Since 1994 I have wished I could jump over Mother's Day. It's supposed to be a day of honor, remembering our mothers, being remembered by our children. But in May, 1994 remembering only brought deeper sadness and longing for what was. That was the first Mother's Day I experienced without our youngest child, Mark. Mark was born on May 11, 1977. He died in a car accident on July 6, 1993. The year of 1994 was a year of dreading every morning and every night. Mother's Day and his birthday all at the same time seemed more than I could bear.

Almost fifteen years later, I still weep over missing Mark. My sadness embraces others on Mother's Day. When I think of Mark on Mother's Day, I also think of my friend, Judy, especially when I see glimpses of her sweet, gentle spirit in her girls and our grandchildren. I held back tears this morning when I sent a Mother's Day email card to my two daughters-in-law, who have missed their mother, Judy, since her death in 1989.

Mother's Day...a day that brings great joy to the first time mommy and great grief to the woman who cannot conceive. A day of satisfaction for the mother whose children are living by faith, a day of deep pain to the mother whose child not only rejects her faith but also her mom. A day of fun for the mommy whose children bring her breakfast in bed. A day of deep loneliness for the mommy who will never see her child again on this earth. A day of contentment for the mom who looks down the church pew at her husband and beautiful children. A day of isolation for the woman who will never bear children or sits in church with her children - alone.

For me, this is a day of choices that are more easily made than they were in 1994. It's a day I miss my son but no more than I typically miss him. And it's a day I thank God for the blessings of sixteen years with Mark. Today I will choose a rose bush to plant in his name, as I have every year since his Homegoing. Last year the rose's name was Lasting Peace. This year, I hope to find one that reminds me of God's faithful love.

It's a day I look forward to spending time with our other children and receiving lots of hugs and kisses from our grandchildren. I will hold them close and absorb the life that flows freely from their hearts into mine. And it's a day I will be more sensitive to those around me whose hearts are breaking because this day of all days reminds them of what they do not have.

I think of the new young widow and the mom whose daughter died a few months ago. I think of the mom who took her own life and the one who faces her first Mother's Day after a miscarriage. I think of the mom whose daughter refuses to surrender to God's love and intentionally hurts her mother at every opportunity.

But then I will remember how God used the clouds of grief in my life as His chariot and how He charged through the dark sky and held me tightly in His grip as I struggled to reconcile His sovereignty and His love. And I will pray for each of these women to experience the swoosh of the chariot as God rides deep into their hearts and encourages them to trust Him with their disappointments.

Mother's Day. A day to remember. To remember, God is sovereign and we can trust Him.

In His Grip,

Sharon

My friend and I talked quietly as we walked toward her bedroom. I knew I was on holy ground because supernatural grace flowed from her as she lived out the sovereignty of God in this very difficult pathway of life. Her young husband would soon be gone, his body taken by cancer, his soul carried by Christ's sacrifice into the presence of his savior. His fourteen-month battle against this terrible disease was ending yet there was no blanket of doom suffocating this household. I commented on the courage and strength they reflected and she responded, "I'm following my husband's example. Even with every bit of bad news he kept his sense of humor and strong faith that God is sovereign and we can trust Him. That doesn't mean we don't cry but right now I will be for him what he needs. He has a strong legacy of praying women that have guided us. I wish you could have known his grandmother. I know her prayers protected our marriage. In fact, when she died I knew there was a hole in our protection - I could feel it. And you've met his mother. You can see her faith."

I understood my friend's description of the hole in our umbrella of protection created by the deaths of faithful prayer warriors. I think of my friend, Thelma, who told me that she prayed every morning for our family. Thelma died about two years ago and after almost thirty years of having this precious woman quietly praying every day, I felt more vulnerable to the enemy's attacks. I once approached two older men in our church and asked them to pray for our son, Chuck, as he embarked on his new ministry position. They walked every morning and smiled at my request, saying, "We already do. And for your husband and you and each member of your family." When John died, I again felt a weakening in the fabric of our spiritual protection.

The greatest rip in our umbrella of prayer came when God came for my mother. When long term illness forced her to spend many hours in her bedroom, isolated from her children and grandchildren, she would sometimes express her disappointment that she didn't have purpose anymore. Yet when we walked through some of the toughest years in our lives, she was growing deep roots in Christ through praying for us. We have a long letter she wrote to my husband when we faced terrible church conflict. She didn't say she was praying for the conflict to be over but rather that she was praying for Chuck to reflect Christ in every way. Because of his deep respect for her, he knew this was a message from God and recommitted himself to godliness when his natural response was to angrily react.

Amy Carmichael, missionary to India, often struggled in a bed of physical pain and weakness. She said that when people told her that maybe God put her there so that she could pray she knew they didn't understand the hard work of prayer. Real prayer exhausts the pray-er so praying in a bed of illness is even more precious to those being prayed for. My mother's prayers for us transformed her bedroom into a sanctuary of worship. And her time with God through His Word transformed her into a woman whose last prayer, the last night of her life, was, "Be at peace once more, oh my soul, for the Lord has been good to me." Yes, when she left, we all felt spiritually vulnerable.

I miss you, Mommy. And my heart's desire is to mend the hole in our prayer umbrella by continuing your legacy of protecting our family through the gift of talking with God.

What is your legacy, my friends? Tell us about your praying mother or grandmother.

In His Grip,
Sharon