It is the day before Mothers day.
I am grieving.
I wonder how many of my friends, those that I know have suffered miscarriages or are infertile, are not yet grieving the loss. I wonder what it will be like tomorrow for them. To remember the dream, or the little person, that was never realized.
I wonder about the church service. Will leaders remember the barren?
I look at my scars: the four, tiny, 1 inch incisions my good doctor made to eradicate my disease. They are healed, slightly red, starting to become white and fade. They are hidden. But they are there.
How many hidden scars are there in the women of the church? Tiny, fading, no longer bleeding, no longer scabbed over, but always there?
I remember God's faithfulness, his nearness. The way he has given me faith to endure and faith to learn over a year and a half of painful sunday services. The way he -without fail - brings the image of embracing the cross to my mind as I weep in church. He is faithful to remind me that he is ever present, and that he knows my every tear.
I remember my friends, my oh-so-faithful friends, who are always willing to be there. Always supporting. Always caring. Always praying.
I think about my own mother - and I celebrate her courage, her faithfulness, her transparency, her love. I will celebrate her tomorrow, both privately and publicly.
Today I am grieving.