For Mother’s Day, our tiny church had helped me prepare something special. “A gift to celebrate the mothers in the congregation,” I explained to the small but full house of worshippers. I said a silent prayer we had enough with the 10 baskets we’d filled up with a porcelain dove, Bible verse, lotions and perfume. “Would the moms come to the altar, please?”
One by one, women rose and made their way up to me. I nervously counted heads. One, two, three… Eleven? My heart dropped. Maybe I miscounted. I hadn’t. Eleven mothers, ten gifts! “Lord,” I whispered, “we need a Mother’s Day miracle.”
I prayed a blessing over the group, but I felt awful. There’s nothing to be done, I thought as I picked up the first basket to hand it out. Someone’s going to be disappointed. I hugged each woman as I made my way down the line. “Happy Mother’s Day, Pat. Happy Mother’s Day, Rita.” With four women left, I checked the remaining baskets. Three gift packages. I handed over the next one. Two women left. I reached down to pick up the last basket—but wait! There wasn’t one gift basket but two! I presented the last mother with the gift basket that must have been hastily put together by an angel. I suppose the Lord never forgets a mother.
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