It’s been three years, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I woke up to the happy sounds of my precious baby boy in the next room. I smiled, heading into his nursery to pick him up. I carried him to the changing table, pausing to grab a cute outfit from the dresser drawers below. I made goofy faces as I talked to him; he laughed and cooed back.
As if on cue, my guy walked in with a bottle and grabbed my little man from my arms.
“You go get ready,” he said. “I’ve got this.”
I paused in the doorway, looking back at the now-familiar sight of my two favorite guys swaying gently in the rocker. I blinked back tears.
“If only this could last,” I thought.
You see, we had found out that week that our little man wouldn’t be ours to care for much longer. A judge had reviewed his case, and had decided it’d be best for that precious baby to live with one of his family members. We knew these early mornings of diapers and bottles were numbered.
We walked out the door ahead of schedule that day—a minor miracle in and of itself. My guy drove the few miles to church slowly, both of us tearing up as we heard our little man chatting away in the backseat.
We headed for the side entrance, neither of us sure we could hold it together long enough to say hello to anyone. The music started, and with it came the tears I had fought back all morning.
“Lord, I don’t understand,” I prayed. “This is my first Mother’s Day—it’s what I’ve longed for and dreamed of—why does it have to hurt so badly?”
The rest of the service—and that whole day, really—were a blur. I’d forget for a moment that we were losing our foster son, only to have the pain wash over me again and again.
Nine days later, our little guy was gone.
And each day since, I’ve felt stuck in limbo. In my heart, I am a mother. But I have no child of my own. As the weeks and months have slipped by, I’ve prayed, “Lord, let this be the year I can celebrate Mother’s Day again. Let this be the year you bring us a baby.” And then, May arrives, and with it a flurry of celebrations. Every year, it’s almost enough to make me forget my pain. Almost.
But I know I’m not the only one who feels this pain.
For some of you, you’ve prayed for years, asking God to give you a child of your own. But every month brings with it a cruel reminder that your womb is still empty.
Others of you read the positive test with utter joy, as your dream of growing your family became a reality. Then that dream shattered mere days or weeks later, leaving you hollow and broken.
And I know for others, you experienced the joy of motherhood in all its fullness, only to lose your precious child far, far too soon.
Maybe still others of you are walking the long road to adoption with me. And it’s hard to feel hope amidst the piles of paperwork and years of waiting.
Friends, our Jesus sees each and every one of us. He sees our tears. And He longs to ease these burdens we’re carrying.
I think one of the ways He does that is by giving us each other. He gives us women who can say,
You see, when we share our stories, we give each other hope—hope that we’re not alone in our pain, hope that someone else just might understand our story, and hope that this journey to motherhood isn’t over yet.
If you can relate, would you chime in with your, “Me, too,” in the comments below? Or maybe you know someone who, like me, is bracing herself for Sunday and all its pain. Would you share this with her? Like me, she needs to know she’s not alone.
Praying for all of you mothers this weekend, those with children and especially those without.
Special thanks to fellow waiting mama Amy Lambert at Glimpses of Hope and her words that inspired this post.