I hate this day. A lot of people hate this day. For
many it’s because their childhood memories aren’t so great, and they can’t
stand the sight of smiling families loving on their mothers. Some feel the
personal loss of their mothers much more deeply on a day like this, where
everyone is celebrating the one person they are really missing. I hated Father’s
Day 1999 because it was my first Father’s Day without my actual father still
living. But now I think of him with fondness and appreciate those days. Some
hate this day because it brings to mind the painful reality of infertility.
For me, where do I begin? I was musing this morning on
how different a mother I might have been had I been nurtured as a young mother.
Instead, during that scary, should-be-wonderful time of my life, I was living a
life where I was not cherished or protected. I lived a lie, as if the reason my life was so hard was through some fault of my own. There was no softness in me
because it was allowed to weaken and die as survival skills and bitterness took
its place. I grew to dislike myself intensely.
When I married my second husband, I was so damaged that
it took him years to wade through my emotional pain to find the true person
inside: A person who is very loyal and very loving, who assumes everyone else is
kind and appreciative and loving until
getting kicked (sometimes literally) too many times to continue the façade. It
is in my nature to do things for those I love. I didn’t even know it was in my
nature. I thought I was useless for anything but birthing babies.
I have nothing but admiration (okay, a little jealousy
too) for those who were able to be successful parents, whether it was through
biology, adoption, or being the right kind of person for the right kind of kid
with the right kind of needs. My hat’s off to the single mothers and fathers
who were able to successfully raise awesome kids who recognize their great
sacrifices. I envy you. My heart grieves for my two youngest babies who should
have had a much better parent by the time they came around.
I have a few old friends who have recently lost a
parent, and I feel a brief connection there because I know their pain, just for
a moment. They have the loving ties with siblings and cousins, aunts and
uncles, maybe the surviving parent. Do not underestimate how powerful family
relationships can be.
My husband worries over me every year on this day. I
hate that he has to feel that way. He should be able to rejoice in the fact that
he has a great mom who somehow managed to keep a large family from unraveling. Even
after a divorce! Kids who actually seem to like to be with one another.
Mother’s Day is the day where all my own personal
failures as a mother and as a person are displayed, and salt is rubbed in those
wounds liberally. I have been chided before for expressing my feelings, but
today I read a blog post directed to women like me. Women for whom this day is
a trial. We were all given permission to hurt today and to be aware of the
wounds. To feel every word of the inevitable Mother’s Day talks in church as if
the words were arrows.
And then I will remember that there is One who truly
knows my pain. He has been there. He’s felt it even more than I. And He CHOSE to
experience the trials, the sorrows, the loss, the rejection, the hurt, the
pain. He did it for me. And you. He loves me and accepts me. He knows my past.
And my future. He is rooting for me. He knows who wins. And with that thought, I
will smile and brush away the tears that are blinding me as I type.
Tomorrow I’ll enjoy the treats my husband and our two
sweet children gave me and go to a job that I love. I’ll smile when people talk
about their kids, their grand kids (especially that one!), their aging moms and
dads. I’ll go home and nuzzle my face in the fur of the kittens we are
fostering. I’ll remember how grateful I am to have the opportunity to work with
the sweetest people at church, the under-12 crowd. They don’t know my past or
my future. They just know that I am familiar to them. They accept my crooked
smile. They know I am safe and surprise me with hugs and, “Hey, you’re in
Primary,” when they see me somewhere besides church on Sunday.
I hate this day. I don’t hate it for the same reasons
as others, but it is just a day to endure for me. My heart yearns to comfort all
other hearts aching out there. Please know someone cares.
