May 9th, 2021

Mother’s Day - 

Three children call me momma; I have carried four in my womb. Two girls, one boy, and one angel who dances around on streets of gold… 

I never felt so simultaneously undone and utterly complete until I became a mom… Never felt so vulnerable holding the vulnerable than when seven pounds, one ounce rested atop my chest.  Four babies in five years… I never knew the pain of infertility, but I do understand the pain of loss… 

I have journeyed alongside some whose hearts have longed like Hannah to hold a child. So desperate, and already postured to hand them back to God. Some of these women now have babies… gifts and treasures so costly words cannot tell. Yet, there are others who still long for the privilege of rocking a child of their own. 

I’ve walked along the shadowed path beside others who have birthed, rocked, yet lost the gift of their womb. To illness, accidents, trauma, and pain…

I’ve listened as still others have poured out their pain of birthing and raising a child of their own… and that child is still trying to find their way home.  Parents who stand on the porch waiting - for any flicker of hope - arms open wide.  The prodigal son parent.  And I’ve cried with the other kind, beaten down by shame… the light of hope extinguished in bitter disappointment. 

These are the messy stories nestled amongst the beautiful. These are the stories of real mothers, real aunties, real grandmas, and real guardians. 

Twenty years I’ve walked side by side with some who have raised a child, not from their womb - but another couples’ child - never sharing the same DNA.  Parents who understand that the fabric of Heavenly families is intricately woven together by a mysterious God…  Parents who loved enough to rock another’s child, when those parents could not. 

Then there are the role models - those who walk alongside our children with fierce determined grit… wildly determined to push, pull, drag, and carry our kids into the future. Never physically giving birth - but birthing the hidden potential buried deep within … These are our teachers, coaches, mentors, counselors, siblings, cousins, neighbors, friends…

I have sat in birthing rooms, coaching moms as they usher in the future - the next generation… We cried together with joy as we counted ten little fingers and ten piggy toes… We called home, overflowing with excitement, to announce the long awaited arrival of bright hope. 

Yet, I’ve sat in utter shock with others, shaking our heads in denial, as we tried to comprehend still birth… poised to overflow with excitement, yet all that flowed was grief. No bright light.

And if there’s one shred of commonality woven throughout all these stories, if there’s one strand that shines brighter amongst the dark - it is posture. A deep bowing to the understanding that life is a gift… a radiant treasure which cannot be owned or possessed. Children come and so does grace, children pass but grace does not. 

The very posture of hands-outstretched in utter surrender is the safest posture in which to live… to live freely and to be fully alive.  It positions us to both receive and return in one fluid motion.  His mysterious ways never end in anything but good. 

I’ve knelt beside one who has passed her little one through the valley in the shadow of death, knees bent, eyes fixed on God - crying out in utter disbelief, “For your glory, God…” Only to hear silence - no breath. 

I’ve sat holding the hand of another as we welcomed, not one but two miracles never believing they would survive… Knees bent, arms wide, hands outstretched - “Yours, God. Yours…” 

Yes, it’s Mother’s Day… a day to celebrate ---

But I also know it’s a day that causes many to mourn… A day that requires strength to readjust the lenses of faith (again) to posture themselves before the Cross.  

And on that Cross, as His mother stood by, 

She knelt… 

Arms wide, 

Hands outstretched, 

“Yours, God. Yours…” 

Received. 

Returned. 

At rest… 

So from one momma’s heart to each of you - blessings.