To Those Waiting and to Those Mourning on Mother’s Day


I don’t know how you feel.

And that is my important disclaimer here.

I don’t know what it’s like to wait months or even years, only to see a little negative sign that hurts in such a big way.

I don’t know what it’s like to get pregnant, only to have no heartbeat be the swift end to a short life’s journey.

I don’t know what it’s like to have a child, only to lose them way before a mother ever should.

All I know is that I am 28 weeks pregnant, and that almost every other week I am told by a doctor that our baby probably won’t live. All I know is that although our baby is still alive and still has a heartbeat right now, some days I feel like I am already in mourning for her.

But if there’s one thing that this “not normal” pregnancy is teaching me, it’s that this kind of stuff happens often, way more often than I ever realized before. This kind of stuff where things don’t happen quickly and perfectly. This kind of stuff where it’s not just boom-bam-pow, and nine months later a healthy baby is born and lives a long and happy life.

And Mother’s Day.

It’s passed, but that doesn’t stop every TV commercial and retail magazine from reminding us of this date. {And of how we better not disappoint our moms this year…again.}

But it’s not all happiness and greeting cards and flowers and Pandora bracelets on Mother’s Day. Not for everyone.

So to those who are waiting. Waiting to become a mother for the first time, or waiting to watch your family grow: I am so sorry.

I am so sorry for the pain you have gone through. So sorry for the waiting, the agonizing, the questioning, the crying. So sorry for the frustration and anger.

I’m sorry for the struggle to choose joy and gratitude in painful circumstances.

I am so sorry if you, like my friend, have ever thought, “There must be something wrong with me! I am a woman, and my body is supposed to be able to do this, to carry a baby!”

I’m so sorry for the well-intended comments and advice people like to share that sometimes have the healing effect of a band-aid on a broken bone.

I’m so sorry for everything you have been through behind the scenes at home and behind closed doors at the doctor’s office. Behind the smiles and the “I’m so happy for you”s that you so politely direct at everyone else’s pregnancy and birth announcements. {Not that you aren’t happy for others, but maybe you simply want this kind of happiness for yourself this time.}

I’m so sorry.

To those mourning. Mourning the loss of your child, or even mourning the loss of a relationship with your child that seems beyond reconciliation: I am so sorry.

I’m so sorry, no matter how long in the womb or how short on this earth your child was with you. Because there is no good time to lose a child: seven weeks, four months, thirty-seven years.

I’m so sorry for the reminders: the due dates, the birth dates, that one thing that you saw the other day that triggered a memory along with your pain. While you never want to forget your child, I wish the pain of your loss could be forgotten.

I’m so sorry, for even if you are blessed with more children someday, a child you have loved and lost can never be replaced.

“It’s so hard. And it’s something that never, ever leaves you,” my grandma told me about losing her baby at six months pregnant.

I’m so sorry.

And to both. To both those waiting and those mourning:

I’m so sorry for when you and your husband have felt like you are suffering alone. Because although you aren’t alone, although this affects so many more people than we realize, these struggles are often kept quiet.

And I’m sorry for all of the other stuff that I don’t understand too. Because again, I don’t know how you feel. Being in the situation that I am in, I often wonder if someday soon I will more fully understand. But only you know what it’s like in the situation and circumstances you are in. Only you know how it feels.

So today, and over these next few weeks, and over these upcoming months of my own journey, and with a new sensitivity to how often this stuff happens, you are especially on my heart and in my prayers.

I know there is always hope. Always. Hope.

But I don’t want to deny that there can be pain too.

And it’s not that I think you need random pity from a random stranger such as myself. But I do think that sometimes it helps when recognition is given to how tough the valley can be to walk through.

Even Jesus, who knew He was about to perform one of His greatest miracles by raising Lazarus from the dead, stopped first to weep and mourn the loss with His friends. {John 11:1-44}

And even though great miracles might be in store for your life or great lessons might be learned along the way, that doesn’t mean that pain and weeping aren’t a part of the journey beforehand.

So I shed lots of tears with you. I send you the biggest hugs that I can send.

And I offer up earnest prayers that you will be blessed with the gift of peace today and tomorrow and through the days and years ahead.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” {Psalm 34:18}

I pray you will feel this closeness even in your deepest of heartbreaks.

This post originally appeared at Grace & Peace.

Print Friendly, PDF & Email