Abiding with Non-Mothers. And Mothers.

We talked with our friends about their adoption and their journey with infertility the other day.  It was a bit scary and strange.  Conception isn’t typically part of conversation at the park on a Saturday afternoon, so why should conception of the heart be any more typical? Asking someone where little Johnny was conceived or how they knew they were “ready” for kids is, by social milieu, private, so questions about how someone decided on domestic or foreign adoption, open or closed, infant or older child, private or foster care don't flow easily off the tongue.  I understand there are fundamental differences and I’m not implying it’s wrong to ask those questions, but merely noting the continued awkwardness and not enough discussion around boundaries about this form of family expansion.  Although, I haven’t had my stomach touched by a complete stranger, so maybe there is just a general need for discussion about permissions around all types of family growth in our society.  

In this space of unfamiliarity and not knowing how or what to ask people, I read a blog that a pastor from the Church of the Nazarene wrote about the church being a space for healing around Mother’s Day for those of her body who don’t have their own kids, for whatever reason, rather than a time of exclusion and wounding.  Reading it a couple times to actually get the full story because the tears streamed down my face in solidarity, I could just quote the whole thing and call my blog post done.  (You can read it for yourself in its entirety, which I highly recommend, here: http://thisisthecommunity.com/making-space-for-pain-and-hurt-on-mothers-day/)  But the few lines that really resonate with me, mostly because they don’t offer answers, but rather an invitation to sit in the uncomfortableness of it all, are these:

“There must be a way to hold within the body of Christ the tension between celebration and grief, and maybe the most obvious way is to acknowledge the difficulty of it all…We must acknowledge that while we are rejoicing, others are crying, and our call is not to ignore their pain, but to walk alongside them through it.”

Jesus, per usual, has a funny way of speaking to me as Pastor Jeff spoke about this way of unagenda-ed relationship with Jesus and each other in our sermon just this morning.  How often does Jesus invite us to just be?  To abide.  To dwell.  To remain.  He stops Martha from her busyness. He pleads with his disciples to be present with him over and over again, even on the eve of his crucifixion.  And the last words he leaves as he ascends back to heaven are those of being with us always.  We talk about what it means to live out the gospel, how to be the hands and feet of Jesus to our church, our neighbors and miss the relationship.  For those of us with heavy hearts and tear-filled eyes around Mother’s Day, Jesus call us to dwell in the uncomfortable, unfamiliar messiness that is the juxtaposition of joy and grief for those with empty wombs and full hearts.  With our sisters, friends, daughters.  I don’t have the answers for why or when or how long.  And honestly, I don’t want an answer. I just want to know that I am not in this thing alone.  That there are others accompagnent and abiding with me and Jesus and living into the relationship that he is continually inviting us into.  

One last thought from the aforementioned blog (and reminder to myself as much as anyone else reading this):

“Our purpose is to point our communities toward Jesus, who breathes life into broken places, and who made it evident throughout all of Scripture that being a woman of God is not dependent on one’s ability to bear children, but by the grace freely given to all of us.”  May you and I continue to point each other to Jesus and his yoke through our willingness to dwell in Him, the giver and sustainer of life.