The White Rose

Deborah Venable

05/09/02

When I was a young child, I attended a Presbyterian church every Sunday. When Mother’s Day rolled around, my brother and I would don our Sunday best and Mom would pin us with a beautiful, blood red rosebud, as was the tradition in that particular church. Looking back at historical texts, the carnation has been used more often than the rose, but at our church, it was the rose. For that one Sunday, one could look around at the congregation and tell who had living mothers and whose mothers were dead. (They would be wearing a fully flowered white rose.)

My mother was disabled and had stopped attending her own Baptist church, but sent us to the Presbyterian Church a block down the road none-the-less. She and my father had been active in their church long before I was born, but rarely went afterwards. My brother and I made the dutiful trek up the road to attend Sunday School anyway to satisfy their desires for our Biblical education in our youth.

Mother would always pick a bouquet of beautiful white roses and we would take them to place on my grandmother’s grave after church on Mother’s Day. It was all symbolism and tradition and I had no idea what it all meant – not really, but now I fully understand such things.

As we see one tradition after another attacked and buried in a grave of political correctness, it is only a matter of time before Mother’s Day will sink into an abyss of misunderstanding and cultural apathy. There are many now who refuse to celebrate such a day because of the ties to the worship of pagan gods. Never mind that our current celebration of Mother’s Day in America stems from a daughter wishing to honor her mother and make it official in the country. Although others had attempted to bring a celebration honoring mothers to national attention before, the efforts of Anna Jarvis were rewarded in the early 1900s, and Mother’s Day became an official holiday in May of 1913. There were no gods and goddesses present for the occasion – only the United States Congress.

Mother’s Day has been commercialized along with everything else, and too many have become convinced that the tradition is not worth celebrating because of the obvious profits taken by those who couldn’t care less about mothers – theirs’ or anyone else’s. To them, I say, who cares if the florists and the candy shops make a huge profit? Who cares if every merchant with a brain promotes Mother’s Day gifts for weeks in advance? As long as we never lose sight of why there is a Mother’s Day in the first place, it really shouldn’t matter. Someone decided a long time ago that occasionally the idea of family values was worth promoting and thinking about on this day. What could possibly be wrong with that? I am really sick and tired of my holiday traditions being slammed and blasphemed from all sides.

Motherhood has taken it on the chin from the feminists for quite awhile now. Once the most cherished occupation, it has continued to lose honor as more and more mothers choose careers over motherhood as they prioritize their lives. “Stay at home Moms” has become a badge of honor to be worn by those who make what was once considered the logical choice to mother their own children. Now it is seen as “sacrificing” just to be a mother to your children 24 hours a day! That attitude will not bind up the nation’s wounds inflicted by the feminist agenda. What the hell do these women think they are sacrificing? They were put on earth to make choices, and they are lucky enough to be in a country that protects those choices, even the bad ones! If they choose to give birth to children, they’d better damned well mother them or the state will continue to try and mother everyone’s children!

We need this traditional holiday preserved and remembered for what it truly means. If you feel your mother did a good job, tell her so! Wear a red carnation or a rosebud on Mother’s Day if she is still alive. If she isn’t, think about her and wear a white one.

My white rose will represent a mother who always let me know that she was doing what she wanted to do. There was never a time I had to wonder if she regretted her choice to be my mother. She was wonderful lady who, thankfully, got to meet every one of her grandchildren before she died.

This one’s for you, Mom! I picked the prettiest white rose I could find. Happy Mother’s Day!

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