A Post-Mother’s Day Elegy

All the Hurty Parts

A few years ago, my sweet husband asked me what I’d like for Mother’s Day. By that time, we’d lived in the Pacific Northwest long enough for me to catch the gardening bug—although to this day, I can’t tell you the names of most plants that aren’t cacti.

I asked for dirt.

I wanted a big pile of garden soil for raising flowers and veggies. I dreamed of dark, loamy dirt that would produce prize-winning produce and also shut up a couple of friends who constantly boasted about their seed catalog orders. “These are from the Netherlands,” one would crow. “And this one is a rare species of . . .” I’d already tuned out a name I’d never remember, much less pronounce.

That Mother’s Day, I bawled like a baby when I got the yard of soil dumped in front of the backyard gate. The neighborhood cats were overjoyed, and I learned that it’s wise to open the gate before they deliver the dirt. Still, I gleefully got my first real garden set up and planted. My husband noted my ear-to-ear grin, but he never understood my earth-loving tendencies.

I was over the moon until aphids invaded the broccoli. Cutworms found out the tomatoes were easy pickins. Slugs slimed over what once were lettuce plants. I had less of a garden than an all-you-can-eat insect buffet. I lost the battle and the war. Garden of Sad.

After that, I didn’t ask for dirt on Mother’s Day. My love brought me sappy cards instead. I love you sweetheart, they all said. But then my own mom died. And then my favorite aunt-surrogate mother died. And last December, my husband died too.

When your miracle is late and you’re heavy-laden, weary and ready to give up hoping altogether, may you hear the whisper of rest.

In between, a few neighbors, two long-time friends and one friend’s precious son passed away. I felt a little like someone who brings a particular, curated gift to a birthday party, only to find that the birthday person totally and passionately hates what you thought was a perfect present.

And then you vow never ever to celebrate again.

Lots of us can’t even think about Mom without revisiting trauma. My own mother and I had a fraught relationship, so I understand that Mother’s Day can be painful—you hold your nose and make the call. Or maybe you try hard not to detest her quite as much for this one day.

The day before Mother’s Day, the store bustled with customers grabbing gifts. I nearly collided with several men clutching hanging flower baskets as they rushed to check out. I’m not a fan of obligatory holidays—I tried to block it all out but couldn’t.

Sunday, my four grown kids and their kids did all the right stuff: cards and hugs and a yummy Mexican lunch feted me in a lovely way. I remembered how much I love all of them and longed for those sappy cards from my husband.

I smiled and tried to appreciate their efforts, but to tell the truth, that whole weekend sucked. I was hollowed out, my voice echoing with a sadness I can’t describe. The garden of sadness munched at my soul.

I found myself as lonely as silent mountains, cut down in a ruthless and painful way. I walked through the minutes like a ghost, grasping at holograms, bombarded with memories. At every crack in the sidewalk, I tripped until my knees bled.

And I thought of the many who walk this same path alongside me, living with the kind of emptiness that can’t be filled by flowers or Hallmark.

Drowning in big-hurt, you trudge through the mud. Your white sneakers are toast. You tell yourself you’ll never make it another minute, that you, man, really are an island, an Alcatraz where no prisoner has ever escaped. You stare at the boggy ground, certain you’re sinking fast.

Until, an aroma. Faint at first, you know it from somewhere, but where? Is it only a remnant of a time-before-time, when you laughed at the sappy greeting card and groaned when the soil blocked the gate?

Then, the sky was bright with possibility. You had plans, big plans. Now, your backpack is filled with loss and it’s crushing you. You stumble again, maybe for the last time.

But someone waits nearby. That same familiar scent floats over your tears. Powerful tender arms lift you from the mire. Your shoes are still toast but now you don’t care. Mystery carries you, not away from the hurty stuff but directly into its center.

I don’t know why we suffer, only that once we’ve been refined by suffering, we can offer consolation to others who suffer. Those who’ve lived through terrible stuff really understand how to offer love and grace and mercy. And on Mother’s Day terrible stuff might mean death or simply brokenness. Hurty stuff.

Either way, though you wish and pray with all you’ve got, the everlasting arms don’t always shield you from agony. God doesn’t keep us from suffering over what we’ve lost. Like a mother, God suffers alongside you, soothes the pain, carries you on wings of love.

When your miracle is late and you’re heavy-laden, weary and ready to give up hoping altogether, may you hear the whisper of rest. Like me, you may need to lean in closer, let memory revive the smell of pure love, get out of your own way as you join hands with the holy.

But then, a nourishing yard or more of sacred dirt can dump itself right in front of your gate. And even if the greeting card is sappy or it opens up the hurty places again, you’ll know you’re in safe hands. God loves you, sweetheart. And doesn’t mind if you ugly cry your way through every Mother’s Day.