Mother’s Day 2003, I held my tiny Christopher in my arms, full of delight that I was a mother and yet full of anxieties and perceived control. Phil was busy in the office all week and he was often taking trips to the US, it frequently felt as if all the practical tasks to keep this little boy alive was down to me.

Fast forward to Mother’s Day 2011. I had 5 children ages eight down to newborn. Life was still full of anxieties, but I had had to surrender much of my perceived control. Despite the challenges, here I was doing it, living the life I’d always dreamed of, but all these little people were needing a piece of me and often all at the same time! The days were still overwhelming, but they weren’t five times harder, they were just exceptionally full.

As my mind continues to play the videotape of my motherhood, I arrive at Mother’s Day 2026. My 24th Mother’s Day. This was the Mother’s Day that broke the mould, the one where I began to see the fruit of my labours.

I woke up in style with a cup of tea and when I’d showered and dressed, without a little one banging down the door, I descended the stairs for breakfast and a request from the children to be ready at 9.15am, for my presents! I’d already received a gift from my now grown up Christopher and his lovely wife and I was feeling suitably spoilt and loved, just from that, but there was more.

I opened the usual sweet cards from my littles, daffodil pictures and a selection of daffodil heads to float in a cup (they never remember to pick from the bottom of the stem!). After that Jonathan and Elizabeth brought in my gift, they’d colluded with Madeleine and Christopher and had bought me something. It was a beautifully wrapped table, jug and mug, or so it appeared.

On further inspection I began to see all might not be what it appeared. I slowly peeled back the wrapping around the ‘table’ and as I unwrapped I found beneath the superficial layers was hidden the cast iron frying pan I’d been asking for, for a while. Contained within the ‘cup’, which was perfectly made of card, were chocolates and in the ‘jug’ daffodils, with full length stems!

I genuinely teared up, not just at the presents, but at the thoughtfulness and the planning that had gone into it. My heart was so full, finally I knew they appreciated me in a way I’d never experienced before.

So much of mothering ‘littles’ is about giving. Giving our bodies, our time, our love, our everything. We don’t expect anything in return because that’s not why we do it, but one day it comes. One day we turn the corner and hidden beneath the layers of the years of raising littles, we find the prize; the knowledge that we have raised children who love and care and who, because of the grace of God, are growing up to be just the people you’d hoped they’d be when you were struggling thorough the endless ‘giving years’.

I am so blessed that I still have littles and I have yet to enjoy more Mother’s Days full of daffodil heads and egg box daffodils. But now those days will be balanced with these older children, who give me hope that my labours are not in vain. I can testify that every ounce of love we pour into our children will come back to us, for love never fails.

So to all the mums who are currently in the trenches and are feeling overwhelmed, hold on, brighter days are ahead and everything you are doing is so worth it. Just keep loving, because love never fails.

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Christmas, the season of love, joy and togetherness, for some yes, but for others it’s a time where tensions are heightened, long periods together shine a light on previously hidden problems and sometimes everything explodes. If this has been your Christmas, this year or any year, I get it, you’re seen and you’re not alone in your experiences.

For some people this Christmas is the first they have had since losing a loved one. On any normal day of the year painful memories can be pushed down and ignored, busied away, but not at Christmas. Forced joviality is the order of the day and for the benefit of others we try and hold it together, but for many they would rather be at work, they would rather be anywhere than at home with an empty seat at the table.

This post is not supposed to be depressing though, this Christmas I promise to deliver hope, wrapped in the beautiful paper of forgiveness and trust.

This year the Goldby family Christmas was wonderful, everyone got along, nearly all the time! As our children grow, and the practical work is less intense, the more joy we have in our time together, eating, playing games and eating more! It wasn’t always this way, I have known very different Christmases and that knowledge provides the contrast I need to fill me with a deep sense of gratitude for the family I now have.

I remember the first Christmas after losing Mum. Dad was short of money and so Christmas was an even stranger affair, every present felt a waste of money, better spent on food or bills. We were thankfully rescued by relatives who took us in, gave us turkey and all the trimmings and distracted us with their normality, the change was so helpful and took the pressure off Dad.

