• Skip to primary navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar
  • Skip to footer

Mothering Spirit

everyday parenting as spiritual practice

  • About
    • About Laura
    • New Here?
    • Popular Posts
    • Contact Me
    • Privacy Policy
    • Insta-Links
    • My Newsletter
  • My Books
    • Grieving Together: A Couple’s Journey through Miscarriage
    • Prayers for Pregnancy & Birth
    • Everyday Sacrament: The Messy Grace of Parenting
    • To Bless Our Callings: Prayers, Poems, and Hymns to Celebrate Vocation
    • Living Your Discipleship: 7 Ways to Express Your Deepest Calling
    • Little Rock Scripture Studies
  • After Loss
    • what to do when a friend loses a baby
    • what to do for kids when their sibling dies
  • prayers for pregnancy
    • The Complete E-Books
    • Trying to Conceive
    • Month One
    • Month Two
    • Month Three
    • Month Four
    • Month Five
    • Month Six
    • Month Seven
    • Month Eight
    • Month Nine
    • Infertility
    • Miscarriage
    • Morning Sickness
  • Prayers for Parenting
  • For You
    • favorite resources for parents
    • faith resources for ministers
  • Show Search
Hide Search

finding his song

15 Comments

I finally found his song. It only took a year.

When he was first born, in that bleary, dreamlike blur of the early weeks, I sang anything – show tunes, rock songs, church hymns, folk ballads. I had all the time in the world to sing, awake with him through the wee hours. His tiny new ears didn’t care how tired my voice rasped. Sometimes I sang just to keep myself from nodding off.

When he crawled into the alert baby months, needing more of a routine to quiet down for bed, my songs grew shorter, more repetitious. One verse for the diaper change, one for the rocking waltz towards the glider, one for the last gentle lift to crib. I didn’t pay much attention to song selection; we’d go through weeks of one, then I’d wander into another. The effect was nil: he hated the changing table, preferred jostling en route to rocker, and slipped so quickly into sleep after nursing that it didn’t seem to matter whether I sang or not.

Force of habit kept me going, but I figured he simply wasn’t a snuggler.

Then a few weeks ago, as we wrestled through our nightly post-nurse, pre-bed squirmy-baby-wants-off-lap, I paused in my mindless humming of the same song I always sang his brother. I started singing something new. A song deep from my own childhood, echoes of my parents tucking blanket under chin, kissing forehead, turning off lights. A song that thousands of babies have been sung before, but a song I’d never sang to either of mine.

He stopped squirming. He stared up at me with round owling baby eyes, inquisitive even in the evening dark of his room. His body relaxed into mine. His eyelids lowered. And he let me sing.

It’s his song, of course. I’d just never found it before.

Bedtime is different now, since our discovery. We both want to be there, in the lilting lullaby and the rocking chair rhythm. He lets me sing two, even three rounds before he starts to stretch towards crib. I kiss him softly, keep singing as I turn to go. What a wonder to find the song that was in both our bones all along.

Lullabies are overlooked in importance. Our first encounter with word and rhyme, rhythm and song, comes from the lips of those closest to us when we first enter the world. The simple songs are the most ancient, wordless hums from our ancestors. Some are universal, others are particular to the era or music or poets our parents loved. We hear them hundreds of times before our brains even understand what language or music means. But they can set our pulse to music.

My bones are strong with song. Many nights when I was young, I had four different lullabies sung to me. With two older siblings and two parents making the rounds of rooms to tuck us in at night, I often heard an alto, a soprano, a baritone and an almost-tenor before my eyelids shut. Like any child resisting bedtime, I begged for endless rounds of infinite songs. But my special ones were always the same, always particular to the singer.

My mother crooned “A Bushel and A Peck” from Guys & Dolls (though I thought she wrote it just for me). My father drummed his fingers to “Lullaby and Goodnight.” My sister sang “Edelweiss” in a voice sweeter than Julie Andrews. And my brother grinningly sang “Wee Willie Winkie” with our own lyrics, full of silly jokes. I delighted in each lullaby and its singer. For a few precious minutes every night, at the end of a noisy day in a big family, I had each of them to myself. I knew those moments were to be savored.

