'Twas the Night Before Mother's Day

Four years ago I woke up to an email from the mother of two of my sons.

I don't honestly know how she wrote it. I don't honestly know how she got out of bed that day.

Less than 24 hours later she delivered her son. My youngest son.

And as I read that email, the tears dripped down my face.

I don't think it's possible for us adoptive parents to fully put into words the complicated emotions we deal with. The deep gratitude. The awe. The sadness over loss. The awareness of the fact that we actually can't possibly know what their first moms are feeling. Going through. Thinking on a day like Mother's Day.

But that day, she wrote to me a message of gratitude. She thanked me for always sending her updates about her son. For using the name she gave him. For the decision to welcome his brother into our family, as well. For sending her pictures and gifts. For always, always assuring her that we talk about her every day. That her pictures are on our walls. That she is, and forever will be, family.

But to be honest?

I could barely read it. To think of the challenges she was going through to have to make the kind of choices she did. To even attempt to imagine the loss she feels every day. To admire her courage but know she will never see it that way.

Well, Mother's Day has never quite been the same.

It's bittersweet.

Yes, my nuggets like to celebrate me. They make me sweet pictures at school with their handprints. They plant little flowers. They hug me and call me mama and let me smooch their sweet faces.

And far away, another woman misses them. She doesn't get the kisses or the gifts tomorrow. And as my boys celebrate me, she is the one on my mind. Her pain. Her loss. Her sacrifice.

As they grow older, they have more questions. More things I need to tell them that I can't quite put into words. Ways in which I will never be quite enough. (I am ok with that, by the way. I signed on for it. I know they will always be missing a piece of who they are. Adoption, at it's very foundation, starts with loss and trauma.)

So, on Mother's Day, I tread lightly. I thank my boys for loving me. For letting me be their mama. But I get a little quieter. A little more introspective. We don't go in for large celebrations. For their sakes, we celebrate, but if it were up to me, I think I would let the complicated day pass by without much fanfare.

Holding joy and despair tenderly, gratefully, tearfully together is no easy dance and us adoptive parents do it all year long.

Mother's Day, for me, at least, just brings that dance into painful focus.

To the woman who deserves more celebration than me but who will likely let the day pass her by as well, I love you. And I promise, although I do fail mightily, I am doing my very best to love these precious children we share.

Moment of Grace

I was about twenty feet behind them, a string of boys on their bikes, following each other down the trail, my husband in the lead as I brought up the rear running as fast as my body would allow. Twelve, five and three...peddling away, smiles on their faces. No more training wheels. Moving faster than I could possibly keep up. 

The sun was dappling through the trees in that peaceful way it does in the hours before sunset. Irises in bloom, summer perennials peeking up, starting to bud, knockout roses dazzling in deep pink.

Over it all, a light breeze, a calm.

Something I could feel that went deeper than just the gorgeous weather and the moment in which no one in my house was arguing or struggling or crying or needing.

A moment of grace.

It's that feeling when the world comes deeply, but peacefully and hopefully and joyfully, into focus.

It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it takes my breath away. It's as if God is shouting "wait, listen, look, remember this moment."

Remember it, because not all moments can be like this. Remember it, because so many moments are simply the ordinary. The mundane. Not necessarily ugly or lacking in beauty, but they pass us by because of that very ordinariness. They just ARE. Cooking dinner, watching that soccer game, dropping another kid at school, waving to the neighbors, mowing the lawn, riding our bikes together.

We just go through most of our days and it's fine.

But every once in awhile, we get that gift. That special warmth in a moment, that strange but clear urging to stop and drink in what's around us and be grateful. Those moments don't always come when something is going well and they don't necessarily stay away when things are challenging.

But, oh how I love them.

I am a doer. Not someone who easily stops and ponders. Not someone who spends hours gazing or dreaming. I appreciate people who do that well. But I am not one of them. Even when I try to sit in my backyard and admire the garden, I inevitably stand up and start weeding, because, well, it needs to be done. And the doing is part of the joy for me.

But I feel like for those of us like me, we need these moments to stop us dead in our tracks. To remind us that there can be purpose to slowing down. Reason in stopping. Joy in simply being.

And in that moment, even though I was sprinting and breathing hard and looking at the back end of my string of boys who were hurtling with full abandon down a bike trail, I felt like I was still. 

My soul stopped it's churning, for about 20 seconds.

And I just drank in the deep beauty and privilege of a healthy family and a beautiful neighborhood and a generous husband and a glorious spring and a blooming garden and meals on the table and a newly accomplished goal.

And oh, friends, I am so grateful. I never expect those moments and they come so infrequently.

I am amazed at their staying power, at the ability God has to use them to shore up and encourage and remind us of the possibilities and joys we can wake up to every single day, no matter what challenges lie ahead.

God, in all his grace and wisdom, knew I needed that. And I am so glad He did.