Mother's Day is Broken.

Mother's Day is broken, and I don't know how to fix it.

I do not know how to fix it for my sisters who do not want children.

I do not know how to fix it for my sisters who are infertile. 

I do not know how to fix it for my sisters who have miscarried.

I do not know how to fix it for my sisters whose children have died.

I do not know how to fix it for my sisters who wish they were not mothers.

I do not know how to fix it for my sisters whose children are estranged, addicted, or lost.

I know it is not mine to fix, but this knowledge does not assuage the brokenness.

As a pastor, I find myself not mentioning Mother's Day when it rolls around. The day no longer remembers the women responsible for its inception in the United States, who fought against infant mortality and against sending their children to war. The day no longer remembers the pain that first inspired it, instead the day itself has become a cause of pain, as flowers or what have you are given out in churches that too readily buy in to the idea that the ones who mother are the ones who give birth. I find myself not mentioning Mother's Day because I can't shake the memory of my friends' joy when they told me they were pregnant and the phone call two days later that they had been in the hospital and were no longer pregnant. I can't shake the memories of friends whose child they hadn't exactly planned for turned their lives upside down with joy and came earlier than expected, leaving behind an empty crib and untouched toys. 

Mother's Day is broken because it seems the main options are to buy into Hallmark's version of Mother's Day, to not mention it, or to mention it with caveats and nuance that lead one to fear someone's journey will be unmentioned or forgotten.

Mother's Day is broken. One of my friends, in one of the few sermons that has ever brought me to tears, describes a vision of God, pulling God's knees up to her chin and rocking and crying as she watched her child die. And I imagine God, putting her arm around my sisters whose situations will be left unnamed tomorrow, whose lives are marked by motherhood, whether in its presence or in its absence, or in the knowledge that mothering is not something they desire, and refusing to allow the day to pass in silence for those who want to hear their stories named...  or perhaps sitting silently, a wise sage of a woman, holding whatever pain or desires come her way without judgment, without comment, but with compassion and grace.

I imagine God sitting with Sarah as she knew the promise of a child was impossible.

I imagine God sitting with Hagar when she felt judged for the child she conceived.

I imagine God sitting with Deborah, whose focus was on leading the people of Israel.

I imagine God sitting with Hannah, drunk with grief as she watched other women having children around her.

I imagine God sitting with Isaiah's wife, whose children's names marked them as rejected.

I imagine God sitting with Mary, as she feared the judgment of her community when her child was conceived out of wedlock.

I imagine God sitting with Anna, whose gnarled hands held a baby - at the beginning of his life - at the end of her life.

I imagine God sitting with the unnamed women at the margins, who lived in a society that did not care about their names or whether or not their children had enough to eat, clothing to wear, or education.

I imagine God sitting with the Syrophoenician Woman, who insisted that even those whom society would call dogs are worthy of love, of dignity, and of respect.

I imagine God, the mother hen, gathering us all to her embrace, bearing the complexity of our joy and sorrow, allowing each to stand, to take up her space, to dream her dreams, and says, "Oh honey, Mama knows."