But my own songs weren’t the only ones I loved. For years my younger brothers shared a bedroom next door to my own, and as our roving band of singers made the bedtime rounds, I listened to my brothers’ lullabies, too. I can still hear my dad bellowing through the open doorway – “Camptown Races” rollicking for one brother, Ireland’s anthem “The Soldier’s Song” proudly proclaimed for another.

Why did it take me so long to remember the truth I learned in my own childhood, night after night? That the beauty of each child is reflected in the unique songs we sing them. That what works for one will not always work for another. That we each need our own lullaby.

Each of my boys has their own song from me now. It took us awhile to get here; I’ll likely have to relearn this lesson a thousand times as I keep going – to delight in their differences, not to force them into another’s mold. But the way that sweet baby relaxes his busy limbs and breathes deep into my lap as we rock and I sing, the way his brother faithfully requests the same lullaby every night, even when I try to slip in something new, they remind me what they need from me the most – to be a mother to each of them in their own way.

With their own rhythm, their own words, their own song.

Share this:

  • Share
  • Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)
  • Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)
  • Click to share on Pinterest (Opens in new window)
  • Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window)
  • Click to print (Opens in new window)
  • Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window)

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. HomemadeMother says

    26 August 2012 at 10:20 pm

    Love this post! I had a similar experience just the other day with Mack. I held him close and sang “Feed The Birds” from Mary Poppins. He cannot get enough of it. Whenever he wants to chill out he climbs on my lap and asks for the “Toppins” song 🙂

    Another bedtime song I always sing comes from Notre Dame. In dorm mass in Badin we’d sing “peace I leave with you my friend, my friend” in rounds and I always LOVED it. I now sing it to my babies every night, and they usually sing along, too. Its a special bedtime ritual, thanks to Our Lady.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      27 August 2012 at 7:35 am

      Ooo two more songs to add to the repertoire! 🙂 We used to sing that same “Peace I Leave” in Walsh, and I never thought to sing it to the kiddos – what a great idea!

      Reply
      • Liz says

        29 August 2012 at 1:46 pm

        I always sing Peace I Leave with you to the kids. And the fight song… and the alma mater…. and the Here Come the Irish song… and I play Rudy music… and they love it all..:-)

        Reply
  2. Fran Rossi Szpylczyn says

    27 August 2012 at 5:07 am

    Mmmmm – so lovely, beautiful. The lullabies that are in our very bones, I love this thought, it reminds me of how incarnation and grace.

    And when I was little, I thought that my mother was the creator of the bushel and peck song as well!

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      27 August 2012 at 7:37 am

      Incarnation and grace – yes! Well said.
      And I love that we share that song! I tried to sing it to my oldest for a while, but I think I have to save it for a daughter…it reminds me too much of the mother-daughter bond. Doesn’t work quite right for me otherwise. Songs sometimes get set that way, too.

      Reply
  3. Lauren says

    27 August 2012 at 10:46 am

    My mother used to sing me Amazing Grace every night. The gentle lilt of her voice, the softness of her fingernails as she tickled my back–sacred memories. I know there are theologians and liturgists who can’t stand this song, but it will always be a favorite. I believe firmly in the “grace that’s brought me safe thus far and [that] grace will lead me home.”

    When I used to babysit, I frequently relied on Amazing Grace to get the baby girl I took care of to sleep. We’d wander the house as she cried for her mama, and I’d sing that, and You Are My Sunshine, and I Love You So Much, and Scarlet Ribbons, and The Servant Song, and Mystery by the Indigo Girls. Again, sacred memories.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      28 August 2012 at 8:11 am

      Lauren – lump in throat. I still love “Amazing Grace,” too, no matter what. Pretty much can’t sing the verse about “when we’ve been there 10,000 years, bright shining as the sun.” Beautiful images of your mom singing to you, and you singing in turn. Sacred memories indeed.