Life did move on, as it must, I wasn’t forever trapped in grief. Each year it became less strange, we all adjusted and accepted, but we never stopped missing her.

She’d have been a fabulous grandma, she’d think I was crazy having ten children, but she’d love them all so much. I do trust, although it can hurt, that this was God’s plan and in ways I will only know in Heaven, this was for the best. So I let go of what ifs and focus on the joy of today and the extraordinary family God has blessed me with.

Some years ago, not at Christmas, but a few months before, a close relative vented all her feelings at me in the most painful, accusing and destructive way. As I sat crying in front of her she continued to berate me, to tear apart my character and remind me of every flaw she thought I had. After an hour of being yelled at in a public place I left and drove home through a screen of tears, windscreen wipers on my eyes would have been helpful. I was shocked by the suddenness of her explosion and broken from the words she’d unleashed.

I don’t share all this to make you feel sorry for me, but to tell you, if you have experienced anything like this, that forgiveness is possible and this Christmas I’ve witnessed that.

After her outburst, for the next few years, I barely spoke to her, she didn’t contact me and I gave her a wide berth. Then a couple of years ago an opportunity arose to help her, and so we (Phil and I) tentatively reached out our olive branch and surprisingly she accepted our offer. It was a small gesture, but a giant leap towards reconciliation. I was still afraid of another explosion, another deluge of criticism, but Phil was with me this time and so I felt significantly less vulnerable.

Then last Christmas, by the prompting of the Holy Spirit, I visited her at her home, I had no idea how I would be received, but I knew I needed to go. She was unwell and had developed a life limiting condition, I needed to make sure she knew we were at peace once more. As I walked in the room, she looked at me and started crying and out poured a huge, heartfelt apology. Honestly, it broke me, this time in a good way!

This year we’ve made it to the next level. She can no longer use most of her muscles, so we took her Christmas lunch and after chopping it up I sat down to feed the lady who I once thought I could never see again. Only God could do that. I didn’t even think about its significance until this morning, as it didn’t even feel emotionally difficult, it just felt like a huge privilege, to be allowed back into her life, to be able to be helpful and to show her that I mean it when I say I forgive her. I believe the angels must sing when forgiveness happens, as they sang that first Christmas, when Jesus came to give us all a way to be forgiven.

I pray for each of my readers that God’s love will be made real to you and allow you to feel the fullness of the joy He has in you. Blessings to you all, this Christmas time, in the new year and always.

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Our broken bus was a surprising blessing to me last week. For 4 months our bus had been sat in the Ford garage awaiting parts, finally on Thursday morning Phil went to collect it. The excitement in the children was palpable, at last we were all going to be able to go out together. The 5 seater car they’d loaned us had helped, but it was sorely inadequate for transporting our tribe.

Phil arrived at the garage to collect the bus and the mechanic immediately came out, with a less than happy look on his face, oh no, what now? The brake light had started flashing as he had driven it out of the garage! You couldn’t make up the sorry tale of our bus, but this new revelation was the mouldy cherry on the mud pie. We were going to have to wait again. Phil explained to us the situation and, after some frustrated outbursts from the children, we accepted our fate.

Phil kindly offered to take the children to gymnastics, which left me with just Timothy. He was disappointed that he’d been left behind and so I suggested a trip to the park.

It wasn’t until we arrived at the park and I was helping three year old Timothy to climb a ladder that I had a flashback…

The last time I remembered taking just one 3 year old boy to the park, I was 17. I realised I was reliving a moment from my teen years but with the perspective of time and experience.

All those years ago I’d moved to London and was eagerly seeking employment as a nanny. I had had my place at Norland College confirmed but in the meantime I had just over a year to fill. I’d left home, A-levels and friends and had headed for the Big Smoke. After scouring the pages of ‘The Lady’ magazine, I’d come across an advertisement for a position caring for one little boy. Thankfully his mum wasn’t put off by my age and after an interview she offered me the job. I was to take a bus ride there each morning, an hour and a quarter each way, but I didn’t mind, I loved getting to know the London streets, the bus routes and of course my youthfulness meant I was afraid of nothing.

