One of my lowest days was a Mother’s Day. In church alone while Thom was out of town; dodging the eyes of the children joyfully handing out roses after service. The roses were meant for Moms. Something I was not. But there’s no good way to explain to a cheerful 10-year-old why you’re refusing to accept what they assume you have a right to.
I spent the day depressed. Angry. Feeling as empty as a womb that won’t procreate. It was a pretty prevalent feeling in those days. I don’t remember exactly which Mother’s Day this was. The story was essentially the same for 4 or 5 of them. Maybe more.
It’s an ache so near the surface that even as this will be my 8th Mother’s Day since my boy made me a Mom, I can’t help but hold a little closer to heaven the women for whom this may be their lowest day.
Those who long for babies who have never been born.
Those who cry for children gone too soon.
Those whose Mothers have passed.
Those who hold sorrow for broken relationships with their Moms.
For all those who feel unloved, unfilled, unworthy, un-everything.
You’re not alone.