If You're Dreading Mother's Day

It's less than three weeks away, but you probably already know that if you're dreading it. I always seem to have one eye to the calendar, bracing myself for what's to come. As time has passed I've grown more comfortable with the thought of holding both joy and sorrow together in the everyday moments of life. Not always fighting for joy when it's sorrowful, but at times, acknowledging that sorrow isn't ignored when there's joy.

Some of us dread Mother's Day because we miss our moms. Some of us because we miss our children. Some of us because our arms and homes are emptier than we ever thought they'd be right about now. And some of us because the weight of the world feels so heavy - for any number of reasons that you might be experiencing right now.

I was looking back through old blog post drafts, which is a journal of sorts for me in my early days of grief, and I was looking at how many years in a row I've had words to share on Mother's Day that just felt too painful for me right then to post publicly. But some of these words are good words. Tears are in my eyes as I think about and read them because I'm almost immediately transported right back to where I was that year, that day, in my journey grieving Jacob.

But I want to give you hope, and encouragement. If your'e someone for whom Mother's Day is really hard, here's a peek into where I was just four years ago.

May 8, 2016

One day shy of 3 months since saying goodbye to Jacob.

I so long for a baby in my arms.

I've dreaded today, Mother's Day, for weeks now. And this week it hit extra strong. And to cap it off, tomorrow marks Jacob's three month birthday. Which means I'm marked with the stamp of three months from the moment I last got to hold him in my arms.

The numbness of my grief is wearing off which means that everything is really raw.  I'm feeling it so much more deeply than I thought I could... because I thought I was feeling it deeply. And I thought that it couldn't get worse.  And maybe it hasn't really, but now I'm starting to feel the depth of it all and it's simply overwhelming.

I remember the words that a wise woman who has gone before me in this journey spoke to me: God has given you the grace you need for today. He hasn't given you tomorrow's grace yet, because you don't need it. But he's given you grace for today.

It's deeper and it's overwhelming but God has given me grace for each day so far and I'm going to hold him to his promise of giving me grace for tomorrow too.

As the numbness has worn off, so have my memories started to fade.  I hate that part.

His name is spoken far less often, and my body is slowly beginning to feel more like my own.  There are so many other heartbreaking things about this stage in grief. Life is starting to "go back to normal," as if that's possible.

But I'm not who I once was.

Motherhood has exposed two extremes within me that I would imagine are true for mothers everywhere: incredible vulnerability & unrealized strength.

Suddenly I'm exposed to the ways in which I can love another person.  It's different than any other love I could have imagined.  I'm broken over my fears and I'm helpless to want to do anything to fix any problem he could have or did have.  In a heartbeat I'd want to trade my life for my son's, or at least dedicate the rest of mine to solving the problems for his.  Because I've been given the gift of experiencing pregnancy and childbirth, I've been so physically exposed and I've given my body up for another life and the mark of my post-pregnancy body is the physical reminder that even now, my body is not my own.  I can only do but so much to protect it, so much to keep an arm's length, so much to separate myself from anyone else.  But in the same way that giving up my physical self in order to be the carrier of the miracle of life that existed within my sweet baby boy, my emotional state of the depth of my love means that I no longer view the world the same way that I once did.  My heart has been opened.  It's much more vulnerable now, but it's better this way.  The beauty of this depth, the beauty of the heart of a mother, is unmatched.

And I'm brought right back into that delivery room where I remember that my strength was unrealized before that moment.  I now know the very detail that it took to endure the most painful of pains as my sweet boy was exposed to this world for the first time ever.  I was there with him emotionally, I was there with him physically, and I "walked" straight into the pain with a determination through which I normally run away.  I set my mind on the reality that each - and I mean each - mother has had to set her mind on: the only way out is through.  So we look pain in its face and we decide, at a visceral level, that we must continue.  There is only one way out.

And I say each because I see you, moms who have so longed to birth their babies but God has given you them in other ways.  Moms who long to be pregnant and endure all that it takes to bring an outcome that others seem to receive just by looking at their spouses.  Moms who are not yet married but who long to be, who long to have children, who parent others in nontraditional yet equally valuable ways.  Moms who have bravely chosen life for their babies in multiple ways as you've physically nurtured and then courageously handed them over to another.  Moms who have never gotten to see their babies face to face but who sustained those lives for a moment.

You know what it's like to look pain in its face and walk straight towards it.  And you are strong for it.  Because whether it's the pain of treatments or waiting well or mothering babies you may hand back over one day, or whether it's the pain of the birth mama on your heart mixed with the grief that you haven't housed your babies since the very second of his or her conception, you've done this, too. You are not forgotten.

There is strength in motherhood, because we've chosen to keep walking.  We see a side of ourselves that we never knew, because we never had to see it before.  And it surprises us.  It changes us.  At least, it changed me.

This high measure of strength that it takes to be a mother is so beautifully bound to the depth of vulnerability that is its byproduct as well.  You simply cannot have one without the other.

Sure, my motherhood looks a little different than most, but don't all of our journeys take slightly different turns?

I've had to make decisions for my child that no parent should ever have to make.  But I've had the privilege of spending every second of my child's life with him in the same room as me.  I've experienced the intimacy and sweetness of his first breath, and sadly, of his last.  I've journeyed through things that I pray other mothers never have to, and missed out on some of that in between stuff that makes up the most fun parts of it all. But I know that my son loved me, and in that, I find sweet mama joy.

This grief is not unlike becoming a mother.  Although my motherhood is only woven through with grief, I see the great vulnerability and the great strength that it's forming in me.

- My blog+journal, 5/8/16

For you, my sweet friend, I hope this is encouraging to you. May you recognize your vulnerability and your strength. And may you celebrate it.

You are not forgotten. I'm praying for you.

Next week my hope is to share some practical tips as you prepare for Mother's Day, no matter where you are in your journey. You may just have some friends who would feel so cared for by you acknowledging their pain and their sorrow. You may just need to pass it on to someone else because Mother's Day doesn't have to be hard for everyone - and it isn't! Praise God for that. But if you are one of the ones who is hurting this season, I hope that you will find comfort and peace knowing that you aren't alone or forgotten. You are seen and loved by the One who made you and who loves you and who weeps with you. He is here. May I be just one voice pointing you to Him.