It was an awesome responsibility and a huge privilege to care for George, to arrange his day, take him on picnics and to parks, to visit the London museums and to watch his wide-eyed wonder as he took in everything we saw.

I was exhausted at the end of each day, but I knew, without a doubt, that I’d found my vocation.

I have been blessed to keep contact with the family and to hear how well George has done in life. I am so grateful to have been able to play a part in his life and in so many children’s lives, whether my own children or other people’s. Children are an enormous gift.

Perhaps more now than ever, with the perspective of time, I see the blessing they are. For that brief time in the park with Timothy, it felt like time had stood still. There I was again, encouraging a little boy to keep going, to climb higher, my job was to fill him with the confidence and security needed to do whatever he’s created to do. When we care for children, we aren’t just doing a job, we are raising a future adult, someone who can impact the world. As is often quoted, ‘Children are not a distraction from more important work. They are the most important work’.

Reflecting back on the journey God has brought me on is a powerful reminder that he had a good plan for me. Little George was the beginning of a wonderful adventure caring for so many children. I hope I always have little ones in my life, my own precious children, perhaps grandchildren or other people’s children, for they light up my world and they give purpose to my days.

These wonderful individuals mean everything to me. They are the balm that heals my heart and they bring me immense joy. I am so grateful to be able to live life with them, in all its fullness.

Recently I celebrated a significant birthday, it wasn’t my fiftieth and it wouldn’t be significant to others, but to me it was huge. I turned 48 and finally I’m older than my mum ever was. It’s been strangely liberating, as if I’m not waiting for anything anymore, as if the clock’s been reset or my future is now a blank page waiting to be written on. It’s a mixture between exciting and reflective.

As my children grow up the reality hits that they have something I didn’t have, someone to lean on, talk to, hug, a safe place. I don’t think I’ve felt like I missed out, perhaps I just shut out those voices, but gradually I am seeing what I lost, but I’m also seeing what I’ve gained. Every single time my children say they love me or when the older ones phone me or when they make cards for me or just tell me they need me, I feel how immensely privileged I am. I don’t just get to love, I get to be loved. It always makes me pause, as I don’t naturally feel significant, but I’m aware how wanted I am and I’m learning to accept the gift of love God has given me through these children and my precious husband. I never take love for granted, it’s the heartbeat of the world, it’s what we all need to thrive.

This birthday I’ve been reflecting on the legacy my mum left in me, a legacy of love and the gift of skills which I am learning came from her. She was passionate about words and writing and she was politically engaged, she enjoyed sewing, cooking and she loved children, when I reflect on all this, I make more sense, I know I came from someone. It sounds ridiculous, of course I came from someone but until recently I had no compass from which to find my origins. No one had talked much about Mum, and I had only a child’s perspective on who she was. Childhood photos and writing from her have triggered memories which I’d long buried, but which I now treasure. I now want to live the rest of my life both for her and for me. She always wanted to write a book, perhaps by writing I can honour her memory? In a way this blog is a way to honour her. Whatever I do, I want to live life fully and without regrets, to make the most of each day and to listen to the words she would say if she was here. She’d tell me go for it, to never give up and she’d tell me she loved me.

I often feel held back from fulfilling my potential by the feelings of inadequacy I carry. God knows my heart though and it was during my quiet time recently that the Lord quietened the self deprecating inner monologue long enough for me to hear the sparrows chirping outside. They’re always there but their sweet songs blend into the chaos of life. At that particular moment though, I paid attention. I immediately knew He was reminding me, I am ‘worth more than many sparrows’, Matthew 10:31. I quietly teared up as my heart was filled with the understanding that He made me for a purpose and he truly loves me. I’m still riding high on that revelation weeks later. Everyday I can say I’m His, He loves me and I am of infinite value to Him, we all are.

God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, but he also loved each one of us individually, so much that He gave His Son’s life as a ransom for ours. We are each precious to Him.

To each of my readers I say, you are loved, you are precious and you are created for a purpose. Live life fully, for each day is a gift.

Sending you all blessings, Vicki