On Mother’s Day, After Losing a Child

It’s not my first Mother’s Day since my son died. And yes, I guess it gets easier. But it’s never without reflection.

Only two people referenced it to me yesterday. Most seem to think it’s better if they don’t remind me, so that I can “move on with my life.” I am living my life, and I never forget.

When I am sad, as I was yesterday, I know not to dwell. The past cannot be changed…but what memories I have! Some are good and some not so. I get to choose which ones to focus on.

Maybe some of you are having bad times, children who are lost to you though they are still living, for whatever reason. Heartache, indeed; yet not with the finality of death. There is still hope–and prayer–for healing and reconciliation.

I am reminded of Jesus’ parable about the shepherd who lost one of his sheep. He left the other 99 to go in search of the one. A mother understands this.

I have a beautiful daughter and two precious granddaughters. I had my son for 36 years. Not so bad, right?

My grandmother had eleven children. The youngest died around age 4. I daresay she didn’t stop thinking about him even amidst the busyness of ten other children. And for those parents who lost children at birth, was the pain less because they hadn’t had years to know them?

It seems that every time a parent outlives a child, the natural order of things is disturbed. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be, we think. Yet it happens quite often, and suddenly one is “a member of the club you never wanted to be in.”

I learned a few years ago that some of the DNA of a fetus is transferred to the mother’s body and remains there. So literally, some of my son is always with me. I find great comfort in this.

A dear friend texted me yesterday: “I can just see John smiling at you right now!” And then I could, too. I am grateful to remember, and be reminded, of my wonderful son and to know the love we shared.