honored.

One month later I became Chris’s foster mom, and by the next Mother’s Day we had finalized Chris’s adoption and were waiting for a court date for Nat’s.

Although I now enjoy Mother’s Day, I haven’t forgotten the agony it brought me for so many years and neither has my pastor husband.

This year he invited the children to come up front and take carnations to every lady in the sanctuary (not just moms), as a way of celebrating both current mothers and those who hope to become mothers some day.

He also bought hanging baskets of flowers to give away to some special moms, such as the mom with the youngest child, the mom with the most children in attendance, etc. When he attempted to give the award for the mom who’d traveled the farthest distance to be in service, we realized we didn’t happen to have any out-of-town mothers visiting.

As Jeff took a moment to regroup and try to figure out who should get the last basket, a lady piped up and said, “Give it to your wife, Brother Jeff. She deserves it for having to put up with you!”

Before he could comment, the entire church erupted in applause and laughter. Realizing he’d been had, my ever-the-comedian husband presented me with a beautiful basket of flowers and then he took me to Cracker Barrel for a Mother’s Day lunch with my mom.

Contact Alisa Maysey at alisamaysey@yahoo.com