My mum was the only woman, the only 70-ish-year-old, at her priesting ceremony this month. Her training involves several years of retreats, essays, seminars, and her first baptisms, funerals, weddings. This led me to reflect on the impact she has had on my life this far.

Mum stayed home a lot during her third pregnancy so she didn’t lose me. I can taste her indignation when I was kept off school for delayed hospital checkups yet again. I can see her ripping up my rejection letters for university: I got to Cambridge eventually. She was already driving over when I called to say I’d been dumped. You are so pretty she reassured me.

Mum is a trailblazer. She never lived to serve her children. After school we went to her office and I acted as a first-aid casualty in half terms. She was terrifyingly efficient. I’ve inherited her passion for lists.

We grew up in a strict evangelical church. Mum made a repeated point of asserting her independence and was told off by the elders for buying a plant without asking my dad first.

My dad adored my mum and had her back throughout the ups and downs of family life. He only wanted her to lay next to him when he died. It’s not surprising he called himself a feminist.

And now?

Mum was worried I wouldn’t cope with a second child. But she stands, arms outstretched, saying I love you this much, for my daughter to run towards her.

Now, we three have our very own reverend mother and we could not be more proud.