Back in May I got together with a with the woman whose feelings I was sure I had hurt on one of the evenings of my daughter’s play. She invited me over for morning of tea and conversation. I always like talking to her, as she’s one of those people who you just dive in deep with as far as conversation goes. She had strawberries and muffins and these pretty little plates set up in a screened in porch.

Her first question for me was “What are you grieving?” It was such an odd question that it scared me at first. Was I supposed to be grieving something? Did it seem like I was grieving? Was this some sort of sign that grieving was imminent? The first thing that came to mind was my son, the whole thing about children growing up and moving on. “Ethan”, I said, a little self-conscious about my answer.

She gave me an old copy of The Magnolia Journal, the magazine that always has Joanna Gaines on the cover. She’d marked a page about a woman who was writing about grief. The woman wrote:

“I wanted to be a mom so bad and felt called to be a mom, so when I couldn’t make that happen I felt stuck in some sort of in-between space. I realized that I didn’t really know who I was and I also didn’t know how to start the process of figuring it out. I had to create space and step outside of my situation, and I had to have the guts to grieve. I learned that just because I’m hurting, it doesn’t men I don’t trust God. I didn’t have to get over this quickly or sweep it under the rug to benefit others. It’s ok to grieve and it’s ok to give myself permission to have a hard time. It’s ok to be just where I am in this journey.”

My son and I had a very close relationship when he was little. He was an absolute joy to have around daily and be with. I loved being his mom, carrying him around, watching Arthur in the background, buying his dot-to-dot books that he loved to do.

Somewhere in the middle years we lost what we had. The last thing I remember he was a third grader in the track tent, in one of the only meets I saw in grade school. While going through his room this summer, I was packing up the things from his walls. There were ribbons from his elementary school years, from the track events when he was in 3rd and 4th grade. I had no idea he had been in so many meets.

Or at least, I had no recollection. What I remembered was us holding hands, walking to the concession stand to buy us both some hot chocolate. He wasn’t weird for him to hold my hand, or sit with me under a blanket between events. I don’t even remember ever seeing him run. I just remember the long jump because that one had a picture. I remember the two of us staying up late to watch the Cardinals in the 2011 World Series.

He was only seven years old. Somewhere all of this slowly stopped happening…

Heartache is definitely a part of motherhood, just as it is in many other vocations. There’s the wonderful relationship I had with my son. There’s the relationship we had together but lost. There’s the relationship I hoped for but never had. There’s the time with him I can’t get back. There’s the part of my heart that will always be his.