Despite what radical, second-wave feminism espouses, a woman can have no more lasting effect on the future, than through her children.
She can have no more illustrious legacy than the one she leaves in the hearts and minds of her children.
And, she can have no more immortal love than that which is seen through her children’s eyes.
Do not be deceived – through the love of a good Christian man (who is the product of a good Christian mother) – motherhood is truly the highest, and most rewarding, calling a woman can aspire to.
Contrary to radical, second-wave feminism’s assertions, a woman can undertake no more influential role on earth, than that of a loving mother. And this is because, unlike an employer, her children and grandchildren will never forget her influence on their lives and they will continue to love, and recall, her, well beyond her death.
Do not deny yourself the experience of becoming a happily married Christian mother, while wasting your short life in pursuit of a pointless feminist lifestyle, based on an irrelevant “career” because I can assure you, it will end badly.
Instead, follow the path to a Christian marriage, and motherhood. The path that God has intended for you all along. Only then will you find the legacy of love, joy and happiness that He has planned for you.
You, and your children, deserve no less.
Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh expresses this legacy (the one that a loving Christian mother leaves to her children) in the following poem.
In Memory Of My Mother
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happily
Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday –
You meet me and you say:
‘Don’t forget to see about the cattle – ‘
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life –
And I see us meeting at the end of a town
On a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is a harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us – eternally.