      Reply
  4. rootstoblossom says

    27 August 2012 at 2:31 pm

    I sang to all my babies, and still do when allowed by them, usually only when they are sick or just extra cuddly. Such a sweet post and gave me warm fuzzy memories. Need to hold on to those moments, they’re all growing up on me.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      28 August 2012 at 8:12 am

      Thanks, rootstoblossom. Mine are still babies and yet I feel like they’re growing up on me, too…

      Reply
  5. Roxane B. Salonen says

    27 August 2012 at 4:37 pm

    Beautiful! As someone who has always enjoyed singing, I looked forward to the day I could sing to my children. I will never forget when, while practicing for a song to be sung in a wedding, my young tot put his hands over his ears and said, “Stop!” 🙂 To this day, he is not one to appreciate my gifts — or to openly admit it, at least. I wonder if someday he will wish I sang more often and louder. Despite his resistance to my song, I continued to sing through early mothering and don’t regret a minute of it. I loved this post and the reminder that each child is unique. I have wept at the words of some songs that remind me of life with young children. “Masterpiece” is one I’m thinking of right now. I had to learn it for an event and as I practiced, I would cry at certain parts, it resonated so. 🙂 Again, thank you for beautiful words about a profound aspect of mothering and connection.

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      28 August 2012 at 8:14 am

      I don’t know that song, Roxane – I’ll have to check it out! And yes, singing is a powerful connection. I think it’s one of the practices that helps me so much in these early mothering years; it calms everyone down, self included, and pulls us out of the moment towards something more beautiful.

      Reply
      • roxanesalonen says

        28 August 2012 at 9:42 am

        Here are the lyrics, and you can find videos on Youtube. 🙂

        Lyrics:
        Before you had a name or opened up your eyes
        Or anyone could recognize your face.
        You were being formed so delicate in size
        Secluded in God’s safe and hidden place.

        With your little tiny hands and little tiny feet
        And little eyes that shimmer like a pearl
        He breathed in you a song and to make it all complete
        He brought the masterpiece into the world.

        You are a masterpiece
        A new creation He has formed
        And you’re as soft and fresh as a snowy winter morn.
        And I’m so glad that God has given you to me
        Little Lamb of God, you are a masterpiece.

        And now you’re growing up your life’s a miracle
        Everytime I look at you I stand in awe
        Because I see in you a reflection of me
        And you’ll always be my little lamb from God

        And as your life goes on each day
        How I pray that you will see
        Just how much your life has meant to me.

        And I’m so proud of you
        What else is there to say?
        Just be the masterpiece He created you to be.

        Reply
  6. Kelly says

    28 August 2012 at 2:26 pm

    Laura, your writing made me remember the songs my Momma used to sing to me when I was a little girl. Thank you.

    Reply

Trackbacks

  1. an (un)surprising end to an (un)surprising year « mothering spirit says:
    31 December 2012 at 4:09 pm

    […] to cover up colds and coughs (now shared by both brothers) with snuggles, songs and stories. And somewhere along the way, between the heaps of laundry and the piles of presents […]

    Reply
  2. like a mother and child | mothering spirit says:
    26 January 2015 at 7:02 pm

    […] are a few more musings on lullabies: finding a song for each child and singing to babies as a spiritual […]

    Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Primary Sidebar

About Laura

I’m Laura Kelly Fanucci. Mother, writer, wonderer. This space is where I explore mothering through writing. It’s where I celebrate how God shows up in the chaos of raising children. It’s where I love to build community with readers like you. Read More…

Follow Laura

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Pinterest
Laura Kelly Fanucci
Books by Laura Kelly Fanucci
e-books by Laura Kelly Fanucci

Mothering Spirit Newsletter


Sign up for the Mothering Spirit newsletter and receive my free e-book, Prayers for Everyday Parenting
EBOOK | Subscribe to Mothering Spirit




Henri Nouwen quote

From the Archives

Footer

Follow Me on Facebook

Follow Me on Facebook

Follow me on Twitter

Tweets by laurakfanucci

Follow Me on Instagram

thismessygrace

Mother, writer, wonderer.
Seeker of God in chaos & life with kids.
Author of Everyday Sacrament & Grieving Together.
Glimpses of grace & gratitude.

