Mother’s Day with Empty Arms

I had every intention to stay home for my first Mother’s Day without Addy. I was going to stay in bed all day and pretend it wasn’t happening. That’s my go-to: avoidance. If I pretend it’s not happening, just maybe I can make it through the day without falling apart. The only problem with that is the holiday will roll around again, and will I avoid it forever or let the next one be when I finally face it and fall apart? There’s no good answer on how to get through a holiday when your child has died. No matter what you do, it’s going to hurt like hell, and you will keep breathing, because that’s about all you can do. I’ve already been an emotional wreck this month, with the one year of Addy dying approaching next week.

I have learned to avoid certain triggers so that I’m not out in public with a full-on meltdown, and I don’t know exactly why I changed my mind and decided on going to church, but I did. I’ve also learned to avoid eye contact with people, so they won’t say anything to me and I can pretend like it’s just another day, which it is, but another day that is a painful reminder that my arms are empty. Our church does a great job addressing Mother’s Day for those who are hurting, they’ve always been great about it. I was doing ok, until they asked for moms to stand so they could bring us a charm for our bracelets (they give out a charm each year to go with the sermon), I honestly didn’t want to stand, but I did. I don’t even know why. My charm bracelet is still in its little bag that it’s been in since I got my charm last year about a week before Addy died. That was when it hit me and I couldn’t stand anymore. I did exactly what I hate doing in public. I was crying, and not just a tear or two rolling down my cheek. I was full on sobbing and couldn’t catch my breath. They asked the moms who are hurting this year to come to the front so they could pray over us, another thing I wasn’t planning to do. But my friend who is having her first Mother’s Day without her mom came to get me to go with her. We cried together and made it through. It was all a blur after the sobbing started, but what I do know is I felt better after other women who care about me put their hands on me with a prayer and offered a hug. That doesn’t mean I don’t completely miss my girl every single day, but I find comfort in knowing where she is. I don’t have to worry about her, I don’t have to worry about whether she will accept Christ as her savior, I don’t have to worry about what would happen with her if something effected me being able to care for her, I don’t have any of the worries so many moms have (that I long to still have).

I was asking God again recently (I ask him every time I’m missing her really bad) why he took her from me, why she couldn’t stay longer, why it had to be the result of a surgery we took her in for, and why I have to live with a broken heart the rest of my life. Like always, I didn’t get an answer, but He did ask me if I would want her back now if I could have her back. I tried to ignore the question, because it’s pointless, since I can’t have her back anyway. But I couldn’t ignore it for long…it needed an answer. The answer is, I don’t want her back now. I don’t want to take her away from heaven where she is running, playing, praising our savior, and free from any pain or heartache this world can bring. The hardest thing in the world is to admit while my arms are empty and I miss my baby girl so much, I want her to stay where she is. I will endure the pain and heartache of missing her for now while she enjoys the joy and freedom of heaven.

“But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.” 1 Thessalonians 4:13