Mother's Day

Two Mother's Day images I immediately identified with:

Luckily my day did not look like this

I had been dreading Mother's Day for weeks. It felt like all my losses in the last year were represented in the celebration of this one holiday. I am a mother, yet my daughter is dead; I have a mother, yet she is dead too. And all within a span of 9 months. 

I avoided the card aisle at Target, switched the radio when an ad for Mother's Day jewelry started, and ached when I overheard people discussing their plans for the day. 

Yet, this Mother's Day was full of tremendous beauty and an overwhelming outpouring of love. 

The school I work in is bilingual and many of the students and staff are from Mexico. Mother's Day is celebrated in Mexico on May 10th and that was the day most people at work recognized mothers. I received roses from two coworkers who wanted me to know I was not forgotten and to remind me that I recognized as a mother, even though my daughter is no longer here on earth.

On Sunday, our church had two flower arrangements and this note in the bulletin: 

Happy Mother's Day! - Today there is a flower arrangement on stage to honor all of the women who show forth the caregiving qualities of Christ through their love and sacrifice. This day is also to honor women who are longing for motherhood, waiting for God to expand their family, aching for the child they lost, missing a mother who died, or wrestling with complications in the foster or adoption process. We know there are many mothers with empty arms, and so today we mourn even as we celebrate. 

Even though both my child and mother are gone, I did not feel alone or on the outside. I was given one of the flower arrangements to take home.

I also received eight cards, two other bouquets, several presents, and at least fifteen text messages. 

This is what Mother's Day and other holidays should look like for those who grieve, for they should not mourn alone. By the end of the day, I had to remind myself to not feel guilty for the overwhelming support I received. I am also being taught how to care for others in their pain. I'm continuing to learn to acknowledge the loss, provide tangible reminders that they are not forgotten, and let people know when I am thinking of them. 

I did not read any of the messages for a day or two, but every vibration of my phone was a hug from a friend. This also teaches me to not expect responses because sometimes trying to compose even a couple words take too much effort. 

The two items on my agenda for Mother's Day were going by the cemetery and getting a tattoo. Both were accomplished. My husband and I had lunch at Dad's house (it is so strange to not refer to the house as "Mom and Dad's house"), clipped some roses from the backyard, then the three of us went by the cemetery. 

In case you haven't the occasion to learn this yet, the cemetery is a popular place for families on holidays. Dozens of people were visiting family, having picnics by graves, and leaving flowers. It's amazing to see how many people are missing their mothers, wives, or children on Mother's Day. 

After the cemetery, we got tattoos. This time last year, I would have said, "I'm never going to get a tattoo. They are permanent and I have nothing I care about enough to forever mark my body." However, I'm not the same person as I was this time last year.
 

Yes, tattoos hurt. So does loss.

The first one we got when Isabella would have been eight months old. My husband and I began designing tattoos within a month after she died. The central piece of the tattoo is a capital "I," for Isabella, with a cross through it, symbolizing her death. Our initials are incorporated into it. While my husband and I vowed on our wedding day that we were together "until death do us part," the tattoo somehow brought this point home even more. 

My husband got a full moon tattooed on his forearm because Isabella was born on the full moon. Since he is a nerd to the core, he had looked up the exact orientation and rotation that was visible on the day she was born. 

Mine says, "hope" and is written in my mother's handwriting. For several months I've known my next tattoo would read, "hope." While I had struggled with hope before Mom died, after her death I've had to cling to the hope we have in Christ even more firmly. 

The main passage the words are to remind me of is Romans 5:3-5 which states, "Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us." I've seen in my life that suffering is producing endurance. People tell me and I can see that the endurance suffering requires is forging my character for the better. And this change is building hope. Hope anchored in Christ, not in future children or a perfect conflict-free life. 

The hope we have in Christ is permanent and does not fade (as is supposed to be true with this tattoo). Burying both my daughter and mother within nine months has forever changed and marked me; now I am also marked externally. My marks tell the story of love, loss, beauty, and hope in the midst of sorrow.