Instagram post 2192445717293184648_1468989992 “What if God were helpless?” Her question shook me.

We had sat together for an hour, wrestling with the biggest, hardest questions—suffering and death and grief and trust. But even from where she sat in her rocking chair, hair white with wisdom, eyes searching up at the ceiling for answers that don’t exist, her words shook me.

No, I wanted to leap to protest. God has to be Helper, not helpless. Powerful, not powerless.

Otherwise everything unravels, right? Otherwise what is solid ground? Otherwise who can I trust?

But I caught my own words. It’s Advent, after all. What we celebrate at Christmas is exactly this: God becoming helpless.

A newborn baby: nothing more helpless among us. Born into poverty. Vulnerable among animals. Away from his community. Unable to walk or talk or feed himself. Helplessness Incarnate.

And this was what God chose, the ultimate Power that set the stars spinning. Incarnation was the vulnerable, unexpected, scandalous, unbelievable way that Love took flesh and came to stumble in dirt beside us.

What if God were helpless?

What if it’s not a hypothetical question, but a theological paradox? What does it mean for my life?

It shakes me, as it should.

If you have understood, wrote Augustine, what you have understood is not God.

Advent is not a simple season, chocolate calendars and Christmas countdowns.

This is a time to remember that Jesus’ story is radical, upsetting every neat category and tidy expectation.

It would be easier if God stayed powerful: distant, removed, almighty. The shock is that Jesus becomes powerless, too: intimate, humble, among-us.

What if God were helpless? What would it mean for my life, my faith, my need for surety and solid foundation?

If God can be both—Helper and Helpless—what else might turn upside down? What grace might be waiting in the wreckage of our expectations?
Instagram post 2191564285632887396_1468989992 Anna Quindlen wrote that hidden within each of her grown children is the baby they once were, like the toy duck in the bathroom soap.

I feel the same way about infertility.

Yesterday I curved my sore back over the baby huddled inside, bent and swayed by the bathroom sink, seeking any relief. Nausea, sciatica, normal aches and pains—all of it daily burden, barely worth mentioning after all these years.

But I felt her rise up within me, the one who wanted Exactly This. All of This. Nothing But This.

She is the me inside me, the former and forever.

I see her in crowds, the one in ten walking brave each day through a world that flaunts what she wants (as the world does when we are wanting, filling our longing view with happy couples or pregnant bellies or warm homes or good jobs while we lust for the same). I carry her with me as I have carried each child, the ones whose hands I held and the ones I had to let go.

She taught me what it meant to crave control and to discover that I have none. She gave me the language of lament and the songs of sorrow.

I left her behind eleven years ago, on a cold winter morning like today, when a thin plastic test blurred to two lines for the first time.

I burst through the bathroom door as someone new, someone pregnant, someone’s mother.

I have never been the same.

But she is still me, and I am still her. Every day she prays me back to the place of all who are still waiting and weeping.

I could never call infertility a gift. But her companionship is.

When she whispers, it is louder than any stranger’s sneer, the judgement heaped upon four kids running ahead and a waddling mother trailing behind.

This, she reminds me.

You wanted exactly This.
Instagram post 2191077565846125357_1468989992 Advent is waiting to be discovered.

By those of us who have lived it for a lifetime. By those of us who have found it brand new.

Advent is quiet and calm when the world is anything but.

For those of us who delight in stillness and silence. For those of us who struggle to slow down.

Advent is the antidote we seek.

For those of us who crave radical challenge. For those of us who love ancient comfort.

Advent is never what we expect and always what we need.

The shortest season for the longest wait.

The perfect paradox for the God of surprises.

Advent is already the gift.

You can dip into this current any time, running strong and steady beneath the chaos of December above.

Any Advent moment will bring you peace and joy, which is already Love Incarnate, which is already Emmanuel, which is God among us.

