When Mother’s Day Hurts

At the age of twenty-seven, I stood in a church on Mother’s Day and wept. I’d been diagnosed with a condition that made it difficult to bear children, and being a mother had been the dream of my life.

Even in elementary school, my career goals always revolved around the very young. I’ve had a mama’s heart for what seems like forever, and to be told that bearing children might not be in my future was devastating. Yet the hot tears that streaked my face that day were more from comfort and hope than from the empty arms crossed over my body.

The pastor had asked all women age eighteen and up to stand. He prayed a blessing over every woman there as the congregation stood to accept the words being prayed over our lives and through our souls. Even years later, while holding my own children, I find myself reaching back to that comforting morning when a pastor recognized my worth as a creation of the Creator and not just because of my body’s ability to reproduce.

I did have a child, and then we tried for years to become pregnant again. But constant trips to the fertility doctor became too much. One day, when I voiced discouragement, my Ob-gyn replied with a condescending pat on my leg, “Don’t you want to get pregnant?” As tears flowed down my cheeks, I vowed to keep trying. Then, one day, I simply canceled an appointment and never returned.

A “biblical” counselor told me the Lord would give me another child “from your own loins” if only I would submit to my husband. Because I was used to checking off all the boxes, you can bet I did everything I could to do that. The thing is, when it came to my marriage, submission wasn’t one of my pressing issues. Feeling as if I was enough was top of the list. Believing that my body had failed my marriage and the inability to give a sibling to my daughter weighed on me like no other loss had.

After a few years, we pursued adoption. When we brought home our youngest, I was told, “You did it the easy way!” Let me just say, there isn’t anything easy about adoption. From the ache of the birthmother placing her child in our family’s life to the invasive probing into our lives, nothing about it was easy. I’m positive that the “You can always adopt” crowd includes no one who has ever pursued adoption. They’ve never lived in the reality of waiting for an opportunity, trying to prove their worthiness to adopt, only to be the family that isn’t chosen.

Of course, to this day our broken adoption still makes me catch my breath. Those sweet boys who were to be our sons lived with us for several months before the agency and circumstances determined a different plan. As we dropped them off at a respite home for their transition, a part of our family was torn away; two of our children were gone. One difference between infertility and this was the lack of acknowledgment by our faith community. It was as if our hearts didn’t have the right to be broken. We lost our sons, but the ramifications reached far beyond the abrupt cancellation of adoption. My daughters lost their siblings, and my oldest had nowhere to go with her pain. That wound can still be tender today, and it makes that one question awkward: “How many children do you have?”

Over the years I’ve let my heavy emotions lead me to the point of truth without love. As I’ve stood up for women whose hearts are broken for a multitude of reasons, I’ve allowed my pain and anger to speak loudly. At times I wish my delivery had been softer. I do wonder if that would have made a difference in trying to encourage church leaders to resist making women’s value contingent on their parental status in Mother’s Day services.

Some churches still give prizes for how many offspring a woman has brought into the world or for the newest mom, oldest mom, and so on. As if there isn’t enough competition in our hearts, they have chosen to proclaim value over some of these women while others sit nearby in their pain and suffering.

Other churches give gifts to moms as they walk out of the service. One Mother’s Day Sunday stands out as particularly hard for me. I tried to leave without participating, but I was handed a “gift.” I quietly put it back into one of the baskets so someone who desired it could enjoy the trinket. It wasn’t long before one of the helpers sent a child running after me to stuff the item in my hand. I surrendered after my “No, thank you” went ignored once again. For several years after that, we just excused ourselves from that Sunday’s service early and made our way to our favorite brunch restaurant to celebrate quietly with our children.

Several years ago, I read an article by a single woman who referred to herself as a “non-mom.” She shared the difficulty of sitting in church when mothers are asked to stand. Although it didn’t make sense at the time, for some reason her article resonated with me. Later I read another account by a woman who had no children but was uncomfortable being included in the mix. She was settled in the fact that she wasn’t a mother, and she didn’t need anyone to make that up to her. That was proof that I don’t answer for everyone, that I haven’t cornered the market on what all women need when pain arises.

This is what I do know: Whether your Mother’s Day involves a low-key celebration or a brief mention, some families around you need comfort. This can take the form of a hug, a knowing look, an arm around the shoulders, or even being a defender in an awkward situation. Celebration days aren’t joyful for everyone. Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in the balance, in that place that honors without condescension. An environment safe for those with tears and aches as well as for honoring the gift of motherhood is what I believe church is meant to be—a soft place to land and a beautiful place to celebrate.

Jemelene Wilson is a passionate storyteller who writes of faith, hope, love, and food. She’s madly in love with her pastor husband and mama bear to two daughters. Grace is a fairly new concept she is exploring with her life and words. Mama Jem believes we should live gently and love passionately. You can find more of her writing at jemelene.com.

Photograph © J W, used with permission