I think last year was the first year that I realized the "hard" of Mother's Day.
As a child, growing up in Haiti, we actually celebrated Mother's Day twice -- once on the American Mother's Day, celebrating my mom, and then a couple of weeks later on the Haitian Mother's Day celebrating the women of the nation. On that day we would adorn cloth or felt flowers, pinned onto our carefully chosen dresses. We always wore red, signifying that our mom was alive. It was a bit of a highlight as a child. Any excuse to wear flowers, real or otherwise, found me gleeful!
As I moved on into my college and adult years, I found myself away from my mother on most Mother's Days, and while it was never fun or easy to be away from each other, we adapted and adjusted, sending cards or emails, phoning or Skyping or Facebooking, depending on the technology of that year.
When I moved to Africa, Mother's Day was a special treat then too. The church made a really big deal about it, having the children give out chocolates to all of the ladies. We would also honor our pastor's wife as the mother of the church, and as I was the children's coordinator at our campus, the children and the volunteers would give me treats and cards making me feel so special to be a weekly part of their lives.
And then we took an indefinite sabbatical, and I found myself on Mother's Day last year feeling the full weight of my loss and separation from my own mother, from the children and teens and women I had mentored, and from the status quo of having my own biological children, especially given my over-30 age bracket.
So, last year, I hibernated and found others, throughout the blogging world, who were battling with this day like me. I read their stories and wept for them and for myself. And then I wrote this post about how
sometimes Mother's Day isn't easy, sharing their stories with you.
With that surprise emotional attack last year, this year, I decided to be prepared, contemplating my hibernation, avoiding any conversations, blogs, or stories that might bring the sting of loss to the surface, and planning an possible get-together with friends who also walk the same lonely road.
And then I read my friend Annie's post,
On Wombs and Women's Work.
I almost did not read it, truthfully, because I was on a mission to protect my mind and heart and soul from "going there," to that ugly place. If determination could shield me, I was armed to the teeth, ready to hunker down and wait out the impending storm threatening me outside of my shelter. But as she is one of my dearest besties and has my heart, I craved her words, her wisdom, her sentiments... and dove in the post until I came across these words, stopping me in my tracks...
I think about this business of babies and birthing, and how all of it starts in the first place. A mother becomes what she is because of her willingness to let a miracle grow and expand and exist within her.
At best it begins with love and vulnerability, and it grows, day by day, in womb swelling to make room for new life. We are enlarged and able to sustain wild, beautiful life growing because of a miracle conceived in vulnerability. (Even in adoption, this rings true.)
My guard descended, and I cannot help but wonder if maybe she was even thinking of me, reminding me that I am not a forgotten soldier abandoned on the battlefield.
You see, I, too, am a mother.
Maybe not in the obvious ways, with physical stretch marks and a memorable birthing story, yet I wear the lines of expansion on my heart, in the recesses of my soul, where no one but me and Jesus can see. Because after all, He is the one stretching me to love children not my own, to surrender myself to love those who may never wear my last name, to give selflessly to as-of-yet nameless faces who will never have my eyes or my husband's smile, and to have relentless faith that He will fulfill His promises to me of one day delivering my own biological child{ren} into this world.
And the swellling hurts.
A LOT.
I often wonder if it is worth it...
And yet...
...I press on.
That is what a mother does, right?
Vulnerable, scared, petrified of what is coming, yet hopeful that God will some how, some way break through the barriers, giving us the strength to bring forth Hope with skin on into our awaiting arms and hearts.
And I know I am not alone.
Maybe you, too, have felt the sting of Mother's Day without a child to hold, a little voice calling you Mama. With an ache that transcends words, a sorrow that seems to cave in on you.
Can I tell you how precious you are, childless mother? Can I remind you that your mother's heart transcends the natural here and now? Can I breathe hope into your bones {and mine} that God is stretching and pulling and shaping you on the inside to hold a promise in your hands that will surprise the world?
May I just love on you until you know deep, deep down in your soul that you are not alone, not forgotten, not abandoned by the Father....and by me? May I offer you grace in the questions, in the thrashing, in the moments where you cannot go on? May I gently give you a piece of His strength in the midst of your storms?
Isaiah 54:1-3
“Sing, O childless woman,
you who have never given birth!
Break into loud and joyful song,
O Jerusalem,
you who have never been in labor.
For the desolate woman
now has more children
than the woman
who lives with her husband,”
says the Lord.
“Enlarge your house;
build an addition.
Spread out your home,
and spare no expense!
For you will soon
be bursting at the seams.
Your descendants will occupy
other nations
and resettle the ruin."
(click HERE to read the whole chapter...it kinda ROCKS!)
Will you share your story, your hope, your promise from the Lord with me? I would love to stand together with you as we believe in the God who holds our future.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
But when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.
