This particular Mother’s Day is perfect. This is not a sad Mother’s Day. Twenty years ago, Mother’s Day was far from perfect. Fifteen years ago, it was difficult. Ten years ago—you get the idea.
This morning, as I considered the pros and cons of leaving a warm bed, my daughter slid a handmade card under the door. Coffee appeared like magic, as did a breakfast I didn’t prepare. Loving hands wrapped me in a cozy robe and ushered me toward the front door.
Now, I sit on our padded porch swing, early afternoon sunshine warming my face. My snoozing German Shepherd snuggles closer. Hummingbirds zip around me, bees bumble by and the baby birds in our basketball goal scream for lunch. Sorry, Mama Bird. You’re still on duty.
A Sad Mother’s Day Update
What a difference a decade—or two—can make.
Sometime in my twenties, Mother’s Day morphed into a heartbreaking, heart-aching day. Each year, as children failed to arrive, the pain compounded.
I helped arrange baby showers for other women. Friends announced pending adoptions and showed off baby bumps.
Dreams of adoption dissipated like fog in the dawn as every promising path ended. Lupus eliminated the possibility of biological children.
Well-meaning friends proclaimed, “When God closes a door, He opens a window.” But God did not close doors. Not for me. He slammed every trapdoor, window, and skylight right on my fingers. For years.
Supportive, naïve friends sent Mother’s Day cards. “It takes a village” sentiments convinced me no one understood.
I appreciated their intent. Most of the time, playing “auntie” or “extra mom” to my friends’ children filled the empty places in my heart. But as a decade passed, those caverns expanded. Convinced my children already waited, I scoured adoption sites.
Mother’s Day Healing
And on another sad Mother’s Day ten years ago, after a decade of searching, I found no peace.
Why did Mother’s Day have to be on Sunday? I’d never wanted to flee a church service so much in my life.
Everywhere I turned, mothers rejoiced over young darlings. Blurry visions of my own imagined children danced just beyond my reach. Like a modern-day Hannah, I couldn’t understand why God ignored my pleas.
Small girls flounced through the sanctuary handing carnations to the blessed women. I slipped out into the hall and checked the restroom. No empty stalls. Couldn’t hide there.
“Happy Mother’s Day.” A chirpy voice rang out behind me.
Then, I headed for a classroom.
“Hey. I’m talkin’ to you.”
I turned.
A tiny boy rocketed toward me. “Did you hear me? Happy Mother’s Day.”
He launched. I caught him mid-leap, and he wrapped his arms around my neck. Tears filled my eyes. Doggone allergies. He squeezed me tight, grinned, and skipped off.
In a single moment, that kid saved my Mother’s Day.
Mother’s Day Vision
He was like a message from God. “I see you. You’re not alone. You’re making a difference. Don’t despair.”
The pain didn’t disappear. My day didn’t fill with rainbows. But God reminded me that He could see something I couldn’t: the end result. My job was to be faithful where He placed me.
A month later, we met the kids who would become our kids.
My decade of pain had purpose. If I had birthed biological children or had managed to wriggle through one of those slamming skylights, our home wouldn’t have been available for the kids who needed us.
The kids we adopted.
A second decade separated the painful Mother’s Day from my Porch Swing Mother’s Day. Even years after the kids arrived, Mother’s Day remained difficult. We couldn’t conceive the trauma we embraced the day we welcomed those two hurting kiddos into our home.
Mother’s Day Redemption
Twenty years of pain and love built this beautiful Mother’s Day.
My girl just handed me a plate. “Hungry? Here. What are you writing? This is way better than those early Mother’s Days with us, right?” She sauntered away, laughing.
The story doesn’t always end on a porch swing, nor with a teenager who delivers grilled cheese sandwiches and jokes about the horrors of trauma. Maybe you’re still waiting for a porch swing. Also, you might be in the why-is-this-stupid-door-stillstuck-shut stage. Or the can-I-at-least-get-a-hint-things-will-get-better stage. Maybe you believe your opportunities have already dissolved.
God sees you. He hasn’t forgotten you. You’re not alone. You’re making a difference now.
Hard as this is to consider, maybe our future doesn’t include the things we desire. Our future might be filled with difficulties we can’t imagine. But if we believe God is good, we have to believe that His plan for us is better than a plan we create for ourselves.
Mother’s Day Focus
In John 10:10, Jesus says He came to give us life. ABUNDANT life. This Mother’s Day defines “abundant.” And looking back over two decades, I see abundant life shining through the pain. Sometimes God’s idea of abundance is different from ours, but His ideas are always better.
Maybe the outcome won’t include a porch swing. Or maybe it will. Maybe heartbreak will continue for another decade. Or maybe it won’t. Regardless of God’s plan, we believe His promise of abundant life.
Many women who don’t have children spend mostly-unnoticed hours caring for others. Let’s pay attention. Search out those ladies. Give a hug, squeeze a hand, send a card.
Has someone dedicated time to your children? Make sure THEY thank her.
If you are that lovely woman who wishes for children and endures another sad Mother’s Day, I understand the depth of your pain, and my heart is with you. Thank you for everything you do. God sees you. He hears you. You’re not alone. Not ever.
