LORD, let those who grieve be comforted by Your loving embrace on Mother’s Day
Another Mother’s Day without my son is this weekend. It will be my third Mother’s Day without him—or is it the fourth? I do not know. I stopped counting. I only know he is gone. It is my second Mother’s Day without my mother. It seems like I was just with them yesterday.
I did not notice grief knocking at my heart’s door Today. It sneaks up on me when I am not paying attention. Mother’s Day is another reminder that he is gone. Dodging the ads takes great effort; they come at me like a flood.
When someone asks how many children I have, I hesitate. I feel disloyal to my son if I exclude him from the land of the living. To a stranger, I will say, “Three children,” smile, and redirect the conversation to them. I will listen to their wonderful stories about their children. I am getting pretty good at holding back tears.
Sometimes I interrupt the moment with the words, “I lost a child.” Then I feel bad, as though I have planted that dreadful seed in their heart. I remember when that same dreadful seed was planted in me. It happened at my nephew’s funeral. I held my son’s hand and said, “Don’t let our children die before us.” I wonder if he understood my plea. I asked him to make good choices. Or did my words fall on deaf ears?
I am not the only mother who wishes Mother’s Day away. Some mothers isolate until the day passes like a storm. It is hard not to feel as though we are burdening others by reminding them of our loss. So instead, we avoid them. We say, “I don’t feel well Today,” or, “Thank you, but I’ll pass.” But in the depths of our souls, there is an indescribable longing. Behind the smiles lives incomprehensible pain.
We are not looking for pity. Pity belongs to those who lack empathy and compassion. Learn the language of a grieving mother. She is one of the strongest people you will ever know. Every human being will suffer loss in this world. I have a couple of coworkers who are silently grieving as well. I need to check on them. They are good friends, and unfortunately, they know this pain. They are the ones who give the tightest hugs and the purest Love. God knows, I dread Mother’s Day.
I left work early the other day. A student showed me a beautiful drawing she had made for her mother for Mother’s Day. She asked me if I had daughters. I told her yes, two grown daughters. Then she asked if I had ever wanted a son. I said nothing. Another student told her that my son had died. He is autistic; he has no filter. He cares about me dearly and never wants to hurt me. I Love how he speaks for me when I am speechless. I did not want him to see my tears, so I came home early.
I thank God for my job, because some of my greatest comfort comes from the students I serve. My autistic students are one of my greatest joys. They are my tribe.
I need to remember to call my sister Today. She is grieving our mother, too, and her husband is fighting cancer. I also need to call our younger sister, who lost her son as well. Grief is like a close relative—the one everyone dreads, yet somehow knows too well.
I am beginning to understand that every tear we shed, God grieves with us. He grieves when people die before their time because of the choices we make. He does not say, “I told you so.” Instead, He draws us to His bosom and holds us close. I am also beginning to understand the sin that brought Him into this world to save us from.
I blamed God for the death of my son. But my son died from the sins that led to his death. How ignorant I was to expect God to be codependent with our sinful nature. I wish I had known then what I know now. Perhaps I could have saved my child.
