Dear Father,

You know this weekend is the one our calendars call Mother’s Day. And you know the mixed emotions it brings to the heart of every woman old enough to be a mother.

You know the feelings of inadequacy that inevitably come to my mother heart every Sunday morning, only magnified on Mother’s Day by squirmy children whose actions aren’t exactly rising up and calling me blessed, even if their prompted words and scribbled cards are. You are adequate in my weakness.

You know that new momma delight in receiving a first Mother’s Day card. You know the tiny toes and pink lips we marvel over as those little eyes stare into ours and babble something that sounds like “Momma”. You knit each little one together in our wombs.

You know the pain of the mom who remembers every Mother’s Day that first child she conceived, the one she left behind at an abortion clinic. You bore her guilt to the cross. You love her so much.

You know the loneliness of the single mom who is going it alone, who never pictured raising children without their daddy by her side. You are a Father to the fatherless.

You know the ache of the would-be momma whose arms are empty this weekend, when she thought she’d be holding her first child in church this Sunday. You hold her child for her, for now. You comfort her as only You can.

You know the emptiness of the woman who wants to desperately to be a momma. You hold the barren ones so dear to Your heart. You bottle their tears.

You see the daughters trying so desperately hard to honor their mothers this weekend, even though nothing they say or do is quite enough. You see the daughters who don’t have anyone to send a Mother’s Day card to today. You see the daughters who long to be the mother they never had.

You see the mothers whose daughters won’t speak to them. You see the mothers who wish for any kind of a relationship with their daughters. You see the mothers whose children are serving their country in dangerous and far away places. You see the mothers whose children are waiting for them in Heaven.

You see and You know, Father. You comfort the wounded and bind up the brokenhearted. You, Who came into this world through the womb of a mother. You, Who asked the disciple whom You loved to care for your mother but at the same time diverted praise from her.

You know how thankful I am for my own mother, my mother-in-law and my grandmothers. You know how blessed I am in their heritage and that I must rise up and called them blessed.

You know how I delight in these little ones You have given me to mother. You know how much I long for that same gift for my friends.

You know that motherhood means pain, both in its presence and in its absence. You know.

Thank You for being the God Who knows. Thank You for being the God Who sees. And please, be the God of all comfort for each of Your daughters this weekend.

Because You Live,
Your daughter

{Linking up with Five-Minute Friday’s prompt “Comfort”}