All last week, I kept meaning to write a Mother's Day post. But each day, I found ways to put it off yet again, until it was too late and the decision was made for me. Finally, there was no time to write one late Saturday night. Sometimes, procrastination pays off.
But here I am, two days past the holiday, and the post is still on my mind.
I wanted to write about the joy this year has been, watching my oldest daughter, Lauren, become a mom. She's navigated her way into a whole new role and I've been so very honored that she's invited me along in her journey. I'm so, so proud of her. She is a magnificent mother.
I wanted to write about how I can't wait for my daughter, Meghan, to embark on motherhood in July, when her first baby (also a girl) will arrive.
I thought about how I cried tears of happiness after spending the afternoon with my girls, looking at car seats and strollers and crib ensembles for a Meghan's baby registry. We'd sat at Chick-FilA, Meghan, Lauren, Ivy and I. . . and I was overwhelmed with love and gratitude for them.
I had a lovely, simple Mother's Day. But I couldn't bring myself to post photos or offer glowing reviews.
Because as I scrolled through all the beautiful Facebook and Instagram photos people had put up, and read the beautiful blog tributes, I thought about all the status updates that didn't get posted. I thought about the women for whom the day was filled with ache and hurt. Yes, this one was a nice one for me, but there have been a few tough ones over the years. The "lost baby years," and the "life is too stressful" years come to mind.
For the women who didn't get a card and breakfast in bed, or a phone call or dinner at a restaurant, this post is for you.
For my friends who don't have children, and for whom Mothers Day just hurt, I offer this.
For you whose memories of your own mother are painful and this day reminded you of them, I want to tell you:
You are loved.
I have friends who walk a lonely path that they have not necessarily chosen. Single friends whose biological clock is ticking. Married friends for whom children have never arrived. Friends who have lost children, or whose kids are sick. Friends whose children have walked away from faith and family relationships. Friends whose kids struggle with addiction. Arms that are empty. Hearts that long for the picture-worthy breakfast trays and selfies with adorable offspring.
Please don't ever forget:
You are loved.
And you are beautiful.
You give and love and serve your family, whether family by blood or by choice, around you. You do hard things and face challenges and have courage. You stay hopeful and you fill your empty spaces with compassion and kindness and loyalty.
Your value is not in the number of children you've had, or by the number of cards you received. Your crown is not bejeweled by how many dinners you've cooked.
Your worth is not determined by motherhood.
Your worth is determined by the God who sets His love upon you, and calls you by name. He calls you...
God sees you. He knows you. He knows the path you are walking is a lonely one at times. He knows the longings of your soul and the things you face. The things that are too hard to share. The cracks in your heart that threaten to burst like a dam on a day like Mothers Day. He sees your tears.
I believe that.
And I wish I could reach through the screen and wish you a "Happy Precious Day," because you are precious, absolutely precious, to Him and to me.
That's the post I didn't write.