A miracle. Don’t miss it.
Instagram post 2186625723368059660_1468989992 When I was pregnant with the twins, a strange thing happened.

As we started to share the news—in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving—people reacted in a way I never expected.

Instead of raising eyebrows or laughing out loud, they would get this wistful look in their eyes, offer a longing “oh...” and pronounce the strangest blessing. “Your holidays are going to be so wonderful.” I thought they were insane. I could not understand. What on earth did Thanksgiving have to do with it? Didn’t they see that all my plans had been dumped in a blender and set to Purée? That I never wanted twins, or five children under six, or any of the current complications life was hurling my way?

But over and over, friends and strangers looked at me with wistful, longing faces, saying so many times I lost count in my bewilderment:

Your holidays will be so wonderful.

Imagine all of them around the table.

You’re going to have so much fun when they’re all at home.

I am not in the habit of judging family size. Infertility, loss, first-hand heartache of the complexities and complications of childbearing have ripped back the stories beneath the surface. I know there are a thousand reasons why one might choose (or not) to have any number of children—or none at all.

But what I learned from countless unexpected reactions to my own unexpected news was this surprise. Sometimes we see only scarcity or overload where others are able to see fullness.

You might think your life is too much or not enough. But outside perspectives catch angles you can’t glimpse from where you stand. Goodness might hide where you see only hard.

Now I remember those voices every Thanksgiving. In years when holidays felt painfully lacking and in years when they brim to bursting, I remind myself how many saw fullness I couldn’t see.

Whether dreaming of the future or longing for the past—from countless friends who whispered they wanted one more or the stranger who told me she would have had ten if she could have had one—what they taught me was the beauty of here and now. The goodness before my eyes, even if it was never what I would have chosen.

We believe we see our whole story. Thank God we don’t.
Instagram post 2180338770783390438_1468989992 The world is different because of them.

Not just the two who inspired tonight, the girls we loved and kissed and held as they left this world.

But every beloved child whose name or life was spoken into that sacred space.

The world is different because they were here.

47 years ago, one mother told us as she lit her candle in the chapel. And it doesn’t get easier.

Two weeks ago, said one dad. And the whole room felt it, the weight of new grief and the rush of our own memories, ever an inch below the surface.

On the drive to church tonight, I told my husband that I was so grateful that Maggie and Abby inspired us to start this Mass for other families—and I also wanted nothing more than to turn the car around and head home. Anywhere normal.

But we don’t get to choose, any of us. Life happens and death happens, and the world is different because of every person we’ve chosen to love. Even the ones we had to let go.

Two weeks. 47 years.

That room held so much love and sadness tonight that my heart could hardly bear it—but here is the phenomenal power of the human heart. It was made to hold so much more than we realize.

We don’t move on. We don’t get over it. We don’t put it behind us. We don’t forget. We remember, together. What a gift, to be part of our communal awakening to the truth that remembering together—not suffering alone—is the way we heal.

The world is different because they were—and are now and ever shall be.

Love without end, amen.
Instagram post 2177704820978590285_1468989992 When we were dating, then engaged, then married, I used to catch a glimpse of him and think—God, please send us daughters.

Because I had never met a man like him, so strong and gentle all at once, so humble and quietly confident, so genuinely kind and caring.

I watched how he treated his mother, his sister, his friends, and me.

And I knew—with all the women who suffer father wounds, who never learn that they deserve to be treated with respect by every single man they meet—that we were meant to have daughters.

I knew it—but I was wrong.

Read the rest at MotheringSpirit.com. Big news on the blog today 💛
Load More... Follow Laura on Instagram

Copyright © 2019 Laura Kelly Fanucci · site customizations by Jamie Jorczak

This website uses cookies to improve your experience. Please click "accept" to keep reading. You can opt-out if you wish.Accept Reject Read More
Privacy & Cookies Policy

Necessary Always Enabled

loading Cancel
Post was not sent - check your email addresses!
Email check failed, please try again
Sorry, your blog cannot share posts by email.