Drawing Near on Mother’s Day

May 8, 2011.

My first Mother’s Day as a Hope Mom.

I had survived my birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Valentines without Gwendolyn. And “survival” is an appropriate word—these first holidays were what I call the “little deaths”; the barely-holding-back-sobs (or escaping to another room) to let out all the sadness that can’t help but be expended through tears. But Mother’s Day loomed so large, obscuring the rest of what is typically a lovely month out of the year. Thinking of all I had stored up in hope for Mother’s Day—homemade cards, sticky sweet kisses, coffee in bed, children earnestly doing chores which I would end up re-doing—all of the hope got lodged in my throat and made my heart race. Easter was the only lovely holiday during the first year after she went Home, the only one I could really celebrate without grief, because what had conquered her body had been conquered in Christ.

I’ll be honest: my first Mother’s Day as a Hope Mom was fairly horrible. The anxiety of anticipation overwhelmed me. “Avoid! Run! Hide! You are not a mom,” was what my brokenness whispered to me, telling me that I could not endure social media, the sympathetic looks, the little children running to greet their mommies after church, the “Stand up and let us honor you!” moment that I knew would come during our church service.

I tried to talk my husband out of going to church that morning. He loved me enough not to allow me to hide. We did however sneak in late, sit in the balcony, and leave before service ended. I doubt I even heard the sermon, I was so focused on how awful I was feeling. And I felt worse, not better, for slinking in and out like a thief. I felt more unseen; more bereft. Isolation is hardly the solution for a broken heart.

And what made it truly horrible was that I listened to that whisper more than the words of the Savior I knew that loved me. On all the holidays I had endured without Gwen, the Lord had sustained me and carried me through. The little deaths stung, my heart squeezed, and I wept for what I had longed to be doing with her. But in my weeping I drew near to a God that bends low to hear the cries of His children (Psalm 116:2). And He carried me during those seasons, just as He promises He would (Isaiah 46:4, Psalm 18:2).

But I had drawn a line at Mother’s Day. I was a mother with no child; don’t I deserve to have a day where I don’t have to try so hard to just put one foot in front of the other? Can’t I just have one day to fully wallow and sit in “dust and ashes” (to put a biblical spin on it). My loss is genuine and great; can’t I just sleep through the 24 hours of everyone loving their mom and moms loving their kids?

I had a wonderful community that loved me well and acknowledged me as a Mom that day. My friends gave cards and gifts and flowers. My Dad built a memorial garden for Gwendolyn in his backyard, and eight years later it’s a joy for me to stand under her name with a trellis full of flowers, life all around me.

But for that day, for my first Mother’s Day as a Hope Mom, I had chosen to harden my heart toward the sadness. I didn’t want to be tender that day. “To love is to be vulnerable,”¹ and I was so tired of feeling so vulnerable all of the time. So I hid. But my hiding didn’t keep me safe from pain; it actually held me back from receiving comfort in the midst of my pain. Attempting to barricade my heart against the sorrow kept me from God’s compassionate love toward me.

Running and hiding was also more than fear; it was rebellion against a good Father. In Isaiah 65, God makes His position clear toward His people:

“I said, “Here I am, here I am,” to a nation that was not called by my name. I spread out my hands all the day to a rebellious people, who walk in a way that is not good,” (Isaiah 65:1-2). And in the New Testament we see Jesus lamenting over the rebellion of His people: “How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” (Matthew 23:37)

God’s posture is one of reaching out, calling us, inviting us near, because He knows that His “nearness is our good” (Psalm 73:28) and that only by Him can we be healed. For no merit of ours, God has set His affection on us and draws us near through His Son, Jesus Christ. But we still have a choice—to come to Him, or to walk contrary.

What blessing did I miss on my first Mother’s Day because I chose isolation, rather than the fellowship of His Spirit and His people? I have no doubt that I would’ve had a sweeter holiday if I had softened my heart and drawn near to the Lord. Every day is sweeter when I choose humility and trust. Would Mother’s Day still have been difficult, and would I have still wept for all that I had hoped? Of course. But the ache would’ve been tempered by His comfort, just as it had been since Gwen went Home.

I’m am not sure how long it took me after that day to bend, to recognize my sin of walking my own way and attempting to carve out healing for myself apart from the Lord  Was it hours? A day? He never lets His loved ones wander for long. But I do know that His tenderness and compassion never ceases, His steadfast love never fails, and that He called to me even while I opposed Him.

The LORD, high and lifted up, promises that He dwells with those of a contrite and lowly spirit. He revives their hearts (Isaiah 57:15). Whatever holiday may be approaching without your little one that you love so dearly, I pray that you allow the LORD to revive your heart and carry you along. Come to Him, if you are weary and longing to hide away. He will be for you all that His Word promises He IS.

¹C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves