This is for everyone, not just the moms...
Mother's Day, another complicated holiday
I have a mom. I know lots of moms. I am a mom.
And it’s not easy. It’s gratifying, sometimes. It’s terrifying, sometimes. It’s fun and mind-bending, sometimes.
But it’s not easy. It’s just not easy.
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When my boys were little, one just barely 4 and the other 18 months, Big Brother was picking on Little Brother, and after telling him to knock it off a couple of times, I sent him upstairs to his room: “He’s your brother, he’s going to be your brother for a long time, it’s not okay to be mean to him! Upstairs, right now. Go to your room and think about!”
At the top step, he turned around a glared a tough-guy glare, stomped his little foot and shouted, “You’re meaner than you look!”
Yes. Yes I am. The problem is, I don’t look even a little bit mean. I’m small, and my hair’s been silver for a long time. And I’m not really good at being mean.
Now, when those wonderful grown up brothers worry about their mama, I tell them that I’m tougher than I look, and stronger.
And I am. I don’t look tough, and I don’t look strong. But I am. Sometimes.
That’s the thing; sometimes we’re strong and tough, sometimes we’re weak and broken. Often, we’re all that, all at once.
When I was growing up, I thought Mother’s Day was a sweet holiday, that one day when we appreciated Mom. Didn’t give it much thought beyond that.
In church back then, it was a common practice to recognize and honor all the mothers and grandmothers. Sometimes they’d be asked to stand, sometimes they were presented with a rose, sometimes both.
Back then, “seeing through a glass darkly”, I didn’t see the women who were hurt, or shamed, or broken-hearted as the roses were handed out.
That changed the year I began seminary. I was interning in a small church, and getting to know some of the congregants. One day, on a Tuesday after Mother’s Day, I was at the church when a women’s study group was finishing up, spilling into the hallway, chatting.
I saw one of them and asked Everything ok? I didn’t see you in your regular spot on Sunday.
She took several steps away from the rest of the group, and I saw the tears in her eyes.
Are you okay? I asked quietly.
She shook her head. I can’t do Mother’s Day. She and her husband had a 3-year old daughter, and they seemed so happy. I didn’t say anything.
She continued, in a whisper. Before Abby (not her real name), we had a baby boy, his name was Toby (also not his actual name). He was a little premature, but he was strong, we thought. Three weeks later, he died.
I’m so sorry, I said.
I’m not the only one. She identified two other women among the twenty or so down the hall from us. Her baby was stillborn, and hers - a miscarriage at 6 months. I’m sure they’re not the only ones, they’re just the ones I know.
Her pain was visible, palpable.
We talked for quite a while. She told me about growing up in a rose-on-Mother’s Day church, and she assumed our church did the same thing. So when they moved to our suburb after losing their first child, they just didn’t do church on Mother’s Day.
Mother’s Day is hard.
It’s hard for people who struggle with infertility. It’s hard for everyone who’s ever had a miscarriage. It’s hard for more people, and for more reasons, than we can imagine.
On Mother’s Day, I think of that long-ago conversation. And I think of so many others:
Consider with me the women who want to be moms, and infertility seems insurmountable. I can’t imagine the questions and sadness and all the other crushing emotions that are part of that journey.
Consider with me the women who don’t choose to be moms and end a pregnancy. I can’t imagine the loneliness and sadness and all the other crushing emotions that go into such hard decisions.
Consider with me the mothers I’ve met in domestic violence centers. I can’t imagine the fear and sadness, and all the other crushing emotions as they protect themselves and their children.
Consider with me the single mothers who do it all alone. I can’t imagine the weighty sense of responsibility and fear, and all the other crushing emotions and challenges.
Consider with me the mothers I’ve visited in prisons. I can’t imagine the sadness and shame, and the crushing emotions they carry.
Consider with me the grandmothers and aunties raising their grandchildren or nieces or nephews, in an age and stage that makes life hard enough, and now it’s harder. I can’t imagine the challenges and fears and all the crushing and exhausting realities of that.
Consider the mother I sat with when her child was in prison, and I can’t imagine the anxiety and sadness, all the crushing emotions in her heart.
I think of mothers - lots of them - who have sat through the funeral of their own child, some of them in childhood, several in their teens, and lots in adulthood. I think of my mom, losing a daughter who was almost 60, mom was 86; and Tom’s sweet mom, she was 102 when she lost her first born. I can actually imagine some of that sadness, and the crushing emotions, but my version isn’t their experience. I remember these on Mother’s Day.
*****
I love my own mom; and I know not everyone feels the same.
I absolutely understand that. I’m fortunate/blessed/lucky to have had a great relationship with my mother for my whole life. That’s simply not the case for so many people.
I think of those who wonder why their mother left, or gave them up for adoption, and the ones whose mother was present physically but not emotionally. I think of the ones whose mother was addicted, or incarcerated, or mentally fragile, or unavailable for reasons no one will ever know.
I think of those whose mothers were judgmental or the ones whose mothers disowned them when they came out, or changed political persuasions, or chose a partner or profession that wasn’t on her wishlist.
And I think about the ones who mothered us incognito, the ones we never thanked.
I think of all those mothers and grandmothers and not-mothers who have “mothered” us. They are the unseen and unsung heroes: teachers, coaches, pastors, the lunchroom lady who always called us “hon”, the librarian who didn’t watch the clock when we stayed too long, the neighbor who laughed at our goofy riddles, those mentors in our first few jobs, the ones who showed us how to walk into a room when we weren’t sure we belonged there, or to use our voice when we wondered if it mattered.
Thank God for those women.
Mother’s Day is hard, really hard, for so many.
To every one of you: I know it’s not easy.
Thank you for doing the hard things, the impossible things, the heart-breaking things, the things some of us cannot imagine. Do you know you’re amazing? Do you know how deeply I respect you?
Do you know that you, too, have taught so many of us what it looks like to choose love – even when you’re broken, or broken hearted, or literally broke? Some of you are tougher than you look, or stronger than you look. And sometimes you’re in more pain than we can see, maybe more grief than we can fathom, maybe more questions or dreams that we can imagine.
If no one else says it, if no one else tells you, know this: I honor you today. All of you.
I may not even know you, and I don’t have a rose for you, but I know you’re here among us. And you matter. And you are loved.
YOU ARE LOVED.