When Attending Church on Mother’s Day Hurts My Heart

I have a confession to make… for 6 years I didn’t attend church on Mother’s Day. I could not will myself to do it.

My lack of attendance was really a symptom of the greater pain trapped inside which was fear of vulnerability and church not feeling like a safe place on that day.

We had regularly been attending a church that put on a traditional Mother’s Day service. The service began with a call for everyone to stand up and hug their mother. I remember the praises that rang out throughout the sanctuary. I stood awkwardly, hugging my elbows to myself, and smiling at the families around us.

Silently suffering alone.

A known local female celebrity gave a happy little talk highlighting the sacrificial roles of a mother. Worship-like platitudes flowed from the stage. For a brief moment, there was a grievous pause for the woman who was unable to bear children, paired a recognition of those who found it difficult to celebrate Mother’s Day. I wondered if the intention might have been to embed it in a prayer as to not make it obvious for those of us who were struggling.

And then the program quickly moved on with the happy stuff. When the service ended, a flower was placed in each mom’s hand as she walked out of the service. Those handing out the flowers eyed the space around me to see if there were any children following.

Familiar shame crept in as they held out a flower then pulled it back questioning themselves.

I ducked my head and diverted my gaze. Children ran up to their mamas with sticky crafts covered with hearts, glitter, and drawings made just for them in their Sunday school classrooms. Blessings rang out as mothers were whisked through the doors and led to their cars for brunch with their full families.

After four soul-crushing years of infertility, I was able to achieve a successful pregnancy.

I sat in that service uncomfortable, 14 weeks precariously and still unnoticeably pregnant. The stadium seating chairs posed a positioning challenge for my growing womb. As I shifted in my seat, I noticed this wasn’t the only growing discomfort I felt.

During the prayer that was supposed to “see me”, tears streamed unchecked down my face. A reckoning set in that I did not want to be celebrated. My desire and agonizing yearning was simply just to be a mother. They didn’t need to highlight me for it.

My heart wept for the women in my circle that waited, and especially struggled through this day. Who were guarded and ashamed in a place like this that should have been a safe sanctuary.

As the years unfolded, our family grew with a lot of Jesus and a little bit of science. I also went on to carry 4 babies who would never be held by us this side of heaven. Two of them would have been born around Mother’s Day.

I never returned to that particular church service again. Mother’s Days instead were spent having a quiet brunch and often a reflective walk in nature. Solitude. Lament. A different type of “church”.

A grievous remembrance of all that was lost while at the same time celebrating the life of my three miracles here on earth. My Ebenezers. My heart broke under the tension of deep grief over my babies in heaven while I tried my best to soak in every minute of joy from the three little gifts that grew too fast right in front me.

The day that was meant for recognition and thankfulness also held deep pain and unanswered questions.

It was both celebration and mourning. Both were never forgotten. Both were never completely reconciled.

Three years later, in a new church family, a dear friend and church lay leader suggested I give the Mother’s Day prayer at our church. I felt a very visceral reaction to this request. “Pray about it,” she said.

I expressed my concerns that this prayer would not be your standard Mother’s Day adoration. That wasn’t the prayer in my soul. She encouraged me to let the Spirit lead.

I saw the opportunity in front of me for a different Mother’s Day, but I knew it would require a strength I wasn’t sure I had.

A week later I stood on a stage paper shaking in my hand and voice wavering. First, there was a brief recognition for the role of motherhood.

Then I opened my heart to share my own story thus recognizing the number of unspoken losses and grief that room held.

A hush fell over the sanctuary. Faces softened, hands rested on shoulders, hugs gripped more tightly. A distinct shift had occurred where the burden that was secret and crippling, was now communally carried (Galatians 6:2, 1 Corinthians 12:26).

A sweet friend ran out from the back of the sanctuary after I closed our prayer and embraced me tightly with tears in her eyes and whispered, ”Thank you.” 

I realized in sharing my heartbreak, I could be set free by giving away the pieces.

I could be ushered into the presence of an Almighty God who sees and hears my pain. I could provide a sense of hope and peace for another in the valley.

I had a new awareness of a church body who wished to suffer alongside me.

While the tension of joy and deep grief still holds on Mother’s Day, but I pray that you will find, as I did, that sharing brings you closer to healing and the Healer.

Heather LaVigne is a Christ follower, wife, and mother through a little bit of science and a whole lot of Jesus. Heather was a Nurse Practitioner for 15 years before becoming an author, teacher, and ministry partner. With a deep love for scripture, it is her honor to walk alongside women in any stage of life, particularly those involving grief and loss.  She is an advocate for those suffering through infertility, pregnancy, and child loss. Her book is called Barren: A Shared Journey of Infertility, Loss, and Faith. She lives in Comstock Park, MI with her husband, three children, two cats and rambunctious Labrador.