It had been my intention to write something in this space about Mother’s Day. I feel particularly blessed to have my mom in my life. We talk several times a week and we laugh a lot and cry sometimes, too. I am grateful for all she has passed on to me and how she has been a mentor in more ways than probably either of us realize.

I am also blessed to be a mother of two young men who ceaselessly bring me joy and fill me with wonder. Watching their lives unfold is one of my life’s great gifts. There are also young women who, though I did not give birth to them, feel like daughters to me. This generational landscape that makes up my daily life, that colors how I see the world and the hopes and dreams I have for it, is never far away.

But this year’s celebration of this day that pays homage to those that mother, whether literally or figuratively, seemed a bittersweet day. Unlike those that I call sons and daughters, there exists in the world a band of mothers whose daughters have been taken from them. The young Nigerian women kidnapped from their school would not leave me. Like people all around the world, I have been outraged, saddened, and unable to fathom how humans can do these kinds of things to one another. How can it make any sense at all to take young girls at the freshest time of their lives and hold them for some political or religious purpose? Of course, this is not a logical act and the question I ask is based on some belief that logic or humanity or compassion makes sense to every one in equal measure. We know this is not true.

When I was in college I lived next door to a family from Nigeria. Actually, there were many students on campus from Nigeria studying and preparing to make a better life for not only themselves but also for their country. This was my first experience of people whose lives had been so different than mine. I treasured the time with them and came to know them as friends, particularly the two children, Cheetah and Ansu. They liked hanging out at my apartment. We did crafts together and played games. I also showed them how to put sprout seeds in a mason jar, cover the end with a nylon stocking and grow sprouts for their sandwiches. They thought it was magic! I thought it was a cheap way to make a sandwich taste better. Daily they would show up at the window of my apartment, push their beautiful brown faces against the screen to check on their sprouts.

This past week I have thought of them. They would now be about the age to be parents of one of these young girls. In thinking this I was once again face to face with the deep connection we have as human beings. We are woven together with mostly the same hopes and dreams regardless of where we were born, the color of our skin, the house we live in, the language we speak, the God we worship. We want to be safe….and know that our children are. We want to have food and shelter….and provide it for those we love. We want to be loved…..and to love. We want to make meaning of our lives….and create a place where the next generation can do the same.

And so on this Mother’s Day, I was filled to overflowing with love and gratitude for my life and my sons who I helped bring into the world and who bless me every day. That overflowing stream was also filled with the faces of those young women that I name ‘heart-daughters’. The privilege with which I walk the Earth was not lost on me as it is not, I hope, lost on them.

But my heart was also breaking for those Nigerian mothers and fathers who did not get a phone call or a card, who know nothing of this day we celebrate so richly here. Instead, they live with a fear and despair I cannot imagine. The prophet Jeremiah’s words floated in my mind: “A voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted.”

Rachel weeps. The Nigerian parents weep. We weep. The Holy weeps.