for the past several years, mother’s day has been a hard one for me. i suppose it’s because it draws attention to that which i do not have, that which i am not. ever since i was a little girl, i dreamed of being a mother. i wanted to feel the heartbeat of life in my body; i wanted to gather my sons and daughters into my arms and rock them and soothe them and love them.
now that i’m going on thirty, and my proverbial biological clock is tick-tick-ticking away, the ache for children of my own grows deeper. so when mother’s day comes around, i’m torn. i celebrate the beautiful mama-hearts of friends and sisters who i am blessed to know, yet i also feel the throbbing of my own empty womb.
and so i open up isaiah’s words, read the promises, the very ones that have comforted my heart and soul so often during the years:
“sing, o barren woman, you who never bore a child;
burst into song, shout for joy,
you who were never in labor;
because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband,” says the Lord. [54.one]
and i remember – the way jumah would snuggle into me and wrap her arms around my neck; the feel of mercy’s hand in mine as we sat side-by-side on the porch; the tears in janet’s eyes when she told me i was her ma; how i would sit and rock beyan, praying and crying for his heart to come alive.
i remember my children, those i was blessed to be a mother to for nearly four years. and i realize that his word is true, that it never returns void.
and it is then that the barren, desolate woman in me begins to sing.