Mother’s Day comes as a wonderful day of celebration for most, or maybe only for many while the rest glue plastic smiles on and pretend the day is one of celebration. There are three ladies in my life who I’ve celebrated on Mother’s Day, and this year, not one of them is here to celebrate.

My mother still lives, however, by her own choices, is no longer part of my life. I’ve struggled since childhood with the “Ideal of Motherhood.” I’ll be the first to admit fault and broken humanity makes for trying times; however, the woman I knew to be my mother did not exist. I could deal with the duality when we were apart – it’s easier to hold onto a dream when there’s distance – but, each time our paths crossed, each time we were in the same room, the pain was undeniably immense. When my own children began to experience pain with which they never should have had to deal, I sought pastoral counseling. It was a difficult process, a difficult time of soul searching, and a difficult decision. We laid ground rules. I reached out with an olive branch. It was clear she didn’t want a relationship with me or my family anymore. I mourned that day almost as if the angel of death had come to visit.

A few years prior, my mother-in-law was on the angel’s pick-up list. Ten years prior, on the eve of my wedding night, God told me we would only have a brief 10 years with Amy’s mom. A few months later, Susan was called upon to pray over a family friend’s son who had been in a severe skiing accident that should have taken his life. Susan asked Amy and me to go with her. We gathered at the friend’s house and prayed. I learned how to pray that night – to really pray – at the knee of a warrior woman of God. That night I became Elisha to Susan’s Elijah. In my spirit, I knew I wanted a double portion of her blessing. At the end of the night, when we’d returned to Susan’s house, I asked her for something I knew I had no right for which to ask, but I also knew I couldn’t NOT ask.

“Mom,” I started, searching for the courage to finish the request, “can I have your Bible when you’re finished with it?”

“Thom, you don’t know what you’re asking for,” she started. “I mean…I won’t be finished with it until….” Her words fell away. She looked me straight in the eye, put her hand on my shoulder, and said, “Today you have truly become my son.”

I didn’t really realize the gravity of that statement for a very long time. Nine years later, while she lay in a hospital bed after her first of many heart attacks, I stood trembling.

“Mom…” Amy stepped out of the curtained area to give us privacy. She knew what I was going to ask, and she felt she needed to leave us alone. “Mom,” I started again, “I’ve come to ask for that double blessing,” I finished just above a whisper.

“Thom, it’s not up to me, but I’ll ask,” she said with a slight smile. Then she lay her hand on top of mine and prayed. A little over a year later she was gone. That loss rocked my world. It rocked Amy’s world. It rocked my boys too. The realization of my request has grown inside of me in ways I had not anticipated…especially in the past two years.

The last woman I’ve celebrated on Mother’s Day was Amy, my dear wife. Two years before we’d even met, I’d been diagnosed with a pituitary tumor and a disfiguring growth disease. The doctors told me I would never sire children. When Amy and I began dating, it was one of the first things I disclosed. For many, it would have been a deal breaker. We began talking and planning for an adoption…five actually. Eight months after we were married, Amy was told she could never carry a child. Three months later we learned that doctors only “practice medicine” – they haven’t perfected it.

It was my 25th birthday, and I was standing in the bathroom of our little apartment holding the pregnancy test strip Amy’d used in the night. When she went to bed, it was negative. When I pulled it out of the trash, it was positive. Fearing a false positive, Amy used the second test strip and then we headed to the doctor’s office for confirmation.

I never saw Amy happier than when she held each of our three sons for the first time. She was a natural at motherhood; she made it look easy…very easy. The first time she held each one, Amy prayed an incredible, warrior mom prayer. I wish I’d had a way to record those prayers so my boys could hear her voice and remember her fierce determination for their souls to know God. Each prayer was unique. Each prayer was expertly fashioned for the child she held. And each prayer was prophetic, asking God to watch over her son(s) through trials, specific trails, she intuitively knew were looming in the shadows of each boy’s future. The only similarity between the prayers was the admission, “God, thank you for loaning us this child, Your child, to raise. Help us do so with Your wisdom and Your Word.”

A tremendous gap was created in our family when God took Amy away from her physical pain and sickness.

Yesterday, I was overwhelmed with the “looming onset” of this matriarch holiday. I didn’t know how I would navigate the day with my boys. Our first Mother’s Day without Amy happened to also be my oldest’s 18th birthday. We spent the day celebrating the women in my boys’ life who stepped into the vacuum left by their mother. It was a happy and sad day. Last year was an awful fight between one child and the rest of the family. This year, I wanted a different day. But I didn’t know what that day would look like. My youngest wanted to bake a cake and then hole up in his room after church on Mother’s Day…to “get through it.” My angel with Autism wanted to watch his mother’s memorial service and then “do everything Mom would have loved to do with us!” My oldest would still be on campus in Southern California, spending Mother’s Day with an empty dorm and a few other RA’s stuck on campus for the 48-hours-after-checkout duties. I couldn’t think of a plan because I couldn’t think of a way around re-watching the memorial service and walking around with a shredded heart for the day.

When I find myself up against a wall, unable to move, in this season of parenting, I’ve learned to reach out for help. I sent a text out to a few of the women God’s firmly planted in my sons’ lives with my dilemma. The result was astounding. I found myself marveling at God’s miracle. The Mom Mafia spoke – many of them replied to my text – with the same message: this year is to be about making new, fun traditions – Amy wouldn’t have wanted us to all be locked in the house sobbing, unable to keep on living.

So today, this Mother’s Day, without any mothers, my youngest two headed to the beach to laugh and make new memories.

Tonight, I marvel at the wonderful day that was had (even by Micah). I want to celebrate the Mom Mafia who, nearly three years later, are still offering wise warrior mom prayers, who are still seeking ways to love on my boys and speak into their lives, and who are continuing to impart wisdom and encouragement to this tired dad, in spite of the parental load they already carry. May God richly bless this army of women (and their brave and wonderful husbands).

-C, -J, -J, -K, -L, -M, -M, -M, -N, -S — “The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace” (Num. 6:24-26).