On the bathroom counter — right where he knew I’d come first thing this morning — Kevin left me a sweet, sweet Mother’s Day card.

It lay atop a photo album open to a picture of me, in a blue hospital gown, holding a swaddled still-newborn Atticus with a little, curly-haired toddler Lucas by my side on the hospital bed.

The card begins, “Today I’m remembering how you looked that very first time you held our newborn child so tenderly in your arms…”

I’m crying because it’s so, so sweet, not just the card but the thought he put into choosing it and placing it.

And I’m crying because I miss him and can’t tell him what I’m typing right now until he returns home from his third day in a row working a more than 12-hour shift in the prison…no matter the holiday…

And I’m crying because he just doesn’t do cards. Usually. What a surprise!!!

And I’m crying because not only will I miss my sweet, considerate husband today, but I will also likely only see a third of my children today.

One is with me always, the way I know God intended from the start. The other two got caught in the fault lines when old relationships quaked. One ended up on the other side of the crevasse; the other still walks the thin limb between from week to week.

And this is not even counting the ones who have gone on before me, leaving me with a signature aching to ever hold them tight.

This morning, I pray for them all.

I offer up my joy and my pain for my children, in varying states of distant, and for my husband, who understands and feels with me all this and much, much more. Mother Mary, keep them safe and help them always to know they are loved.

And I pray for all mothers in varying states of longing for children here and gone — including my own mother, who has seen more than her share of suffering from my own distance and woe. May God bless you all and comfort you.