I came to motherhood the hard way: with years of waiting and hundreds of negative pregnancy tests and enough tears to fill an ocean nearly as large as the hole in my heart.
Sixteen years ago, we were going through our first round of testing for infertility, and I sat in church while the pastor asked all the mothers to stand on Mother’s Day. Several women chose that moment to announce their pregnancies by standing up. Gasps and clapping filled the sanctuary, but my back was rigid with a posture I can only call “don’t break now.”
It was the first of many Mother’s Days where I swallowed tears and tried not to break.
My grandmother used to call me on Mother’s Day. She adopted my dad after seven years of infertility. A few years later, she miraculously gave birth to a daughter. She knows what it’s like to long for children; for her the options in the 1950’s were more limited than mine ever were. Seventy years makes a lot of difference. She used to call me and tell me how hard Mother’s Day was when she was childless. She talked about the blessing of my dad’s adoption and my aunt’s birth. She is always, always thankful.
Still, she’d always close our conversation by saying, “But it sure is hard, isn’t it, honey?”
And I’d break.
Finally, I’d break.
_________________________
In 2008, I came to motherhood by another mom’s choice.
In 2015, it happened again, shakily.
I came to motherhood with paperwork, waiting, fear, and risk. I came to it feeling like a stand-in, like a fraud, like someone who didn’t earn her place the way everyone else did. I came withe trepidation and hope and please, Lord, please. My position as mother is firm and written into law, but Mother’s Day still always makes me feel uncertain. I know down deep that the cards and the gifts and the very title of mother aren’t owed but given, not entitled but entrusted. That’s true no matter how you get to motherhood.
In 2020, I look at the calendar and the bank account. I’m staring down the barrel at my last year in my 30’s. I listen to my kids ask for what I cannot give them, to grow in ways I can’t, to add a chair to a table I just can’t build. Once again, I am in charge of nothing. And I remember my grandmother’s thankful but honest words: “But it sure is hard, isn’t it honey?”
It is.
You can be thankful and honest about your longings at the same time.
If that’s you this Mother’s Day, you’re not alone. My grandmother would tell you it sure is hard, honey, and God sure is good. Neither of those truths cancels out the another. Life can be hard, and God can still be good. Life is hard. And God is good. I think it’s when life is hard that His goodness shines the brightest. You can long for children you’ll never hold or the one you held briefly. You can long for your mother or just a mother at all. You can long for the child you never see and the one who strayed far from you. You can long and long and long, and still believe that God is good and that He sees your longing. And He won’t waste it.
Manufactured holidays may magnify your pain, so hear me: it is hard. And God is good.
You can break now.
The Lord sees you.
___________
Photo cred: my oldest son and me, Lauren Athalia Photography, 2011
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.