Mother Ducks

Mother ducks. I don’t know much about them… but what I’ve learned today has marked me. Do you know what their nests are made of? Feathers. Not just feathers coming loose and falling to the ground. Not stray feathers. Feathers plucked fresh and warm from the breast. Building their nest requires selfless sacrifice. One pluck at a time, mother duck creates a tender home for her young.

So, where are my feathers? As my son calls out, “Wanna play toys wis me, Mom?” do I pluck from my breast or toss a trampled feather at him hoping to satiate his longing? And when my daughter urges, “Will you paint with me, Mommy?” how often do I stay seated with her? How often do I work on my own agenda and ignore this nest I’m charged with tending? Uugghhh… Conviction. Too many times have I offered my little people used up, cold plumes. Their desire is for the warmth and comfort that can only come from soft, unsullied feathers plucked from this mother’s breast.

“Mom, can we go for a walk?” Pluck.

“Mom, will you play tractors wis me?” Pluck.

“Can we have pancakes for breakfast?” Pluck. (Trust me, when they are made from scratch, it counts as a pluck!)

How will my children remember the nest I am building for them? Love given with joyful sacrifice? Or scraps thrown at them at my own convenience?

– Shelby Rawson


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