mourn with those who mourn

It’s the week of Mother’s Day and I’m going to say something you’re probably not supposed to say. 

Mother’s Day is not a completely happy sunny holiday. 

I realize it sounds suspect and self-serving to say this – and it probably is – given my status as a non-mom, but Mother’s Day is not a day without shadow and I think we should own that. There is a lot of pain for a lot of women on this day – single women, childless women, women who’ve lost a mom, women who’ve lost a child, women with a bad relationship with their moms. When we don’t own the truth of the cloudiness of this day, I think we lessen our capacity for empathy. 

Sometimes I wonder if the combined pain of the day outweighs the combined joy of the day. 

And sometimes I wonder this, too: 

Are there moms who ever consider not celebrating Mother’s Day? Moms who would ever consider a “fast” from the day, so to speak? 

Don’t throw your tomatoes yet. Get them ready, sure, but bear with me for a moment. 

You know, part of why I have no interest in celebrating Valentine's Day, for instance, is that it bothers me to think of the people for whom the day causes pain. I know people for whom that day causes pain. I'm sure we all do. They feel their separateness from the rest of society on that day most especially and, well, I guess I feel like I'm dancing in the house of mourning if I celebrate the day. I just can't do it. 

There's a biblical concept of "rejoicing with those who rejoice and mourning with those who mourn" which I think has validity whether you’re a Bible believer or not, and I guess I find myself wondering when -- apart from obligatory funerals -- do we mourn with those who mourn their less-obvious but no less life-altering losses and lacks and “otherhood”? When do we acknowledge the lifelong pain of those who live on the fringes of mainstream society? When do we mourn with the single person, the childless person, the gay person? When do we do that? Have we ever sat with someone who's an "other" by mainstream societal standards -- that single person, childless person, gay person, for instance -- and said, "Tell me what it's like to be you. Tell me what the rest of the world doesn't know about walking your particular road. I want to understand your life and your pain better. I want to have more empathy." 

If someone did that to me, sat me down and said those things instead of treating childlessness like poison and increasing the shame around it, it would make all the difference for me, so perhaps it would for other people who live their lives in “otherhood” too. Maybe they would feel seen, validated, and valuable and not solely defined by their lack or the ways they aren't like the majority of the mainstream world. 

I apologize if I’m rattling anyone’s cage. This week just always gets me contemplative. And, yes, sad. Right now, this moment as I write, is hard. Yesterday was bad and it's spilling over into today and I'm just struggling with the sorrow it all brings up. 

I always find myself thinking this week of a piece I read once about Mother's Day and how the church handles it, and I remember how that comment thread was one of the nastiest, bloodiest discussions between "sisters in Christ" I've ever seen. I remember any number of moms on that thread who jumped down the throats of the non-moms, declaring, "You're supposed to rejoice with those who rejoice!!!!" as the reason for the church to make a big fuss over moms on Mother's Day. 

But can I tell you something, moms? When we non-moms play with your kids, we're rejoicing with those who rejoice. When we come to your kids' games, parties, plays, we're rejoicing with those who rejoice. When we snuggle and cuddle with your kids, we're rejoicing with those who rejoice. When we laugh and smile and love on your kids, saving our tears for the car, we're rejoicing with those who rejoice. 

It costs us something. 

Sometimes, it costs us everything. 

And it makes me wonder: Are there moms who might contemplate a way they can "mourn with those who mourn" like many women do on this particular day? Maybe it doesn't have to be a Mother's Day "fast," but, to my mind, "mourning with those who mourn" requires presence -- being there for that person in person -- and a willingness to expand our hearts in understanding and empathy. 

It means saying "I see you. You're not invisible. You're valuable." 

It means everything.

on being seen

Sometimes, you can remember the simplest things someone says to you for the rest of your life.

I remember two sentences my dad said to me at lunch several years ago.

And I will remember them for the rest of my life.

At that time, My Beloved and I, having undergone past failed fertility treatments, began a brand new series, certain that these finally would work. They did not. Each month felt like a death that kept on dying. Hope and crushing, hope and crushing. I don’t even know the person I was then. I felt utterly lost to myself. My family never spoke of it because there are things considered too shameful to mention, and this fell under that heading. So they simply didn’t speak of it. MB and I wandered, shattered, on the fringes of normal life. And the heavy, lingering sorrow that had stolen my hopes seemed to have taken my voice with it, too. I was mute. I could not give voice to the shame, breathe out what was being carefully ignored. MB and I were bereft and broken and hopeless.

In the midst of our failed treatments, my sister got pregnant. She had two boys and had always longed for a girl. So had I, secretly.

And … a girl it was.

I remember the day my sister called to tell me she was having a girl. I heard her voice on the answering machine and somehow knew exactly why she was calling, exactly what she was going to say, and I could not bring myself to pick up the phone. I stood inches from it, my hand outstretched but paused in midair. From where I was, far from her, I could see her joy; I could see it. The very air swirled pink and perfect with the news of a girl. And I, with my selfish sorrow and small heart, sank to the floor and cried and cried, the ugly cry that no one but God ever sees you cry.

Around this time, my longtime bachelor brother finally got engaged. There were echoing choruses of “Hallelujah!” all around at this news. Even I could manage that one. My family fairly exploded with the sheer elation of it all. A new baby girl, a wedding in the works. It was like having a whole year of Christmas where every gift is perfect; a whole year of parties with everyone you like and no one you don’t.

But My Beloved and I still went, quietly, to our treatments. And still, quietly, they failed. I was breaking in two from the overwhelming weight of joy and sorrow.

One day that year, my dad called to invite me to lunch. We met at Marie Callendar’s because he likes Marie Callendar’s and when he’s at Marie Callendar’s, he likes to order soup, which he did.

As we chitchatted about this and that, I was growing more and more nervous. He was working up to say something, I could tell, but I hadn’t the faintest idea what it would be. He’s not the demonstrative type. Emotions are private, you see.

He cleared his throat several times, in that compulsive way he has. I knew then he was nervous, too. Finally, he looked at me with those dark blue-grey eyes and said:

“I know your brother’s and sister’s happiness must be breaking your heart.”

I couldn’t breathe. I had ordered soup, too, in silent solidarity, and saw my tears dropping onto its surface. Then with a choked voice I’d never quite heard before, he whispered:

“I’m so sorry, honey.”

And I was gone. I began to shake. Tears streamed onto the table; heads around us turned. I was quiet, but I was just gone. My father, who had never, ever spoken to me about it, understood.

He understood.

And he had said all he would. He mentioned it once and never again. Still, in that singular moment, I no longer felt invisible. I was seen. I was seen. I felt warm and alive and understood by someone I'd been sure did not, could not, understand.

I know they were just two sentences spoken softly over bowls of steaming soup, but they were among the best things my dad has ever said to me.

I was less broken for hearing them.