Some days I want to be a mother. 

Want isn’t the right word to use. Some days I long to be a mother. This morning I ran across a post on Instagram. It was a mother grieving the transition her son had made from breastfeeding. The image was beautiful. The words she used drew me in as if I was there. As if I had mothered before. As if I knew how it felt to wean. I imagined the child I never had, receiving nourishment from my body. What a privilege, I thought. What an incomparable connection. What a memory. A memory that this mother would have for the rest of her life. Barring a health challenge affecting her brain, she would carry this memory with her to the grave. 

But he wouldn’t. 

He wouldn’t remember how much he needed her. He wouldn’t remember the days when he consumed milk by bringing his lips to her chest. But yet, it was still beautiful. It was clearly formative. You couldn’t look at this picture and not see the love between a mother and her son. But his memory wouldn’t serve him in the way it served her. For her, this memory was locked, and she wasn’t letting it go. For him, as he grew, he would remember less and less about those moments.  

As I thought about that photo throughout the day, I wondered how God felt when He knitted us in our mother’s womb. I wondered if He has a picture of it. And if He looks back at it often. I wondered how He feels, and if it matters that we have no remembrance of what He did. I wondered if we would think differently about ourselves if we had knowledge of the good things that were on his mind when He called us into existence. I wonder. 

But I know this. 

When He knitted me together in my mother’s womb, He gave me the desire to mother. And He knew, in this lifetime, if I would give birth to a child. Motherhood doesn’t always come through a pregnancy. Sometimes God chooses to allow the desire to linger while he writes out a different story. 

Life is precious. And to be gifted with the ability to birth a being is priceless. I hope to have my own version of that picture one day. It may not look like hers, but memories of mothering can still be carried to my grave. My body is no less valuable if it never brings physical nourishment to a child. I don’t have to carry a fetus in my womb to be called mother. But mothering, I never want to give up on that. I want to be able to look at a picture and say, God, thank you for allowing me to mother. Thank you for giving me memories. Thank you for trusting me with this life. Thank you for giving my hands the strength to hold him well and allowing my heart to be both tender and firm. 

If you are a mother, through birth, adoption, or simply through your innate nature, tell your children the story. Tell them how much seeing them come alive meant to you. Tell them how it changed you, how it motivated you, and where it took you from. Tell them it wasn’t always easy, but they were worth it. Tell them you would do it all over again if you had to. It’s okay if you don’t have a picture to place in their hands. Tell them, and with your words, create an image that they can carry to their grave. 

If you are a mother, not only do you have a story, but you have been instrumental in constructing one. Tell us how that felt. We really want to know. Tell us what chapters led to streams of tears and which ones made your heart leap with joy. Tell us which pages you wish you would have read a bit slower, faster, or maybe even not at all. 

Tell us. 

Because we may not remember those days. And for us girls, we may not understand the sacrifice of your mind, body, and soul until someone calls us by that name. Mother. But while we wait, it will give us hope. Because we are praying that one day we’ll watch a story unfold that God has birthed through us. And the words you have given us will be used in the story that we longed for years to be told.