To Those Waiting and to Those Mourning on Mother’s Day

3 comments Posted on May 7, 2015

}oª~by Kendra Broekhuis

I don’t know how you feel.

And that is my important disclaimer here.

  • I don’t know what it’s like to wait months or even years, only to see a little negative sign that hurts in such a big way.
  • I don’t know what it’s like to get pregnant, only to have no heartbeat be the swift end to a short life’s journey.
  • I don’t know what it’s like to have a child, only to lose them way before a mother ever should.

All I know is that I am 28 weeks pregnant, and that almost every other week I am told by a doctor that our baby probably won’t live. All I know is that although our baby is still alive and still has a heartbeat right now, some days I feel like I am already in mourning for her.

But if there’s one thing that this “not normal” pregnancy is teaching me, it’s that this kind of stuff happens often, way more often than I ever realized before. This kind of stuff where things don’t happen quickly and perfectly. This kind of stuff where it’s not just boom-bam-pow, and nine months later a healthy baby is born and lives a long and happy life.

And Mother’s Day.

It’s coming. It might be a few weeks away yet, but that doesn’t stop every TV commercial and retail magazine from reminding us of this impending date. {And of how we better not disappoint our moms this year…again.}

But it’s not all happiness and greeting cards and flowers and Pandora bracelets on Mother’s Day. Not for everyone.

So to those who are waiting. Waiting to become a mother for the first time, or waiting to watch your family grow: I am so sorry.

  • I am so sorry for the pain you have gone through. So sorry for the waiting, the agonizing, the questioning, the crying. So sorry for the frustration and anger.
  • I’m sorry for the struggle to choose joy and gratitude in painful circumstances.
  • I am so sorry if you, like my friend, have ever thought, “there must be something wrong with me! I am a woman, and my body is supposed to be able to do this, to carry a baby!”
  • I’m so sorry for the well-intended comments and advice people like to share that sometimes have the healing effect of a band-aid on a broken bone.
  • I’m so sorry for everything you have been through behind the scenes at home and behind closed doors at the doctor’s office. Behind the smiles and the “I’m so happy for you’s” that you so politely direct at everyone else’s pregnancy and birth announcements. {Not that you aren’t happy for others, but maybe you simply want this kind of happiness for yourself this time.}
  • I’m so sorry.

To those mourning. Mourning the loss of your child, or even mourning the loss of a relationship with your child that seems beyond reconciliation: I am so sorry.

  • I’m so sorry, no matter how long in the womb or how short on this earth your child was with you. Because there is no good time to lose a child: seven weeks, four months, thirty-seven years.
  • I’m so sorry for the reminders: the due dates, the birth dates, that one thing that you saw the other day that triggered a memory along with your pain. While you never want to forget your child, I wish the pain of your loss could be forgotten.
  • I’m so sorry, for even if you are blessed with more children someday, a child you have loved and lost can never be replaced.
  • “It’s so hard. And it’s something that never, ever leaves you,” my grandma told me about losing her baby at six months pregnant.
  • I’m so sorry.

And to both. To both those waiting and those mourning:

I’m so sorry for when you and your husband have felt like you are suffering alone. Because although you aren’t alone, although this affects so many more people than we realize, these struggles are often kept quiet.

And I’m sorry for all of the other stuff that I don’t understand too. Because again, I don’t know how you feel. Being in the situation that I am in, I often wonder if someday soon I will more fully understand. But only you know what it’s like in the situation and circumstances you are in. Only you know how it feels.

So today, and over these next few weeks, and over these upcoming months of my own journey, and with a new sensitivity to how often this stuff happens, you are especially on my heart and in my prayers.

I know, there is always hope. Always. Hope. 

But I don’t want to deny that there can be pain too.

And it’s not that I think you need random pity from a random stranger such as myself. But I do think that sometimes it helps when recognition is given to how tough the valley can be to walk through.

Even Jesus, who knew He was about to perform one of His greatest miracles by raising Lazarus from the dead, stopped first to weep and mourn the loss with His friends. {John 11:1-44}

And even though great miracles might be in store for your life or great lessons might be learned along the way, that doesn’t mean that pain and weeping aren’t a part of the journey beforehand.

So I shed lots of tears with you. I send you the biggest hugs that I can send.

And I offer up earnest prayers that you will be blessed with the gift of peace today and tomorrow and through the days and years ahead.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” {Psalm 34:18}

I pray you will feel this closeness even in your deepest of heartbreaks.

Grace and Peace,
Kendra

This blog was taken from Kendra’s blog post. To read more, visit www.kendrabroekhuis.com/blog/.

Discussion…

  • 05/09/2015
    Ada Brosier said:

    Thank you for writing and publishing this article. I’ve been struggling with infertility for my entire 11 year marriage. My infertility support group leader shared this article and the timing was perfect. Thank you for not pitying me and acknowledging/validating my daily, monthly, yearly painful struggle. God Bless You!

  • 05/10/2015
    Cheryl Stearns said:

    Beautifully written. I wrote something similar years and years ago when my husband and I had started a support group for bereaved parents called “Heartstrings Ministry”. We started the group not long after we had lost our second baby to Pompe’s Disease. He was 9 months old. Our daughter..our firstborn…had been 7 months old when she passed away.
    I won’t tell you it isn’t hard…. the grief is always hiding, ready to spring out at unexpected moments. Time does make it less painful, somewhat like a wound that heals over time, but the scar- the reminder- is always there.
    It’s been over 25 years now that we said good-bye to our youngest. That’s a long time, but we never stop wondering about the “what ifs”. I doubt any parent who has lost a child at any age- pre-born, or adult- ever stop wondering “what if”.
    But God is gracious, and brings healing to our hearts. It takes a joint effort between Him and us. We have to be willing to feel the intensity of the loss, then let Him take it and heal it as He holds us close.
    Prayers to you, as you wait day by day not knowing what the future holds. But I know that whatever comes, you are not alone, and the God of all comfort will never let you walk through any trial alone.
    Celebrate the Mom’s in your life. Some need to be shown love from those other than their blood children.
    God bless us all on this day of honoring, and remembering, Moms.

    I wrote a story about our losses. Anyone interested can find it at
    http://www.aliassarahryan.blogspot.com

  • 05/10/2015
    Ashley said:

    I love you for posting this and I’m sorry for your situation. I’ll be praying for you and your little <3

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