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.

voices of the childless

This will be hard to read.  I'm admitting that up front.  If you don't want to be bummed then click away.  But if by chance, you want to grow in understanding, empathy, and compassion for the childless people around you, I encourage you to read further.

A statistic:  Infertility and childlessness affects as many couples as breast cancer does women.  1 in 8 couples.  

1 in 8.

If you don't know any childless people now, you will.  It may be end up being you.  It may be a son, a daughter, a sister, a brother, a friend.  I'm not saying that to wish it on anyone, I'm simply saying it to say that, some day, you will know someone who is childless and, if you love them, you will need (and hopefully want) to try to understand their road.

And if you try, just try, I can guarantee that you will make a misunderstood life feel less lonely and less invisible.  If you try, they'll be forever grateful and feel forever safe in your presence.  If you try, they'll know they're loved and valued even if their lives don't look like yours.  If you try, they'll know they're not "less," but a uniquely created child of God, just like you. 

I want to try to foster that understanding, so with that in mind,  you're about to hear the voices of the childless.  These are anonymous comments I've collected from various sites, blogs, and even emails I've received over the years and I'm posting a few of them here -- just a few.  I could post many more, but how much sorrow can one post take?  

None of these comments are my own, but, rather, the voices of many childless around the world.  

They are raw, open, and honest.  

They are snapshots of the childless life.  (Italics are mine for emphasis.)

~ The urge and desire to have children is as strong as the pangs of hunger.

 

~ I would not wish infertility on my most loathed enemy.

~ I feel a lot of panic when I think how to fill my time and to do something worthwhile. Is there a way to use this sadness?

~ Sometimes infertility is the death blow to a marriage that might have had a chance otherwise. 

~ IF there was a word to describe the pain of years of infertility, IF there was a word to express the agony of everyone else in your life having babies and doting over their beautiful children, it certainly could never be expressed by using the word jealous. I believe there is a certain amount of envy, yes, but mostly -- Longing, Sorrow, Pain, Grief.

~ I thank God for my life every day but when I laugh, laugh with me and when I cry, cry with me.

~ It is a grieving process … every cycle … every month, another disappointment. I am surprised any couples make it through this at all. 

~ Still, just when I think I’m utterly detached from the idea moving forward toward other goals, something will cross my path–a pregnant woman, a family together at a restaurant, even an elderly woman going to lunch with her grandkids–and my old wounds rip open again. It’s not every time, just random, unexpected moments. 

~ Here’s the deal: We cannot get pregnant without medical intervention. We are, by all medical definitions, infertile. In order for me to get pregnant like "Sarah in the Bible," it would take a miracle, either of the man-made-medical type or the religious type. Since neither you nor I can tell Him what to do, we are deciding whether to follow the medical path or to pursue adoption. ‘Kay? Now then, every time you imply that somehow I will magically get pregnant, you are dismissing my pain and also implying that we are missing something. Can I just tell you how many people have poked and prodded me and hubby with medical devices of various types and purposes? How many times we have cried over numbers on a damn page, stared at web forums until our eyelids burned looking for the path forward, and been sick to our stomachs before going to one more frickin’ meeting with one more frickin’ doctor to hear the same message: ‘It ain’t happening’? Stop. You need to stop and listen to what I am saying to you: We are infertile. You have an infertile daughter.  You have an infertile son.  It hurts like hell, and every time you are dismissive or pretend that this isn’t real, you are causing me pain. I worry that you won’t love our child as much because you seem to not acknowledge the reality of the situation. That makes it harder for us to move forward too. Please stop. Please start saying, ‘I’m so sorry you are going through this.’ Say, ‘I wish I could take the pain away.’ Say, ‘I can’t understand how this hurts for you, but I do understand that it does. It hurts for me too because your pain is so great.’ Say, ‘We are a family, and I am here to listen.’ Say, ‘Whatever path forward you choose, we are here for you.’ Say, ‘I say these things because it’s hard for me to hear that you are facing this situation. I’m also upset that our grandchildren may come into the family differently than I imagined, but in the end, we just want you to be happy, and we support you.’ Say, ‘I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m listening, and I support you and love you.'"  Or,  you know,  something like that.

~ Surely there is more to me than “You know, Kate and her husband, that couple that can’t have kids.” Will I be fifty and still wondering what if?

~ It’s when I don’t feel like I’m “producing” anything spectacular that I fall prey to the childless blues the most.

~ I found your article while googling “the meaning of life without kids.”

~ It is emotionally, psychologically, physically and economically demanding. It is isolating and dehumanizing … you continue because to you it is worth it, worth everything …. and then you’re told no more, it can’t be done.

