Today was a rainy day; it’s also almost Mother’s Day. I’ve
been reading the rounds of articles about the complicated interweaving of this
secular holiday of brunches and flowers and the church (I especially liked this one). I am fortunate to worship in a place that will be celebrating the Sixth Sunday
of Easter and worshipping the risen Christ, not mothers, but still, it’s
complicated when church and culture collide.
In the spirit of truth telling, I offer a warning about sentimentalizing Mother’s Day that is, at the same
time, an offering of gratitude for a community that revealed new life.
Ten years ago on Mother’s Day, I awoke planning to head to
church where my spouse, a seminarian, was serving his internship. But I didn’t
feel right. You see, we were expecting a baby. It was Mother’s Day and in seven months, I was going to be a mother! And then, in a messy mix of pain and grief, I wasn't.
Mother’s Day has never been the same after miscarrying, even now
after being a mom to three children. I know that just because Hallmark declares
it a holiday, the day may be marked with pain, sorrow, uncertainty, anger,
grief, or guilt, or….
But that Mother’s Day ten years ago also taught me something
about the power of community and honest accompaniment in grief. I recall how these faithful people of the congregation did not shirk from the truth of miscarriage; women shared their own stories of loss, the bulletin announced plainly why we needed prayer. In my rainy day
box sits a manila folder filled with cards I have kept from this time. These cards
overflow with words of sympathy, kindness, acknowledgement, prayer and love. On
any rainy day, I can open the folder and be reminded of how these people "walked the walk," and how their words speak hope to sorrow.
Erez. That is the
name we gave to this one unborn, Hebrew for cedar (see Psalm 92). Outside the
large cathedral window of our apartment in Seattle stood a proud cedar tree. It
was under this tree that we prayed for healing in a service created and led by dear mentors
and friends. We savored fine food and drink, a gift from a dear friend during
our mourning. As that tree was rooted in the earth, so we were rooted to a
community of faith, a community that spread its branches for us when we so
needed shelter and rest.
My plea for communities of faith as Mother’s Day comes and
goes: do not sentimentalize this day or motherhood (or Father’s Day or
fatherhood). Be mindful of the layers of emotions and situations known and
unknown. And then, humbly strive to be, like that church was for me, the
compassionate hands of Christ who, all these years later, showers me with
blessings through my “rainy day box.”
