Mothers' Day remembrances of a different sort

I remember.
I remember Mothers' Day.
I remember trying to pick out the perfect gift for my mom.
I remember the testimonials in church about mothers and grandmothers.
I remember feeling grateful for my mom and I still am.
I remember my first Mothers' Day as a mom.
I remember celebrating the privilege and joy of being a mom.
I remember hearing Mothers' Day Scriptures & sermons that I couldn't live up to.
I remember getting a very special Mothers' Day card from a most unexpected source.

But I also remember Mothers' Days that weren't so wonderful.
I remember being painfully aware that I wasn't yet a mother.
I remember the deep disappointment, the grief, of having thought that I would be a mom by this date, but alas it was not to be.
I remember wondering how to reach out to a loved one who has experienced similar grief.

I remember the friend whose daughter is on the other side of the world and I know how hard that is.
I remember the friend who is dealing with great sadness and heartache because of her kids' choices.
I remember feeling like a failure as a mom, of not measuring up to somebody's standards.
I remember the friend who must be barely able to breathe on Mothers' Day because her daughter is gone. I cannot imagine living with the knowledge that she will never be a grandma and that she will never again be able to hug her own precious child or look into those beautiful eyes.
I remember the friend whose mom died just before Mothers' Day.
I also remember the friend who became a mom just after her own mom died.

I remember sticking my foot in my mouth in some of those situations.
I remember trying to comfort a friend who had just been blind-sided by someone else's insensitivity.

...

May I always remember that smack-dab in the middle of celebration and well-wishing, grief and sadness may be close at hand.
May I remember that society's celebration can intensify the pain of loss.
May I remember that some of the deepest pain is secret, that nobody else knows about it, that the person can't talk about it.

May I choose to remember...