Mother's Day for Grieving Mothers

It's Mother's Day. Though originally a Western "holiday," Mother's Day is making its way around the globe. Sitting in church in Uganda on the second Sunday in May, the message was on Mother's Day. And they had a fantastic way to celebrate. Instead of giving mothers a gift (a generous and thoughtful Western tradition), the pastor asked everyone in the congregation to honor the mothers in the room. It was such a touching experience.

For many, though, Mother's Day can be difficult. I have my own struggles with painful Mother's Day memories.

A friend's post about her struggles with Mother's Day reminded me that this can be a very painful day for those among us who have carried children in our wombs and our hearts but never in our arms. Though my arms are definitely not empty, the fact that I never held this little blessing still leaves a hole in my heart. It's not a hole I speak of often, and rarely without tears. You probably won't hear me say I have thirteen children because it's too painful. But my children are quick to tell most anyone that they have five brothers and sisters in Heaven.

It makes Heaven a little sweeter, and my ache for my babies a little less sharp to think of my mama being there. For my mama to be in Heaven, though, it means she isn't here. That reality is driven home on days like Mother's Day. Looking at friends posting photos of them and their mom is a stark reminder that I will never take another picture of me and my mom. All I have are fading memories and fading photographs. They are precious, but they won't last forever.

This may be a bit melancholy for Mother's Day. After all, it's supposed to be a celebration! And yet, how many of those around us don't feel like celebrating for one reason or another. Whether an empty womb, the dashed hopes of motherhood following a miscarriage, or the lonely feeling of being motherless, not everyone feels like celebrating or being celebrated. In a sense, which seems appropriate since Easter was just a few weeks ago, we're stuck somewhere between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. It's not the raw shock of Friday, when Jesus was crucified. It's not the confusion and agony of that unexpected, unanticipated, and undesired crisis. But it's not Sunday either.

Unlike the disciples and followers of Jesus so long ago, we know what's coming. We know death has been defeated and we will not be separated forever. We grieve differently than those without Jesus because we have hope.

But we still grieve.

And we should!

Grieving is healthy and appropriate. And unforgiving. Either you grieve on your terms, or you'll grieve later, and it will never be convenient. 

What I've been thinking about, though, since Easter, is how different grief is for someone who knows Jesus. Because, you see, when we grieve, we know that we have hope! We can look forward to seeing our loved one again (if they know Jesus, too). 

For people who love Jesus, the real challenge is, we know Sunday is coming. We know that someday Jesus will wipe away every tear (Revelation 21:4), but it is not this day. Instead, we're stuck somewhere between Friday and Sunday. It's "Sorrowful Saturday." We're looking forward to the Resurrection, but we're still waiting. We have hope, but we still grieve. It hurts, we don't want to feel that pain, and few people are going to give us adequate space or place to work through the tears and heartache. Their lives go on. They forget that ours will never be the same.

For those who are grieving the loss of a child or your mother, if you know Jesus, you don't have to grieve without hope. Death is not part of God's original design. It was introduced as a consequence of the Fall. And with Death came the pain of separation and loss. Deep down inside, I think we know this is not how it's supposed to be. We struggle to reconcile that with what is. And how long we've been waiting for God to make thing the way they ought to be...

The disciples only had to wait a matter of days. We celebrate Good Friday, but Jesus was probably crucified on a Wednesday or Thursday (the day after Passover is always a Sabbath, regardless of whether it's Friday or not), and He really did spend three days and three nights in the grave (Matthew 12:40). It wasn't from Friday afternoon until Sunday morning. It took longer. And it probably felt much longer. But in the end, the followers of Jesus had to wait three days.  It's already been eight months since my mom died. More than ten years since this baby was born into Jesus' arms. More than fifteen years since my sister went to Heaven. For my friend whose grandson died unexpectedly in 2017, it's been far too long already. And we're still waiting.

 But we don't wait without hope!

And I think that's what brings me such peace today. I will see my mama again! I will hold my babies in my arms. My tears will be wiped away. And I will spend eternity with Jesus, enjoying fellowship with Him the way it was intended. 

That hope is something I can celebrate on Mother's Day, even in the midst of grieving for my mother and my child. Hopefully you, too, can rest in the hope and confidence that Sunday's coming. We're stuck somewhere in between right now, between the way things ought to have been and the way things will be once again. It's hard, it's confusing, it's painful, and I don't think anyone likes it. It can, however, drive us to our knees, where the God of all comfort (2 Cor 1:3-5) can meet us, love us, pick us up, and carry us as long as we need to be held. That is a hope worth celebrating, even through our tears.