Three years ago I got a positive pregnancy test on Mother's Day.
I was stunned. I'm not going to lie- I'm the sentimental type. The symbolism of finding out I would be a mother again on Mother's Day pushed my emotional response into hyperdrive. I was excited.
Best Mother's Day gift ever.
A few weeks later, I miscarried.
I couldn't believe it. I'm sure a little piece of my heart fell out that day. I haven't been able to find it since.
Sure, my life looks pretty normal now.
But something's different.
There are certain things someone will say at a dinner party or a church function, and Trevor and I can communicate with each other with just our eyes. Sometimes I feel like he's the only one who has an idea of the feeling of loss I'm experiencing.
The dull aching doesn't really go away, but every once in a while something will come along that reveals a rawness to the wound you thought was long gone.
Kind of like those crazy contractions you have hours after having a baby. You think to yourself, "whoa. I thought I was done with this!"
But the reality is, you're never really quite done.
Being a mother is difficult and painful.
Not being able to be a mother is difficult and painful.
Being a mother, but not being able to have more kids when you want to is difficult and painful. Everyone tells you "at least you got to have a child." or "Be grateful for what you have."
Losing a child before they lose you... I can't even imagine the pain.
Losing your mom is heartbreaking.
Wishing your mom was able to show you love and acceptance instead of hateful words and the back of her hand is painful.
Having the kid you were never sure you wanted and now are overwhelmed with the responsibility is painful. And lonely.
Are we seeing a trend here?
Motherhood and the lack thereof are painful experiences.
Yet, there is always hope. Always.
There is always room for joy.
In Romans chapter twelve, Paul tells us to rejoice with those who are rejoicing and weep with those who weep.
I like everything to make sense within my neatly drawn parameters, but that doesn't happen with celebration and sorrow.
It's not one or the other.
It's both.
How do we rejoice and weep together?
We realize that there's beauty in pain, and sometimes a little pain in rejoicing.
I know. I sound crazy.
The only reason I try to talk about this is because I've lived it. I've experienced it.
It's messy, and ugly, and gorgeous, and exhausting, and exhilarating.
It's life.
Mother's Day is ugly to me, because I am reminded of the missing piece of my heart. The hole is so tangibly there.
Mother's Day is beautiful to me, because I have the most incredible children to be grateful for. I have a mom who loves me. Who believes in me.
More than any other holiday, this one looks the most like how I feel most of the time: beautifully broken.
So, can we just agree to widen the nets on Mother's Day?
Can we make room for the pain and the beauty: the hope deferred, the overwhelming gratitude?
The depth that comes from the darkest moments can not be replicated.
Let's embrace the mess that is life.
Let's rejoice with those who are celebrating, and weep with those who are mourning.
I know that come tomorrow, I'll be doing a little of both.
