I can see you, bracing yourself for Sunday, and the pain it might hold.
I know, because I’ve stood there too.
There’s a little person, who should be calling you, “Mama.” Bringing you handmade cards, buttercups from the yard, and sticky kisses.
But instead, they’re wrapped safely in the arms of a loving Savior.
Should I celebrate Sunday?
Should I stand in the service when they recognize the mothers?
I guess I don’t count.
I’ve never mothered my babies, or I wasn’t able to mother them long.
Sunday is supposed to be a day of such hope, but I feel dread. And I feel guilty, because there are so many wonderful mothers who deserve to be celebrated.
But my empty arms ache.
The negative tests, that I’ve dug through the trash to triple check, just in case that second line popped up, they all testify against me.
“You’re not a mother.”
Oh, dear one.
You are more of a mother than most will ever understand. You have loved. You have nurtured your little one for as long as you carried them. And now you carry them with you, in your heart, while they are safe in His arms.
You have loved, and given back to Jesus.
You have wept, and screamed, and wondered “why?” But at the end of the day, you’ve come back to His feet, because when you’re close to him, you’re close to the little ones you’ve entrusted into his arms.
You count.
You are a mother.
And it is my prayer that you will be one again.
If you go through this weekend, and no one remembers you, and you don’t hear, “Happy Mother’s Day.”
Let me tell you now, “Happy Mother’s Day, to one who deserves to hear it most. May the Lord bless you and keep you, and cause his face to shine upon you.”
There’s a host of little ones in heaven, waving on the other side, because Jesus told them that it was Mother’s Day, and they’re so proud that you’re the one they get to celebrate.
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