With each of the babies I bore, my body changed. Only some of the changes were temporary. Years later, my hips are wider than they were before. My hair colour darkened. And there are silvery stretch marks over my abdomen and thighs, faded from their original bright pink. These changes and marks are physical reminders of the growth and struggle of bringing new life into the world. This year, on Mother’s Day, I realized that I also have stretch marks on my soul.

My oldest nephew graduated from high school on Mother’s Day, and our family gathered to celebrate a young man who is unassumingly kind, deeply wise, and hilariously funny. The sun was shining, the weather a perfect reflection of our joy. And we were there without his mom, holding together all the gifts and accomplishments of a son, and the pain of the absence of a mother. My mom gathered us and planned the parts with grace and generosity, even when eyes were rolling and glistening with tears.

Eight years later, we have the opportunity and invitation to walk through the places where Abbie’s absence is felt most acutely. We could try to ignore them or minimize their impact, but those choices just have different consequences. The longer I live, the more aware I am that everything is passing away. No good thing lasts forever. No struggle is without end. Any desperate attempt to avoid pain, cling to certainty, or bottle the present happiness is impossible. More than that, the efforts limit my ability to get the most out of what is happening right in front of me.

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When I show up for all of the moments of my life as they are, I discover that joy and sorrow can co-exist together. My soul is stretched beyond its previous capacity. As it flexes, I feel the scar tissue beneath it, the wounds healing still. The transformation in the most intense seasons was so intense and fast that my soul is marked in the same way my belly is.

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And all this stretching is happening in new ways in this season. My oldest daughter will also graduate in the coming weeks. She is figuring out her plans for young adulthood, mapping a course of her own. She does not need me in the same ways she used to. I am so proud of her and simultaneously a bit afraid of what she will face on her own. I know that these are leaps that need to be taken.

While she takes flight, the rest of our family is also preparing to move provinces. We are excited for the next adventure that life has for us, and we are grieving the friendships, schools, workplaces, and community we are leaving behind. Moving stretches us to make room for more people and places to shape us.

In Isaiah 54:2, the Israelites are in exile and living the suffering of their losses while they hope for a better future. The prophet writes, “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes.” I love this image of life’s challenges and invitations making more space in and around us. 

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It is always tempting to resist the hard and painful parts, to hate the stretch marks, and run away from the challenges. And, it is so much more helpful to me to see how the stretching can make more space. I have always known that there are beautiful people everywhere, but I only met these ones when we moved to this particular place. When we move, we carry them with us rather than just leave them behind. I would not have asked to lose my sister, and her loving me from eternity has made so much more space in me to walk beside others in their losses. The stretch marks on my soul are the reminders of the growth and the strength and the space.

When the tent is larger, the curtains wider, there is room for laughter and for tears. There is space for flying away and coming home. Sure, there are tears in the fabric and the mending is fashionably visible. The stretch marks give this space in my soul character - and hope.