“For behold, the days are coming in which they shall say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the breasts which did not suckle” Luke 23:29
I’m not sure that those words were really meant to be comforting. But regardless, the days to which Jesus referred aren’t here yet, at least not in my immediate circles. The Anabaptist people still value marriages and children and having babies. And that is a good thing. But sometimes, like today, it hurts, too.
Today, I am childless and single on Mothers’ Day weekend. I spent the whole day trying not to lose my temper at another woman’s rambunctious child as I cared for him. Tomorrow I will honor other mothers and grandmothers, including my own. I will smile at other people’s children, and be grateful they are part of my life, and I will try not to let them see my tears.
I’m aching deeply for things that, as I’ve somehow concluded in the inmost depths of my soul, I must not deserve. To conceive, to carry, to bear, a child of my own. I didn’t used to care, but now I do. Healing does that sometimes, allowing what was numb, or dead, to come painfully alive.
So many of my friends share their children and I love that; they make life so much better and I’m deeply grateful for each one (even on days like today when nothing seemed to go right!). I feel selfish for wanting. Wanting children that I bore and birthed. Wanting children who are the offspring of a husband whom I love.
Whenever I even dare to begin to think about these longings, a little accusing voice pipes up to tell me that if I REALLY loved children, I would become a foster or adoptive mom. Because after all, I have several amazing single friends who have done this, and the time I spend supporting them are some of the best spent hours of my life. But I know full well that while I love to support my friends in their calling to give a home and a mother to the rejected and the broken, I would not do well myself as a single mom. And the grief doubles, because I am both single and childless, and “fixing” that isn’t up to me.
On my way home from work today, I sat at a traffic light with unwiped tears drying on my cheeks and watched in the rearview mirror as the smiling couple in the vehicle behind me enjoyed a happy conversation. The light turned green and my eyes were so filled with tears that I almost didn’t see it.
I wasn’t going to share any of these thoughts or allow anyone to know about the pain. But in that moment at the light, with tears coming quick, I realized that one of the hardest parts is feeling alone in the grief and the longing. And while your story is probably different, there are so many women (and men) who swallow silent grief during the celebrations. So this is for you, the one who is dreading tomorrow, and feeling overlooked, or left out, or thinking that it shouldn’t still hurt, or wondering why the deep ache when there is so much to be thankful for. Whatever your situation, whatever it is that makes Mother’s Day hard this year, this is for you, to say that I care, and your tears matter to God.
I don’t have any sort of pat answers. Actually, I don’t have any answers at all.
Except this. Honesty is the first requisite for healing.
I choose courage. Choose to face the harsh reality of what is and what cannot ever be (like having a child in my twenties—that is forever past). I choose to face and name the grief of all that is lost, and to allow the tears to begin the healing process.
Wherever you are, I invite you to join me in that commitment. Because your value and your potential are not defined by what is and what is not, but by the King, who keeps your tears in a bottle.
