Last week I had the opportunity to sit in the back during our worship services. Typically, I sit in the front row, and am mostly unaware of anything other than my own children and working to keep them engaged in the service, but this Sunday was different.

One of the blessings of being a husband and father is that I have the opportunity to watch my wife be a mother. She is a dedicated, loving, selfless mom, and I am thankful for her. Not only does she daily provide for our three sons, she has helped me to see God's love in new ways through her mothering. What's more, I have come to understand my own mother's and grandmothers' love more deeply, and I appreciate more consciously everything my mom and grandmothers have done for me. Mothers make known the very heart of God, and we take one day out of a year specifically to recognize them, (kind of like calling a newborn baby a day old—what happened to those nine months of weight gain, hair loss, fatigue, and sacrifice, if that baby is a mere one day old?), and mothers take it in stride, thankful to receive even one note of thanks along the way.

As Mother’s Day approaches, I don’t know about you, but I am bracing myself for 1. lots and lots of chatter about what a mother looks like or should be, and 2. disappointment—in myself and my mothering skills, and/or in the way the day takes shape.

For Mother's Day this year, I have one small request.

Please, fellow mamas, stop warning me that motherhood is passing me by too quickly.

Dear Mom,

I don’t remember, but when I was young I know you cared for me. You fawned over my chubby cheeks, made funny faces to make me laugh, and held my hands as I took my first steps. You loved me.

They held up their dirty feet, clumsily resting them in my hands. My hand, draped in a white washcloth, gently moved from toe to heel and back again, removing a morning spent outside with no shoes. Giggles escaped from their mouths as I couldn’t resist the urge to tickle their toes. There I was, their mother, their teacher, washing their feet. And as I scrubbed their filthy little feet, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I am grateful for the ways motherhood has changed me, for piles of dirty laundry and a crumb-covered kitchen floor. I am grateful that motherhood points me to Jesus, a Savior who came down to live in our daily, ordinary, filthy human world. I am grateful for a Savior who knelt down and washed the feet of those beneath Him, those He came to serve.

The following post is an excerpt from Love Rules.

It seems like most of my friends are turning into their moms. (I am too.) Sometimes on Facebook, I confuse whole generations of women with each other. I do double takes when I’m scrolling through my feed. “Chelsea’s mom looks so young. Oh, wait. That is Chelsea.”