For those who cry the second Sunday of May

She meant well enough, the woman stretching next to me after my work Friday morning.  She meant very well, in fact.  How was she to know that her innocent enough inquiry was my least favorite question, the one that would pierce my heart as she asked: 

"How many children do you have?”  

It's the question that makes my body start to sweat and my heart skip a beat.  And in that fraction of an un-beating second, my brain and heart begin to battle, trying to carefully calculate my answer.  Do I give the answer they’re looking for – the number of children the world sees, those three children living in my home, whose names are spoken by many on a daily basis?  Or do I give the answer my gut cries out – the number of children seen by my heart, those additional three children residing in heaven, whose names are heard only by our family?  If I say six, will they ask for ages and details?  In which case, do I have the strength today to answer without crying; do I have the strength today to be vulnerable enough to let myself cry?  

In that split-second, that can feel like hours, I wrestle with how much of my story I will share.

For you see, my story is one of grief and loss.  But, unfortunately, like too many others, it is a story of an invisible loss, of suffering from an invisible grief.

My husband and I lost our first child to miscarriage over 7 years ago.  Since that time, we have been blessed with three beautiful children with whom we share our home.  Three lives bookmarked by two more miscarriages, suffered this past year.  Though only twelve, eleven and five week along in our pregnancies, each loss felt as if an entire lifetime had been stolen from me, forcing me into a journey physically, emotionally and spiritually that I could never have been prepared for, even after having experienced it before.  And along that journey, a hurricane of emotions follows – ranging day-to-day and sometimes second-to-second from sadness, to anger, to confusion, to peace, to guilt, to jealousy, to doubt, to faith...and back again.  It is a storm that leaves a path of devastation unparalleled to Hurricane Katrina, where nothing seems to be left untouched, unchanged.  For better or for worse, I am changed because of the lives I carried within me, the lives I have said good-bye to before they’d even begun.  

As a friend of mine once put it, “There's a void that remains from being so close to a miracle that you are touched and transformed by it even as it slips away.”

And while the tiny lives of our un-held babies have slipped away from us, the love and connection I feel for them has not.  They are still my children.  I am still their mother.  

And it is that very fact that makes this weekend a difficult one for me.  

Despite the special holiday supposedly meant to honor me, it is a day in which the void feels even greater.  Although I still find such joy in my little man, my Beanie and my curly-headed monster, although I still feel such gratitude for them as they bring me the only breakfast they know how to make (buttered toast) in bed and homemade pictures, although I still feel love in abundance on Mother's Day, I also feel the ever-present hole of those babies who I didn't get to know well enough to give nicknames, whose finger prints aren't in the butter, whose love I never fully got to share.  

The second Sunday of May becomes a well-meaning day that also pierces my heart.  

The stores are stocked with glitter-spackled, pop-up, singing, poetic and humorous cards of all kinds, with salutations to every proper noun imaginable - Mom, Momma, Mommy, Mother, Grandma, Nana, Grandmother, Godmother, Aunt, Sister, Friend...  You name it!  And each one designed to bring joy and love to any woman lucky enough to open it.   

But what about the women whose love perhaps takes a different form, whose joy is overshadowed by difficulty?  What about those who don't fit the flowerly Hallmark mold on the shelves?  What about the women who wrestle with non-glittery emotions this day?   

My own difficulty each Mother's Day, as I wrestle with the tension between the joy of those children I have been invited to keep and the loss of those who are now in GOD's keeping, has me very aware that this day can be much more difficult than the greeting card companies would have us believe.  It has me aware of the many other women out there like myself whose hearts are pierced a little (extra) each second Sunday of May.  

And so today, I am thinking of them: 

I am thinking of the women who have lost babies.  Those who wrestle with the life they didn't get to keep.

I am thinking of the women who have lost children at any age.  Those who wrestle with having outlived the life they brought forth. 

I am thinking of the women who don't have children.  Those wrestling with infertility or the search for their partner in parenting. 

I am thinking of the women who have given up their babies.  Those who wrestle with the love that led them to adoption, and the hearts that still wonder what if.

I am thinking of the women (and men) who have lost their mothers.  Those young and old who wrestle with the longing to be able to give a card, or a hug, one more May. 

I am thinking of the women in hospital rooms and war zones.  Those who wrestle against the odds, trying to find the strength to fight for their child's health or safety.  

I am thinking of the women who raise their children on their own.  Those who wrestle with the incredible challenges of parenting without the support they need, or once had.

I am thinking of the women who are separated from their children.  Those who wrestle with the distance - physically or relationally - keeping them from being with their children this day.   

I am thinking of the women who are called "Step."  Those who wrestle with what their place is.

I am thinking of the women who are expecting.  Those who wrestle with questions and fear and an unknown they cannot possible be prepared for.  

I am thinking of the women (and men, girls and boys) who have not had the mothers they need.  Those who wrestle with a past of let-downs or a presence of hurt from those they should be loved by the most.    

I am thinking of those women who are struggling.  Those who wrestle with questions of their own abilities amidst the daily challenges of parenting. 

I am thinking of the women whose dreams for their family have been ripped away by violence, displacement, poverty, oppression.  Those who wrestle with being able to provide for their children, who cannot even fathom the sparkling necklaces and perfect bouquets on TV.  

I am thinking of all the women who cry this second Sunday of May.  

It's an innocent enough inquiry.  I hear it all the time from clerks at the store, parishioners at church, old high school classmates, perfect strangers and long-lost relatives. 

But at this time of year, where all our attention is turned towards mothering, and those seemingly simple inquiries tend to multiple - "Do you have children?"  "How many children do you have?" "Do you have big plans for Mother's Day?" - I am reminded that it is not so simple for everyone.  

So for all those who wrestle with the tension of joy and pain this Mother's Day, and for all those for whom a pierced heart is the only thing they are given this second Sunday of May, I am thinking of you.  

You are in my prayers today, no questions asked!