Russian Nesting Dolls

A few weeks ago, I found myself searching for peace. I opened my cedar chest, hoping to find something, some tangible piece of comfort left to me by Grandma Shirley after her passing. As I sifted through the memories tucked away inside, my hands settled on a Russian nesting doll given to me by my mother.

I sat for a moment, turning it over in my hands before carefully opening it, one doll inside the next, each cradled within the womb of the other. As I laid them all before me, a sudden and profound realization washed over me. The symbolism struck deep.

Inside each mother is another.

As we approach Mother’s Day, this imagery has only grown more powerful in my heart. I thought of Eve, the mother of all living, named so by Adam because of her divine role in creation. I imagined our Heavenly Parents, knowing that each of Their spirit children longed for mortality, for the chance to gain a body. And in Their infinite wisdom, They created a sacred way for that to happen: through a mother.

A mother's womb is a sacred portal between heaven and earth. It is through her body, her flesh and blood, that spirits enter mortality. It is through her life force, her sacrifice, her very being, that humankind continues. And it is through her milk, her breast that life is sustained.

I once heard that when a woman carries a daughter in her womb, that daughter already holds all the eggs she will ever produce in her lifetime. Which means that, in a way, a mother carries not only her child but the beginnings of her grandchildren as well. Generations nestled within generations. Life held within life.

And now, I have watched this sacred pattern unfold before me in real time. As I said goodbye to my grandmother, my little sister stepped into the eternal sisterhood of motherhood, cradling her firstborn in her arms. I have seen life return to the veil from whence it came, and I have seen it pass through into the world anew. In this, I feel the weight of heaven touching earth.

And in the midst of it all, I look at my own children. The ones who have made me a mother. My heart swells with gratitude as I think of their laughter, their boundless energy, their tiny hands that once clung to me for dear life and now reach outward, growing, exploring, becoming. Each one of them, a piece of eternity placed in my care. Each one, a sacred gift.

Motherhood has stretched and refined me in ways I never could have imagined. It has brought me to my knees in exhaustion and lifted me to the highest peaks of joy. I have felt the Spirit whisper through the chaos of everyday life, reminding me that this work, this holy, daily, unseen labor of love, is the very heart of Heavenly Parents plan.

I am so grateful for my Heavenly Mother, for Eve, the mother of all living, for Mary, the mother of our Savior, Jesus Christ, for my Grandma Shirley, for my mother, my sisters, my aunts, my cousins, and all the women who have shaped me into the woman I am today.

But most of all, I am grateful for my children. For the ones who call me Mom. For the ones who stretch my heart and soul every single day. For the sacred privilege of carrying, birthing, and raising them. For the overwhelming love that links me with my husband and, together with our Heavenly Parents, in the divine creation of life. For bringing spirit and body into this world through my own flesh.

Motherhood is woven into the perfect plan of our Heavenly Parents. And today, I feel the wonder of it all.