A Box Outpoured: Speaking Truth to Mother's Day

I call it my “rainy day box.” My husband was once given a finely crafted solid wood rainy day box, a box to hold the kinds of things that might cheer you on a rainy day. My box isn't as finely crafted, as you can see, but it's a box all the same.

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.”