Mother's Day Is Hard
I’ve been writing about our infertility journey for a couple of years now and sometimes I am weary of writing about sorrows. I know I will have a story to share that is full of joy and the fulfillment of our promised family. Until then, I don’t take my readers for granted that they bravely enter into my painful journey willing to consider and listen.
I also know that the pain that we go through on this earth is actually very precious to God. He doesn’t take it lightly, but is very present in all of it - it is all valuable to Him because we are valuable to Him, and He cares deeply about our hearts. I have found that writing about the darkest, hardest parts of life gives value to the journey. It is especially beautiful when we let the light of God in and allow Him to reveal things we would’ve never seen or cultivated without Him. He deserves all the credit for the beauty in our tragedy.
Mother’s Day Is Hard
Today I’m pondering Mother’s Day. It has obviously been a particularly painful day for me for the last 16 years, but it became especially difficult after my own mom passed away. At this point I was not only grieving my own childlessness, but I’ve now lost my mother and the future grandmother of my children. The pain was especially hard to bear living so far away from any family I had.
What I learned was that this is a circumstance called “compounded grief”, where multiple painful losses are impacting your heart at the same time. It is important not to diminish but to be aware of all that your heart is enduring when you are experiencing compounded grief, so that you may properly care for its needs.
I want to share with you one of the pivotal points in my grieving process. Hopefully it will give some context to what grieving can look like and thereby giving permission for yours - whatever it looks like.
A Pivotal Point in My Grief Journey
Around Mother’s Day a year and a half after my mom died, I was having some time with God when emotions about my mom began trickling to the surface. I realized that Mother’s Day was approaching, and what was a trickle led to a full on surge of tears and pain. My husband came into the room and asked what I was feeling. It caused me to have to verbalize my thoughts that would normally be kept inside. (This was actually quite helpful!) As I was blubbering random statements about what I was feeling, the emotion would clarify and increase.
I talked about the weaknesses in my relationship with my mom, and how that stole from a deeper connection with her. I cried about the walls inside of both of us that kept us from closeness. I cried about the physical pain and pain in her soul she dealt with and how it all kept her from a more full life.
Then I began to think about how free she was of all of that now that she was in heaven. Soon some deep anger started rising up. Eventually, I started sensing signs that I was heading in the “acceptance” phase of grief. I did not want to accept it. Accepting her death would mean I was getting farther away from when she was alive, that I was “moving on.”
Holding On to Grief
It was as if I wanted to hold onto grief because I want to hold onto her. I was yelling and crying saying “I don’t want to accept it!” I think I was scaring my husband, and I started thinking about my perception of cultures that wail and loudly cry at funerals. I have always thought they were incredibly dramatic. I was starting to see that my own culture may be incredibly reserved when it comes to the emotions surrounding death and loss. We don’t let out any of what’s inside until it comes out passive aggressively and in the form of anxiety and depression and other problems - we have a lot to learn when it comes to processing our pain. For more on Processing Pain click here.
“She should be with me ALWAYS!”
But back in this moment, I felt deep emotions finally finding a voice. I found myself yelling out, “She should be with me ALWAYS!” Right then the Lord spoke to my spirit and said, “She will be with you always.”
Suddenly I had a fresh understanding of this brief life we live in comparison to all of eternity, and I could see a vague picture of my mom and I together in eternity in heaven with the Lord. My crying and yelling immediately stopped as I remembered scriptures about this life being like a blink of an eye or like a breath.
Something was birthed inside of me in that moment, like an assurance in the eternal connection that my mom and I will have. The truth is there was never meant to be separation in God’s original plan. Sin and death and our choice in the matter caused that. But Jesus made a way for us to live forever with Him and all of His people that choose Him. This was the moment I not only crossed into the “acceptance phase” of grief but I also was marked by the Comfort of God, knowing I will see my mom again and be with her always. For more on how to receive Comfort from God click here.
God Restores Everything
The reality of restoration is not only true when we lose those who believe in Jesus. God is in the business of redeeming and restoring all things lost. Somehow, in some way, He will take your sorrow, your pain, your infertility journey and bring about something beautiful on this earth and finally in eternity. You can count on a good God who will redeem and restore what has been stolen in this life.
I’ll leave you with these Bible gold nuggets:
For it pleased the Father that in Him all the fullness should dwell, and by Him to reconcile all things to Himself, by Him, whether things on earth or things in heaven, having made peace through the blood of His cross. Colossians 1:19, 20 (NKJV)
Mother’s Day is hard this year - for many of us, it is hard every year. It can be a painful reminder of all we’ve lost, or all we’ve never had. For me and for countless women like me, it’s both.
But that’s not the whole story. In the midst of our pain, God meets us. His comfort and His faithfulness are available every single day: even this one. And His promises of restoration are reliable and true. I pray that this Mother’s Day (and every day!) you find yourself resting in His love.