To all the mothers

–Written on Mother’s Day 2019–

To those who have decided not to have children of your own, I respect that choice. Not just in my heart but with my words. I choose not to ask you “why?” in a critical or judgmental way or tell you that you will “change your mind some day.” Your choice is your own. And I see and appreciate all the many active ways you are involved in bettering, growing, teaching, and nurturing the next generation. I am thankful for you. I see you.

To those who have desired or are still desiring to have children but have struggled with infertility. Whether you are in the midst of it right now, or it is years past. I know you must wrestle with so many conflicting emotions—the joy of celebrating with others as families grow, while also holding the tension of the pain it causes you. I acknowledge and allow space for you to feel both joy and deep grief at the same time. One does not diminish the other. I mourn with you. I empathize with the ache of your empty womb. I see you.

To those who have ever lost a child, whether 4 weeks in utero or 65 years of age. To those who have suffered miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss. To those who chose to give up a child for any number of reasons. You mourn the child you never got to hold or see or know or watch grow up. To all who have lost children of any age, the time we have with them is never long enough, it is never easy. It is always the worst thing imaginable. I ache with you as you grieve the irreplaceable hole, the loss of the person you loved more than you ever thought possible. I apologize for all the ways I haven’t been there for you. For misplaced words. For not allowing you the space to grieve in the way you needed. For speaking too much and not listening enough. And for a whole host of other ways I may have missed it. I ask your wisdom and your guidance for how I can walk with you as time passes. Teach me how to help shoulder your grief. To be present with you as you face each anniversary, whether it was 1 or 50 years ago. Teach me how to speak their names, to acknowledge and honor the significant existence of the ones you have lost. I see you.

To the single moms out there, whether widowed or divorced, or never married. To the intermittent single moms with spouses of careers that take them away for stretches of time. I am in awe of you and your strength and your capacity to carry an unimaginable load. What you handle on a daily basis is astounding. Many of us daily struggle to keep our heads above water while parenting in pairs. I know the loneliness you must feel, the tears you shed in secret. You sacrifice day in and day out for your children, often with little recognition or time for yourself. Teach me how to support you. Please don’t be ashamed to let others know what you need, to come alongside you. I see you.

To the empty nesters and those struggling with parenting adult children. To those wrestling with transitioning into parenting with boundaries. In this season you must learn to give your children space to make their own way in the world, even when that means allowing them to fail and make mistakes. I empathize with the fear and anxiety, because sometimes this process means watching them run far from you. To those with broken relationships with your adult children, wondering if they will ever come back. I grieve with you. I hope and pray with you for restoration. And I hope to learn to be as strong as you some day, to be able to make the tough and necessary parenting decisions. I see you.

To those raising children of any age with disabilities or mental illness. To those with neuro atypical children and to those with children struggling with illnesses, chronic and acute. My heart breaks with you as you face shifting expectations and the loss of what you had hoped this all would look like. You grieve that your children may never have a “normal” childhood or life in general. I choose to walk with you, to pursue relationship with you even when it is not easy or comfortable. I choose to raise my own children with empathy, compassion, and appreciation for the differences in all people—to come to the aid of those who are bullied and ostracized. I choose to embrace your “normal” and all that it entails. I see you.

To the stepmoms and the moms of blended families. To those fighting to integrate families of all kinds. I choose to be a safe place for you and a listening ear as you are working out how to be there for all of your children in the ways that are needed. The challenges you face and your commitment in the midst of it has not gone unnoticed. I see you.

To those with adopted children and to those who have welcomed kids in the foster care system into your arms, I am constantly inspired by you. You love with arms open wide. All of the hoops, red tape, paperwork and the ups and downs must be exhausting. I can only imagine your sleepless nights and whispered prayers as you struggle through bonding and helping children overcome potentially traumatic experiences. Your fight for unconditional love and acceptance is unmatched. And to those who have suffered failed adoptions or ever had to make the difficult choice to release a foster child from your care for any number of reasons. I mourn that loss with you as well. I see you.

To those who have lost their mothers, I grieve with you. Whether the relationship you shared with your mother was close or difficult or somewhere in between. I allow you the space to grieve all of it. To grieve what was or what you wished it could have been. I see you.

To those who have experienced abuse or trauma at the hands of your mother, I acknowledge your pain and confusion. I will be a listening ear as you process and wade through all of the emotions. The heartache and the wishing. I see you.

And of course, there are stories I have failed to acknowledge. These are the stories of people I know. But the truth is, everyone’s story of motherhood looks different. The point of this is to simply say this: I see you.

Each year on this day I notice how easy it becomes to heedlessly throw around “Happy Mother’s Days.” I said those words more times than I can count today. I am in no way cautioning us to refrain from saying that phrase or from honoring our mothers. A healthy heart says that our pain should not rob others of joy and delight. But my eyes as they were made, cannot help but see how many of us have lost the subtle art of allowing joy and sorrow to intermingle. How in our rush and hurry and over-connectedness, we have lost the art of truly seeing others.

Maybe, just maybe

if we can simply slow, pause, listen, see, sip, savor

instead of rushing, avoiding, passing, pushing, gulping;

if we allow our hearts to stretch toward

instead of over and past each other

then we can cultivate the rare and desperately needed ability

to hold the tension of both the beauty and pain

that we all experience.

We can in the same breath both genuinely wish someone joy while acknowledging the pain they have and may still be suffering. It means more time, more measured words, more presence. But we are all starving for those things. We are hastily wandering, dusty feet running circles through this desert of disconnection, with parched throats. We are desperate for time, for approval, acceptance, loyalty, to be truly known, to be cared for, and to be seen. 

And I want to be the person who is slow enough to truly see people. To not add to the hum of frenetic activity, but to be a cool and refreshing drink of water in a barren and lonely season. To give time to acknowledge another’s pain in one hand while delighting with their joy in the other. May we all learn to do the same.