This day is happy because mothers are awesome. Some philosophers have said that of all the human loves—including romantic love and friendship—maternal love best exemplifies the love of God. Who celebrates our triumphs, bemoans our failures and bewails our wanderings as a mother does? Children owe their mothers a great debt of love. So, this Mother’s Day, let’s be happy. But let’s also be gentle. Because for some, Mother’s Day is a time of mourning. This calls us to be gentle with our joy. The famous ancient king Solomon said, “Like vinegar poured on a wound, is one who sings songs to a heavy heart” (Proverbs 25:20). Imagine all the mothers around you, euphorically cradling vibrant bouquets in their arms, while you slump over the dried branches of a love lost to, for example, the untimely death of a child. That’s the level of sorrow some women carry on this day.
And I can think of a few other kinds of mourning.
I think of the friend who tried for years to give birth, finally got pregnant, went into premature labour, then lost the child. In her grief, she and the baby’s father posted a picture of their two beautiful, but sad faces, close together. Their child, tiny and purple, is tucked between them.
Be gentle with that mother.
What about the friend whose drug-addled mother so abused and neglected her that she can scarcely call her “mother”? This friend gazes longingly at other mother-daughter relationships like a starving child stares in a bakery window. She’ll never feel the love of her mother toward her.
Be gentle with her.
My heart aches for the mother whose child was raped by a trusted family friend. Her daughter still wakes in the night, horrifying images flashing in her head. Can a human heart hold all this mother’s grief and rage? I imagine the arms of God around this woman, or she would burst.
Be gentle with her.
I pray for the mother who, despite her best efforts, watches helplessly as her child descends into drug addiction. This mother moves between blaming herself and blaming God, wondering how she failed, then whether God failed her, before dissolving back into tears. What she really wants is not someone to blame, but to have her child back.
Be gentle with her.
What about the mother raising children alone, with no support from their abandoning father? Between exhausting shifts, she looks into their upturned faces wondering where she’ll find the strength to give a little more. They ask her unanswerable questions about their daddy. The heat in the house is turned down. Food is just the basics. When her littlies ask for money for school excursions or social outings, she must say “no”. She’s a hero who feels like a failure.
Be gentle with her.
I know a mother with an extended family so fractured that she can’t ask for help. That same fractured heritage gave her son the gene for schizophrenia, which keeps him from being able to mature into young adulthood and independence. Daily he tells her of the non-existent things he sees and hears. He may never be able to live on his own. She, irrationally but almost compulsively, blames herself.
Be gentle with her.
Think of the mother whose children have “gone no contact” because, according to them, she was a “toxic” parent. She wants to take responsibility for any wrongdoing, but there are parts of the story she still doesn’t understand. When she scans the past, all she can remember are the bedtime stories, homeschool lessons, tender rocking and barrelling down the sledding hill, screeching along with her kids. Yesterday she learned she has a grandchild—a grandchild she may never meet.
Be gentle with her.
And what of the mother whose ex-husband has turned the children against her in true parental alienation fashion? They’ve become little proxies of his resentment and blame. For her, the deepest dread is that they’ll stay brainwashed. She holds the hope of their recovery like a
broken-winged butterfly, but she’s not celebrating right now. She flinches every time she sees those twinkly Happy Mother’s Day cards.
Be gentle with her.
how to help
These examples represent just a few ways mothering has gone painfully wrong for people I know. We’ve all heard similar stories. This Mother’s Day, can we find a way to comfort and help these women, even as we celebrate with others?
Could we acknowledge, alongside flowers and cards, that Mother’s Day is complicated—and that for some it carries a quiet ache? Even small gestures of recognition can communicate hope. For example, instead of offering only red and pink corsages for mothers, could we also offer a yellow one—for those for whom Mother’s Day brings a note of sadness, yellow being the colour of hope?
What about personally seeking out—or asking God to show us—a woman who may feel a little forlorn on this day, walking up to her, looking into her eyes and asking, “How are you today?”
Could we offer book clubs, support groups or safe spaces—in faith communities or the wider community—for those who might be grieving?
Could we normalise deep sadness and disappointment—recognising that grief, anger and lament have always been part of the human story? The Bible itself gives voice to this through the Psalms and Lamentations and even records that Jesus wept.
Could we keep our ears open for communities, organisations and churches running mental health workshops, or share resources to help individuals who don’t know what to do with overwhelming emotions, who need help building healthy relationships?
Could we give permission for people to admit their pain, to speak honestly about what they’re carrying, without fear of being dismissed or fixed? Could we “pray for one another, that we may be healed” (James 5:16)? When we know the pain of others, we’re better able to respond with compassion and care. For those who believe in God, we can “comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God” (2 Corinthians 1:4).
Part of the reason we don’t share our grief is that some become addicted to oversharing, constantly seeking free therapy from those around them. But if we continue a moratorium on sharing our pain, it leaves the tight-lipped, suffer-in-silence alone in their dark struggles—struggles into which a beam of light might shine through the empathetic eyes of another person.
Let’s create a culture of honesty, navigating the choppy waters of human interaction, simply because God is big enough to equip and strengthen us for it. Let’s make our communities, churches and homes places of wisdom and compassion when it comes to inner healing. Let’s do this. And let’s have a happy, gentle Mother’s Day.
