Somewhere on this Mother's Day

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day there will be a mama folding tiny clothes and placing them gently in nursery drawers. Her belly swollen and she touches this new life, winds up the lullaby music box and listens again for the umpteenth time. Her waiting is almost over–her miracle will soon come.

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day there will be a mother gripping the door knob of her child’s room. She'll open the door slow--there's dolls, toy trucks, and books in the corner–dresses and jerseys and favorite t-shirts still hang in the closet. The walls are adorned with school photos, awards, art work, and hero posters. And everything is the same except the most important thing–her child no longer plays here, no longer does homework here, nor sleeps in this room. It is consumed now–by mourning dust. Because of disease. Because of a school shooting. Because of a self-inflicted wound that never healed. The silence of the room is deafening and this Mama, she cries once again and closes the door.

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day there will be a young woman and she will hold in her hand this black and white photo. And there will be a voice of joy saying to her–that’s your baby. There’s your baby’s heart and the beginning of your baby’s arms and legs. That’s your miracle. And he or she will be here before you know it.

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day there will be a mama and she will hear the words 'sign here and here.' And the pen she holds is cold–almost as cold as the paper reads–”the said child”. Not even her child’s name is listed–only hers. And tears fall and ink smears as she signs her name. It’s not that she doesn't want her child–but that’s what people will say. She wants to keep her child with all her heart and her very being. She does. Desperately, she does. But she knows this is for the best for her child. The child she named.

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day there will be a woman and blood trickles from her body once again. Another month. Another no. And she lays on the damp bathroom floor and grieves a part of her she never had.

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day there will be a mama, grandmother--great-grandmother and she’ll sit on the porch on her Lord’s Day and she’ll watch the road and wonder if anyone is coming. She knows she’s not totally forgotten. She’s heard the words, “We’ll visit soon. We promise. We have been so busy. We love you” And there’s another aged mama–she’s raised seven boys and three girls and the nurse comes into her room at the facility and tells her she is as beautiful as ever, and what lovely flowers her family has sent her–on this Mother’s Day.

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day there will be a mama who didn’t gave birth to this child who sits close in the quiet of the evening. And this mama, she brushes back the hair from the child’s forehead and kisses this same skin she has kissed since the child came to their home as a foster child, just a few months ago. And she knows, this child might not be here long, but for right now, this child is mine.

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day there will be a mama who sits by her child’s bedside while tubes and wires run into their little body. And this is not the first time and it won’t be the last. Oh how she longs to take her child’s place.

Somewhere on this Mother’s Day–maybe not mothers in their homes, but mothers in many other ways–teachers, aunts, sisters, and others alike who stand with open arms, sacrifice, and serve with big hearts for children who they consider theirs–every single day.

And there is a little teal bird house nestled at the end of the clothesline that’s been home to a bluebird family for a few weeks now. The house is filled with baby bluebirds and on this one Sabbath Day, they each took their turn flying out of the tiny hole onto the ground–chirping and fluttering about with wobbly wings. The mama and daddy bluebird hovered watching their babies as they learn to fly. And what happened next, the miracle on top of this miracle, “the be still and know that I am God” moment followed. Within minutes other birds–robins and finches and birds of different species flew over and rested on the clothesline. The cavalry had been called. Warriors. Protectors. Friends.

And there is always this need for the cavalry–full armor ready–charging ahead for one another–in prayer, in presence, in love. And there’s a mother or mother-figure who needs you--somewhere on this Mother’s Day and every day in between.