I sat on the edge of her bed. Tears spoke what words could not. She was hurt, sad, alone. In her silent, tearful lament she longed for God, but her heart was full of questions.

Slowly she opened the door of her heart. Her hospitality took great risk. I knew I was her guest. I knew this invitation was sacred.

My protective mama-heart needed to sit outside the door. My desire to ask clarifying questions to fix, solve, or find solutions must wait.

My role was to listen, tend, validate, and hold. It was a gift to be invited inside. I wanted to offer safety she could find comfort in—the gift of presence. No words, no suggestions, just another human being to witness her humanity and hold space.

Her feelings may have tainted reality, but her honest cry of pain held true. She wondered about her place at the school cafeteria table. She questioned if she was welcomed. Did they see her on the other side? Their whispers were deafening.

SITTING WITH THIS MEMORY OF MY DAUGHTER

…I am drawn to the same invitation today as I was then—the invitation to practice a new rhythm of motherhood. My son’s journey of disability is teaching me to slow down. It has asked me to refocus and redefine my motherhood. It has beckoned me to open my heart to the practice of pause.

Along the way, I have realized I prefer a slower pace, but I am still a mother who wants my children to be safe, soothed, and secure …as quickly as possible!

I imagine most moms are prone to “Wonder Woman Syndrome”. Without hesitation, we run in and save the day and kick those villains out of our kid’s world! Let’s be honest for a moment …or maybe for two! We silently contemplate retribution. Like the famous scene in The Princess Bride when Inigo Montoya avenges his father’s death, we have own liturgy: “My name is Mother Bear, you hurt my kid, prepare to ________!”

Hopefully this fantasy remains fiction as we come to our senses! Our true desire is to make sure creativity, beauty, and safety surround our children. We want to ensure all will be okay. But sometimes it’s just not okay. Sometimes answers are worlds away.

Could creating a safe space for honest, yet unanswered questions be healing? Could our tears speak a beautiful language of longing? Could permission to lament open our heart to understand the tender care of Jesus? Could motherhood be less about answers and more about holding space for Jesus to speak into the hurts our children carry?

WHISPERS IN YOUR EAR

Her heart was sad.
Her tears were real.
She felt unseen, dismissed, invisible.
She was longing for inclusion, a seat at the table.
The two little girls across from her were longing for the same.
One leaned over to the next and whispered.
They laughed and kept their secrets to themselves.

As I tucked her into bed, her lament surfaced.
Tears and hurts; questions and doubts emerged from her heart.
What about me?
Can I hear?
Can I know?
Do you see me?

Let the tears fall.
Let the grief be known.
Lament the brokenness.
Acknowledge the pain.
No answers.

Lament is the key to unlock the door to hope.
Was she ready to turn the handle?
Ready to walk through?
Ready to see?
Ready to believe?

Ready to ask?
“Jesus, where were you?”

Ready to listen?
“Right here …whispering in your ear.”

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