Mother's Day Reflections

I went to church on Mother's Day this year.

During the years of our infertility journey, JB and I had a standing date on the second Sunday in May. Canoeing. We'd canoe on the cold Minnesota waters. Downstream of course as canoeing that requires paddling is totally unfun to me.

Canoeing was safe. Canoeing was a place we could avoid any flowers on blouses. We could avoid reminders of what I wasn't. We could pretend, for a moment, that the world wasn't celebrating something we wanted more than anything and couldn't attain.

I love my own mother greatly. I thank her for being patient during this time. How difficult it must have been to see your daughter grieving on a day that you, as her mother, were supposed to be celebrated. But she never complained. That's her way.

This year, we went to church on Base. And I found it . . . surprisingly . . . difficult.

They asked the mothers to stand, and I could not stand. I tried to will my body to do it as I held Elijah and glanced over at JB and Isaac. But it was as if my weight was stuck in that pew. They had the kids come up and get flowers for their mothers, and out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband hesitate before deciding to take the boys up to get me a flower. I smiled when they handed them to me -- guilt swarming me from all sides.

I felt a wave of relief when one of our Chaplains mentioned the difficulty of this day. He himself is the parent of only one daughter. One daughter after eleven years of a marriage that did not appear destined for children. He recognized that today may sting for some. He mentioned the people there who were motherless. He said something of people who had not had a good relationship with their mother -- either as children or now as adults.

But then there was a sermon on motherhood. It was a good one. I enjoyed it. I learned a lot and laughed a lot and thanked the Lord a lot that our journey saw its way to an end of sorts.

But I looked around. And I prayed that none of this was hurting anyone.

Later, I called my own mother to wish her a Happy Mother's Day. I shared the laughs of the day. These included the boys giving me a card with their handprints inside and Elijah taddling to me, "Daddy drewed on my hand!" I told them of a trip to the Base pool where Elijah giggled and told me that a certain body part (Yes, he named it!) was, "Vewy, vewy cowwwwld." We all laughed.

But I shared the pain of the day. My Dad told me how he enjoyed being able to see mothers celebrated. And I don't disagree with him. Should we not celebrate anything because it hurts someone?

I don't want to get into a debate about that here. That isn't why I am writing this post. I'm writing because my heart is torn. I spent years on "the other side." It was in fact, just a few days before my tenth married Mother's Day that Isaac John was adopted into our home. (And that year I was too tired to even think about attending church!)

I have realized that infertility has changed me forever. I am not blaming churches for celebrating mothers. Our Chapel is a wonderful place, and I am glad to be a part of its community. Motherhood is a hard job. It's exhausting. It's nice to be recognized. It was fun to receive a craft from my boys after Sunday School thanking me for being their Mommy.

But as people hugged me and told me "Happy Mother's Day," I couldn't help but feel sad. I felt sad for all those dark years that JB and I spent -- trudging through the murky waters of childlessness. And I felt sad for the people who were hurting that day and trudging like I was. Trudging and feeling like no one knew how difficult that trudging was.

I am changed. And I am glad. It isn't just Mother's Day that causes a catch in my throat. It is nearly every holiday. It is thinking of people celebrating alone. People grieving a loss. People dreaming of more. I was one of those people, and I don't think I will ever put it completely behind me.

And I'm glad for that. It has changed me. I am more sensitive. I am more aware. I am more cautious. But I am a mom. I will smile at the cards the boys make me and let the family take me out for dinner. I will attend church.

But I will share a knowing glance with a friend who is hurting while I am being celebrated. I will encourage a grieving woman with permission to stay home from church on Mother's Day. I will send an email to those I love telling them that they are on my hearts.

And I hope you will too.