April was one of the hardest months of my life. If I had to guess, I’d surmise that it was difficult for you, too. For starters, we’re all preoccupied with a pandemic. Not exactly something that happens every lifetime. Despite being one of the fortunate ones safely tucked away at home with a steady income, I felt that April was heavier than the months that came before it. And full of more worries than just counting toilet paper squares and treading down an empty bread aisle. 

Sometimes you see life getting ready to throw a lesson to you. You square your feet, take a practice swing or two, then holler, “All right! Let’s have it! I’m ready!”

But it’s not a baseball. It’s a bowling ball, big enough to shatter that stupid bat. It crushes you, and you stumble away from the plate with shards of wood in your hands and curse Life for the lesson that you intended to receive with an over-the-fence, crowd-goes-wild, standing ovation.

That’s just Life, and sometimes that’s foster care.

Throughout April, my day’s respite was being able to call my mom. Without fail, I thought I was fine until I heard the sound of her voice. It didn’t matter whether she answered with Rita-like pep or whether she was out-of-breath from another bout of pneumonia – her words always brought me to tears. “Hi, angel.”  

As I walked to the park each evening, my throat ached with how much I needed her. She would know what to say. She would know what to do. I watched her growing up – she was never at a loss to know what to say whether faced with the hungry child in her school or our dying neighbor in a hospital bed. She always had the words. 

But me? In the moment when the water rises above my head, against all the rational arguments of age and self-sufficiency, I just want to call her. I need to hear her voice, to reach out and be able to touch the thread that still tethers me to family and home and personhood. It’s the deepest root. The very beginning.

And I realized – don’t these foster children feel the exact same thing? The horrendous grief of severing the most fundamental tie in humanity? 

The little I know about being a foster parent is this – beneath the tantrums, the angry words, the attitude, there is this unchangeable longing for mom. The mom who was left behind, maybe as a result of drugs or an abusive boyfriend or personal irresponsibility. It doesn’t matter. At the root of all things, it’s a need for mom. 

These children feel the same grief and longing and separateness we feel, but they’re unable to verbalize those feelings. So they come out in ugly and bitter ways. At times, horrifying and inexcusable ways.

But deep down, aren’t we all the same?

Driven by the need to love and be loved. Wholly. Unconditionally. 

My sisters and I drive our mother crazy. Heaven help us, Rita drives us crazy. But when the day dawns with only rain, or the way seems impossible, or when we receive an accolade at work, who do we call first? Whether ten-years-old or thirty-four-years-old or sixty. We call to hear the voice that was there from the very beginning. Full of love, unchanging, unmovable.  

Mom’s position in my life feels so permanent, like she’ll go on forever and ever, and I’ll be calling her when I’m ninety-years-old to ask which cut of meat is best for a roast. That’s why we call. To hear the same voice over and over, because the words and the answers no longer matter. 

Even as I write this post, I cry for those who’ve already lost their mama. Whether through Life, like these children, or through Death. Nothing in this world hurts quite like not being able to call. To be separated from that voice, destined to only hear it through home videos or a voicemail. I feel that way about my father, my grandmother.

I wish I could wrap my arms around you like she would – or should have, if life had been different.

I would tell you that you’re not alone, but that doesn’t always make it easier. Instead, I’ll tell you that one day Jesus will wipe away every tear. That He is good. That He sees everything we can’t see. And He offers immeasurable love, the kind that even the best of moms can only hint at.

Our job today is to trust and to love with our arms and hearts wide open. Wholly. Unconditionally. 

In the midst of April’s craziness, my phone crashed and my mom’s sister (our Aunt Sissy) offered to buy me a phone. She saw that I was stressed to the point of sleeplessness and wanted to make it easier because she loves me. And sometimes, just knowing someone loves you is enough to make you cry.

So, on this Mother’s Day, I invite you to love someone to tears. Especially the difficult ones. The prickly people. The ones who have been hurt. Because at the beginning of all things, we share a common longing for love.

You and I, we’re the same. 

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!” – Isaiah 49:15

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” – Isaiah 66:13