For My Struggling Friends On Mother's Day

This will be my fourth year celebrating Mother's Day.  It's not a huge deal at our house, but I have pleasant and sweet memories from the past three years - getting to sleep in, not having to cook, walks and playground time with my little family.

But I know Mother's Day isn't a simple holiday.  For many of us, it evokes not only gratitude, but also griefs and disappointments.  It calls attention to what we've been given, but also to that which is missing and that which might have been.  

I still remember five years ago, when I wasn't yet a mother.  We'd been trying for almost a year with no success, and I was certain something was wrong, that we'd never be able to have children.  CJ and I went to church that morning and I watched the mothers stand and be recognized, tears brimming, and when we left after the service, the tears just wouldn't stop.  Somehow we ended up on the roof of a parking garage in downtown Fairfax, and I sobbed.

Last year, I stood in church, ever so grateful for my Ellie girl and for the baby I'd recently learned was growing inside of me, but still missing Avaleen.  There were no tears that day, but it was bittersweet.

I think the tricky thing about Mother's Day is that many of the mothers most worthy of recognizing are the very same mothers it's hardest to honor.  Hallmark doesn't make cards for their situations.

I think of my friends who've lost babies this year, who held them for a few short moments and then had to let them go.

I think of my friend who's a single parent, who pours herself out day after day, serving her children in the face of unimaginable suffering.  

I think of my friends who long for babies, who wait and wonder and weep.

These women would probably tell you that they are weak and hurting and lonely and afraid, but this Mother's Day, I want to honor them for their faith.

It takes faith to love a baby you know you might lose.  It takes faith to stay engaged with a thankless child. It takes faith to joyfully snuggle other people's babies, even as you long for one of your own.  It takes faith to keep crawling back to Jesus' feet, even when you don't understand His ways.

Thank you, my dear friends, for living out that kind of faith.  I watch your lives, and I see Jesus.  Even if Mother's Day can't feel happy for you this year, I pray that you will taste some measure of joy in the very real presence of a God who sees, who knows, and who cares very deeply about each one of your tears.

A Letter for Rachel

I wrote this letter for the daughter of a friend, whose baby was born at 24 weeks and lived just a few short hours in her arms...she's given me permission to share it here as a tribute to her sweet baby girl.

Dear Sweet Rachel,

I never got the chance to meet you.  Few of us did.  You spent the few short hours of your life in the loving embrace of your Mommy, one of the bravest women I know.

I never even got to see you inside your Mommy’s belly, watch your growing body make her stomach swell, feel your little feet kicking against the confines of her womb.  In fact, I don’t think I've even seen your Mommy in ten or more years, since we lived in the same college dorm and worshiped together with other students in our campus fellowship.  I've seen pictures of her and your sisters and your Daddy on Facebook, and we've exchanged a few e-mails.  But I haven’t really been a part of your family’s life in any meaningful way.

I didn't know you Rachel, and I don’t really know your family all that well, but I do know a few things about you, things that I want somehow to make sure you know too. 

First, I want you to know that your life was very real.  It was real to your Mommy and Daddy and to your big sisters and to so many of us who prayed round the clock that you would be born healthy and strong.  It was real to the doctors and nurses who fought for you to live.  Most importantly, it was real to the God of the Universe, who made you and knew you in all the ways we wish we could and so many more.  Your life, as short as it was, was real, and your absence leaves a big, big hole in a family already grieving the loss of your Daddy. 

Second, I want you to know that your Mommy is an amazing woman.  Even from my distance, I can see that clearly.  She loved you, deeply and selflessly.  Even when your Daddy died suddenly, even when she found out two days later that you had spina bifida, she loved you.  In the midst of her own deep grief and the very sobering realities of your health, she took the time to tell me that she felt blessed to have been chosen by God to care for you.  She risked her own body in hopes of giving you a stronger, fuller life.  And when you came too soon, too small, too fragile, she simply held you.  She loved you Rachel.

I believe you are in Heaven now, that in ways I cannot begin to understand you know the full realities of selfless love.  But I hope you can see too that your short life on earth, spent in your Mommy’s womb and then ever-so-briefly in her arms, were a beautiful picture of what you now know in full – selfless, sacrificial love. 

When I see your Mommy, I see Jesus, and I hope that as you look at Jesus, you see a bit of your Mommy too.

I look forward to meeting you one day, Rachel. 

Love,

Abby

p.s.  If you meet a little girl named Avaleen, please give her a big hug for me.