~ I feel your pain, Jennifer. I know you are hurting. I know you are angry. I remember being quite pissed one day when my mother was trying to be positive. I tried to explain the feeling to her, "Mom, I'll never know what it feels like to labor or breastfeed."  She didn't get it.  I almost took my life that night.

~  I am a married, infertile, childless, mid-40's woman who feels so left out at church. I have grown up in church, been in leadership of some kind, including youth ministry, for most of my life. It is difficult to be left out, to hear comments that 'I wouldn't understand because I don't have kids' & to be treated like I am less of a person because I don't have children. I am still a woman, I love kids, I have interests & abilities that God gave me, I can be a part of a conversation.  I love God, but I have been definitely pushed out of the women's circles for a number of years. It is difficult & painful. It has caused a lot of self-doubt, a lot of tears, and tremendous loneliness. I get continuous questions of why didn't you adopt, which, we were in process and the mom (a relative) changed her mind, but really does it matter?? Why is it anyone else's business?? I am not lonely because I don't have children. I have accepted that and am fine with it. I am lonely because so many people in and out of the church, ostracize the childless. I still have plenty to offer you as a friend, a sister in Christ, and a woman. I would have thought by this time in my life that people would have been different, but they aren't. My husband and I still are not included in things because the people with kids are getting together. Did you ever think to ask us, or anyone else who is single/childless/etc. if we would like to join you?  

~  I went to a church for a while that honored all women on Mother's Day. The pastor said, "Even if women don't have children, they are still involved in some child's life either as an aunt, a children or youth leader, a teacher of some kind to someone, a friend to a neighbor kid, or a sister. They have value. Don't treat them as if they don't." Unfortunately, most of the women in the church did not hear what he said, but it was great that he said that and gave worth to each woman there.

~  One lady in a church we were at very briefly said to my husband that she understood and struggled with infertility as well, so if we ever needed to talk, she was available. First thing, my husband didn't even talk to her about our childlessness; she made her own assumptions. Second, she had four of her own kids  ..... she had wanted six ……

 

~  Most of the time, I have peace over the fact that God chose for us to not have kids, (which people don't understand when I say that because they are sure God didn't choose that for us) but occasionally, it is still very painful to be so ostracized by others. I know I belong to Christ and I am precious to Him. I know my worth is in Him. But sometimes, on my low days, I would like to be treated like a woman who has worth that other people can see.

 

~ (From a woman with cancer) The infertility hurts worse than dealing with the cancer.

~ The dashing of a lifelong desire for motherhood -- I lament it.  I lament it deep into my soul, from now to my grave and beyond.

mother's day and the church

Last year during Mother’s Day week, I found a blog post about Mother’s Day and the church and what the church should do about this day. There were over 1,000 comments and there’s no way I could read them all, but as a childless woman who finds this day hard and who avoids church every year on this day, I was struck by a recurring theme in a fair portion of the comments I skimmed:

The childless women’s comments were frequently countered with “Well, yeah, you’re sad on this day but you’re supposed to rejoice with those who rejoice, the Bible says.”

You know, I love it when people use only half a verse to make their point or take a verse out of context entirely because, yes, we are supposed to rejoice with those who rejoice but – as the verse goes on to say – we are to mourn with those who mourn.

As it relates to the childless, when does the church do that, publicly? When does it mourn with other mourners – publicly? If the church is going to publicly rejoice with moms, then by extension, as a counterbalance, and if it’s going to live out this verse, it should publicly mourn with the mourners, the non-moms, but it doesn’t, or at least I’ve never seen a church that does. To be fair, I think it doesn’t because it just doesn’t know how.

The church acknowledges moms a lot.  They’re certainly not forgotten. It’s not hard to find support and friends with that common bond, is it? Mothers are everywhere in the church, so they can't possibly feel ignored, as a group, by the church. There are lots of programs, lots of women walking a similar road, lots of moms with whom to commiserate, so to my eyes, there's no lack of company. I'm not saying that moms can't feel alone sometimes.  I'm saying the state of motherhood is certainly not ignored in the church at large.

But, frankly, I don’t think it’s the church’s job to celebrate moms. It’s the job of the individual families to celebrate their own moms. The founder of Mother's Day, Anna Jarvis, deliberately intended it to be Mother's Day, not Mothers' Day -- a celebration of one's own mother, not a celebration of all mothers.  She died feeling a failure because Mother's Day lost its way, lost its meaning, and became a massive commercial venture and not a day of respect for individual moms.

