I’ll probably have mixed emotions on every Mother’s Day for the rest of my life. My three amazing children are constant reminders of God’s blessings, faithfulness, and goodness to me. Whether they acknowledge the “special occasion” or not on Sunday, I will know that I am loved and that I am “their favorite mom ever” and “the most beautiful mom [they] have” (as my 6 year old sweetly complimented me this week).
But Mother’s Day will always be coupled with grief for me. Grief over the phone call I won’t get to make, or the after church lunch I won’t get to have with my own mom. Grief over the memory of the last Mother’s Day I had with her, just days before she died.
But I’ve learned in the past four years not to allow myself to assume a day is going to be awful, because sometimes it’s not, and the dread leading up to it is far worse than the day itself.
This Sunday I think I’ll wear her rings and her perfume and listen to Jack Johnson and spend some time reading Toni Morrison or Barbara Kingsolver or maybe even Shakespeare and try to make Chocolate Goodie or Strawberry Pizza or something else that reminds me of her. I’ll talk to my kids about their Gran Jan, who loved them so much and who would love the amazing people they are turning out to be.
I’ll allow myself to feel whatever it is I feel, and to let grief and sorrow and pain and suffering and loss and sadness do their work.
I’ll call to mind the promise of everlasting life free from pain and brain cancer and broken bodies and broken hearts and broken everything.
I’ll rejoice that I will see my mom again.
Lord, hasten the day.