Several mothers crossed my path this week, each a different day.  Three mothers who, from all outside appearances, have nothing in common.  The youngest, Gloria, is a 36 year-old African-American woman living in an inner-city Memphis neighborhood.  She already has three grandchildren at the age where most women are just entering high school with their firstborns.  Helen resides in a predominantly Caucasian middle-class suburb, and at the age of 75 has no grandchildren.  Her husband died several years ago and her closest friends are in her Sunday School class.  Katya immigrated from India in her thirties with her husband and two young children.  Now, at age 57, she has just moved to Memphis from Chicago where her son, now grown with a family of his own, is a physician.

These women will probably never meet.  They will never know one another’s names and stories.  And perhaps even these three women would never guess that they shared something so deeply.  Gloria, Helen, and Katya all have daughters.  And not one of these women knows where their daughter is today.

Gloria and her 17 year-old daughter had a fight 10 days ago.  Her daughter took her two boys, both under age 2, to a friends’ house.  I talked to Gloria last Friday when I was trying to contact her daughter about test results that indicated that she was having a miscarriage.  Nothing is harder than talking to a parent and not being able to give them any piece of information about their child’s wellbeing. 

“Is your daughter home?”  I asked.

“No, she left several days ago.”  There was deep sadness in Gloria’s voice.

“Do you know how I can reach her?”

“I have this number, but no one answered.  I tried to call today.”  She was quiet, but seemed hungry to say more.

“Did something happen before she left?”

“Yes, well, we…argued…she doesn’t seem to understand that I want what’s best for her.  She’s not making good decisions.  And she has the two boys, and I worry about them all.  She says I don’t love her,” her voice cracks.  “Oh, but I do love her, so much.”

Helen’s daughter is 54.  She continually enters into abusive relationships, usually with men in severe addiction.  She left town a month ago but called Helen yesterday to say she was okay, not to worry.  But she called from an unknown number.

I talked to Helen today on the phone.  She was worried about her daughter, she is afraid that she is taking too much medicine and it is impairing her judgment.

“I know you can’t tell me anything.  I understand your position.  You would think that at age 75 you could reach your child.  But I just thought I would try something, I would try to tell someone.  Maybe you can help her next time she comes in.  I mean, she’s 54.  She’s not a child.  But she’s still my daughter…my baby.  And she knows I love her.  She knows that she has a place here if she needs to come.  I wish she would come.  Yesterday she did say that she was with some good friends, better than the last ones.  I guess all I can do is keep trusting the Lord, that He knows where she is.  That He loves her more than I do.”

I called Helen’s daughter to tell her that her mother called me, and that I couldn’t tell her anything about her medical care.

“Are you safe?  She’s very concerned,” I said.

“Yes, I’m okay.  I’ll call her again when I’m ready.”

Katya’s daughter left her husband and four children three years ago.  She decided she didn’t want to be a mother or a wife anymore.  Katya and her husband moved to Memphis to help care for her family.  Katya hasn’t heard from her daughter since she left three years ago.  She regularly comes to clinic and one time joined our morning prayer time.  She asked that we pray for her daughter to come home.

I saw Katya at the Farmer’s Market on Saturday.  We talked by the bread stand, sourdough loaves surrounding us, a sack of purple-hulled peas clutched in her hand. 

“Was your mother able to come visit last month?” she asked.  I had mentioned it last time we were together.

“Yes, ma’am.  It was good to be with her.” 

“Yes, I know.  I am so glad that you got to see her.  It is a blessing.”  Her Hindi accent was very pronounced.  She then hugged me very tight.

These women ache in a way I could never understand.  It comes through cracks in their voices on the phone.  Their eyes are weary and glisten in a quiet brokenness.  It hurts my ears to hear their pain.  To see their tears and to know that they feel so misunderstood, like failures, and deeply betrayed by this child who is so much a part of them. 

Gloria and I prayed together last Friday on the phone.  We asked God to come near, to be close in suffering and to remind us that He is the only one that understands.  We asked Him to protect her child and to help restore their relationship.  We asked for her to call home.

Finally after trying several different phone numbers, Gloria’s daughter learned about her lab results.  And she was reminded that her mother loves her deeply.  And miraculously, she did call home.

I wonder in all this what it must be like for God to be a parent.  For Him to be both a mother and a father, always providing, caring, disciplining, guiding, and nurturing… and always carrying in his heart the beloved children who don’t desire to be near Him.  His love does not diminish towards us, but is steadfast and abundant.  For Him to love less He would have to be less God; He is love.

Three mothers crossed my path this week.  

In all our brokenness and vulnerability, 

our fear and disbelief, 

our pain and heartache,

I heard God whispering.

 “I love you.  Come home.”