My personal opinion?  I think the church should keep this manmade Hallmark holiday out of the church entirely. Enough with the mom sermons on Mother’s Day.  (And enough with the dad sermons on Father’s Day). Enough with the flowers it gives just to moms one year and enough with the flowers it gives to all women the next year so no one feels left out. I’m not stupid. I know I’m not a mom. A flower doesn’t fix that and it’s just awkward and pandering. In the past, I've  said "no, thank you" to those flowers.

But back to the post I mentioned at the beginning of my little tirade here.

So many of the Christian moms on that thread commented that they want to be asked to stand in church on Mother’s Day and that they want to be acknowledged and applauded by the entire church. Why? Why are moms entitled to acknowledgement from the entire church? I understand intellectually that many moms may feel perpetually under appreciated, but I'm now sure how standing for 5 seconds in front of the church one day a year fills the appreciation void of the other 364 days.  Several women even gave the rationale that mothers standing in church on Mother's Day is no different from veterans standing in church on Veteran’s Day.

But that's not an apt analogy.  It’s not like Veteran’s Day at all. When veterans are asked to stand on their day, they've served everyone in that church in their role as soldier, sailor, or marine, and they stand and get acknowledgment from everyone they've served.  But moms don’t serve the entire church. They serve on a much smaller but no less vital front: in their own home, in their own family. However large or small her family, a mom hasn't served the entire church in her role as mother.  She may serve the entire church in another way, but she serves only a limited number of people as their mother. Expecting honor from people you don’t serve in your capacity as mom is expecting honor that you’re not entitled to.  If I were a mom, I’d care much more about things like a scribbled homemade card that says “I love you, mommy,” burnt toast and runny eggs, a sloppy mani-pedi, or a bouquet of random flowers from my yard than any polite applause from people in church who don’t even know what kind of mom I am. Who cares about that? And if a person does care about that, I think they have to ask themselves why.

Maybe moms want to feel like heroes for a little while. I can understand that, but, again, they’re heroes to the family they serve, not the church at large. No, it's not on the same scale size-wise, but isn't it much more meaningful?

About that standing acknowledgement, can I be blunt – or more blunt? The only thing that separates a mom from a non-mom is that all the male-female parts worked correctly and in a timely fashion. The “standing mom” acknowledgement that some churches employ is for the physical fact of being a mom. It's neither a judgment nor an endorsement. It's not Good Mother's Day nor is it Bad Mother's Day.  It's just Mother's Day.   The name of the holiday isn't saying “these women are all great moms."  It’s just saying “these women are all moms.”

Please note, too, that the name is Mother'S Day not MotherS' Day.  (What?  Punctuation makes a difference in meaning?  You've got to be kidding!  But I'm not.)  The holiday was intended by its creator, Anna Jarvis, to be a day to honor your mother, not a day to honor all mothers. That's why the name is the singular possessive Mother's Day -- a day to celebrate a mother -- not the plural possessive Mothers' Day -- a day to celebrate all mothers.   It's meant to be an individual celebration, not a collective school-wide, church-wide, nationwide celebration of all mothers.  Yes, that's what it's become but that wasn't the holiday's intent.  The intent was to celebrate your own mother and be celebrated as a mother yourself without expecting everyone else to celebrate you.  That's the very important distinction the placement of that single apostrophe makes. 

Lastly, at its core, it's really a physiological difference that separates a mom from a non-mom, but the church doesn’t do other such acknowledgements and celebrations based on physiological differences, does it? You don’t hear “Stand up if you're non-diabetic.” “Stand up if you can see.” “Stand up if you can get an erection.” “Stand up if you can stand up.”  Absurd, right?

So why do some churches still insist on having women stand to be acknowledged for simply being biologically luckier than others?  

I stay away from church on Mother’s Day. I have for years and I don’t see that ever changing for the rest of my life. I won’t go. In my house, it’s called “Tracey Day” and I get spoiled rotten. That’s how I cope and how I will always cope with this manufactured, exclusionary day.

But would Mother’s Day really be diminished for Christian moms if the church didn’t acknowledge it? Would the Christian mom feel gypped if there weren’t flowers passed out, sermons preached, applause offered? There are plenty of secular moms who don’t get applauded by a roomful of people on that day, so are their Mother’s Days qualitatively worse for the lack of it? I rather doubt it.

I just looked this up: Mother’s Day was established as a holiday 100 years ago – in 1914.

So I’m just wondering.

If this were 1913, what would Christian moms do?

50 ways

We need to broaden our understanding of childlessness.  There are many ways a person can be childless.  From Gateway Women ......

50 Ways Not to be a Mother