I still hate Mother's Day

This will be a little break in my chronological ponderings just because it’s fresh in my mind. I would have written and posted this yesterday (on Mother’s Day), but I felt it would be sacrilegious and irreverent so I delayed my rantings and ponderings until today. My hope is that this will make everyone more mindful of how they celebrate…if they chose to continue to celebrate…

As a young child, I loved Mother’s Day. It was a day I spent hours preparing for by making ridiculous cards, helping Dad pick out an outfit to buy for my mom, and helping cook food that was probably barely edible. I would gather bouquets of flowers out of my mom’s garden and present them to her in either a Dixie cup or wrapped in a paper towel. She always joyously received whatever various gifts my brother and I gathered for her, even though the gift may have absolutely ruined her garden, kitchen table, or living room carpet. We would spend every Mother’s Day at our church, which my maternal grandmother also attended and then have lunch at my grandmother’s house with what seemed to be all my family. It was always a great day until…

We moved 8 hours away from my family when I was 8 years old. That was the first year I saw my mom be robbed of her joy on Mother’s Day and somehow that robbed the joy for us as well. No one except us knew it or felt it. She appeared strong, happy, and satisfied but it didn’t seem to matter how much we gave her, did for her or loved on her, joy could not be found for her on that day because she could not celebrate with her mother on that day. She still gave us heartfelt thanks. She still embraced us with loving arms. She was still the most amazing and gracious mother on that day, but she was missing her mother and we were too. It was only a foreshadowing of the pain that would come when I was 13 and my grandmother (whom I will do a post about later) went on to be with the Lord. If I thought Mother’s Day was difficult when we moved, it became heartbreaking after my grandmother died. The first Mother’s Day after my grandmother died was filled with the most obvious attempt to cheer her. My brother and I (both teenagers) had forgotten to order her a corsage so we bought some flowers at the grocery store and stayed up pretty much all night trying to make one. I know without a doubt that it was hideous. I’m sure we broke all the flower color etiquette for Mother’s Day corsages. But it brought us together and lightened her heavy heart at least for a little while. Although pleasant and “happy”, there was always pain in my mom’s eyes and voice…and that would last for years to come. She still chokes up about my grandmother on Mother’s Day…so it’s bittersweet for her and those that love her.

For me, though, Mother’s Day became a personal struggle. For nearly 10 years of married life, I watched as everyone around me had children of their own, all the while doubting that the privilege would ever be mine…and Mother’s Day was the world’s cruel and inescapable reminder. Although there were many days of heartbreak during those 10 years over not having a child, Mother’s Day was by far the hardest to stomach. On that day, my arms felt emptier, my mind questioned further, and my heart sank deeper. It was the one day of the year I didn’t want to see anyone, but as the good minister’s wife, I would put on my game face and sit while all the other women stood to be honored. As the good sister-in-law, I would give warmest wishes with a smile on my face and deep angst in my heart…

And then came my beloved little boy, Matthew. That should have cured all of my issues with Mother’s Day. After all, my day had finally come. While there was joy on that first Mother’s Day (and every one since) for me, there remained an overwhelming amount of sorrow. I now had this precious child, but I knew the deep pain felt by those who couldn’t really celebrate this day for one reason or another.

For some, Mother’s Day is a stark reminder of what they long for but do not have. For others, Mother’s Day is the realization that their mother is not a mother that deserves to be celebrated. And for still others, Mother’s Day is the piercing celebration of a person they have lost, most tragically for children and teens.  Just imagine at church the junior in high school who has recently lost her mother listening to lesson on honoring your mother or the 5th grader watching in silent agony as her class makes a Mother's Day present.  Why would we do this to those precious, hurting children?  Why would we do this to anyone?

During my walk through life, I have come alongside people from all three categories and although there is now joy for me, I weep for them. For all of these, Mother’s Day is unsalvageable. While the rest of the world celebrates, they smile but wither from within.

Early on, my distaste for all things Mother’s Day was a cynical coping mechanism to deal with my own unfulfilled longing but that is no longer the case. In the process of becoming not me, my selfish bitterness has been turned into a genuine brokenness for others.

Mother’s Day has finally ceased to be about me in the process of becoming not me…