On a weekend when women stand and are celebrated for that glorious mundanity which is motherhood, there are just as many sitting beside them whose hearts are sunk. The one who lost her baby this month and the other who’s logged years — not months — trying to conceive. The mama whose husband died or isn’t around to rally those troops to celebrate her and the other who has fostered children into a forever-mama’s arms but has none, yet, permanently in her home. The single woman who wonders, on this particular day, if femininity has to be tied to offspring, and the mother — adopting — who has no stretch marks, only paperwork, to show for her pursuit.
They share the bench of our pews.
On one particular Mother’s Day, I took my customary pass while Nate joined the mamas being celebrated.
The day before I’d had a few extra minutes to pop into a greenhouse boutique that held almost nothing we could afford at the time. I poked and prodded through trinkets and potted plants and gift cards — something I’d rarely done.
One pot caught my eye; it was exactly my taste. With no wiggle room to splurge, I went on with my day.
Not 24 hours later, Nate returned home from church with that very same pot, filled. A gift. My fifty-something friend, Linda, a mom of four and grandmother of three, had picked it out and packaged it just for me. She’d taken her eye off of her big day to ask Him who else needed celebrating.
Though she didn’t know this particular ache herself, she scooted close to His heart, the One who is the best gift giver.
And that day she was His detailed-reminder to me: not one of your tears is lost on me, Sara.
If we ask Him to highlight the unique pains of those around us, we might just get a chance to buy that extravagant pot. Even more, we might just get to receive a piece of the Father’s heart for us, in our giving.
(Thirteen years old, this pot still reminds me: He sees me.)