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the house is a mess; come on in

8 Comments

Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof…

Christ, I’d be impressed if you made it past the driveway.

Cracks lined with weeds. Untrimmed hedges. A half-mowed lawn. Plastic children’s toys abandoned to bleach in the sun in that tacky way I swore I’d never let happen in my yard.

And if you did brave the front door, what would you greet you in the entry as you wiped your sandals on the mat?

A towering stack of unpacked boxes. (Yes, we moved in four months ago.) Two heaping laundry baskets, unsorted and unwashed. Three abandoned, unmatched shoes. Four weeks’ worth of Sunday papers, unread and unrecycled.

And me, standing sheepishly to the side, always apologizing for what’s undone.

…but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.

Help me to breathe into what’s most important – that we who live here care about things like words and soul and healing.

Remind me that I’m called to keep up with Jesus, not the Joneses. That my work is to make a home, not a house. A home that will always be more messy than magazine.

Help me to see people unfolding and not projects undone. Help me to set aside ego and externals and endless to-do lists. Help me to embrace humility always and hospitality anyway. Help me to make a Christ room in my house and my heart.

And especially this week, as my partner in parenting leaves home to work on the other side of the globe, this week when all the child care and cooking and cleaning are left to me, help my work to be full of word and soul and healing. Full of you.

You, Lord, whose home was always full of people interrupting your work (even ripping off your roof to get inside),

who got exasperated with your family at times (and even lost your temper),

who understood how tempting it would always be for the world to seduce (and not the Word to sink in),

help me to seek and find you here. At home.

With dirty dishes in the sink and dog hair on the couch and Duplos all over the floor.

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Second chances says

    10 September 2012 at 4:12 pm

    Oh my gosh, I love this! Thank you for reminding me yet again to focus on the finish line, and not to get discouraged with my daily walk.

    Reply
  2. barrentoblessed says

    10 September 2012 at 5:01 pm

    So good and so true! Thank you!

    Reply
  3. Fran Rossi Szpylczyn says

    10 September 2012 at 7:45 pm

    Oh that is so beautifully put – thank you!

    Reply
  4. Lauren says

    10 September 2012 at 10:19 pm

    Amen to that, girl!

    Reply
  5. HomemadeMother says

    12 September 2012 at 9:17 pm

    I think I should print this out and read it every day. Such a good reminder to relax and embrace the mess rather than fighting it!

    P.S. LOVE the pic of cloth diapers 🙂

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      14 September 2012 at 11:11 am

      Thanks, HomemadeMothering!

      Reply
  6. Kathleen says

    13 September 2012 at 6:05 am

    I recognize those diapers. 🙂

    This sounds like my house in many ways…maybe it’s all of us?

    Reply
    • mothering spirit says

      14 September 2012 at 11:11 am

      I think you’re right, Kathleen – it probably is all of us. (Looking outside, imagining that other houses have it clean and all-together!)

      Reply

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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…

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thismessygrace

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

thismessygrace
Imagine the relief of arriving at an oasis after a Imagine the relief of arriving at an oasis after a long trip though the wilderness.

Like a deep gulp of water, God is waiting to refresh us in body and spirit.

We’ll meet, we’ll pray, we might even laugh. (The company of kindred spirits has a way of drawing laughter from even the hardest rock.)

We have known the long, lonely desert.

Now we get to come together in the sanctuary of solace—to hold each other’s stories, to honor our love for our children, and to hope in God’s promise: be not afraid and I am with you.

Oasis is made by grieving mothers, for grieving mothers.

A place where our tears can water new life. A time set apart when we can be known and heard in our love.

A virtual retreat to restore and rejuvenate us, right where we are.

I hope you will join me May 1-2 if you know this need. And if you don’t, will you tag a friend below? Odds are good you know someone whose heart and spirit could use the comfort of companionship and the hope of time in prayer.

Register now with the link in my bio.

With gratitude to the mothers who are joining me to create this sacred space:
@marylenaburg 
@leticiaoadams 
@justinakopp 
@michaela.evanow 
@jilliankubik 
@helenlindsay 
@fawnlyprints
I want to tell you what it means to weep with thos I want to tell you what it means to weep with those who weep.

It means you will be changed. You must be changed.

Weeping with those who weep does not mean passing the thin Kleenex of your pity.

Nor does it mean steamrolling their grief with your opinion.

Nor does it mean telling them to pull themselves up, be strong, or get over it.

It means you plunk yourself down next to them, quiet yourself, listen and let yourself be moved.

Which means changed. Which means converted.

This is why the exhortation is holy. Why we call it God’s Word and not just A Nice Thing To Do.

We read Romans 12 at our wedding. “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” Had we known then what we know now, would we have spoken words of weeping on a day of rejoicing?

Absolutely.

Our calling as Christ-followers is to be transformed by the suffering of others—and to do what we can to lessen their pain. We are here to live the breadth and depth and sorrow and joy of what it means to be human.

If you see the staggering sorrow around you and wonder where to start, sit down near the mourning, quiet yourself, listen and let yourself be moved. What they want most is to be heard and honored, supported and seen.

Weep with those who weep.

Do not seek to minimize, justify, or dismiss. Do not seek to save yourself from the mess. You are already part of it.

But you can be part of the healing, too. When you weep with those who weep.

Then ask God to show you what to do next.
Where can a mother go to grieve? She craves comfo Where can a mother go to grieve?

She craves comfort for body and soul. She seeks the sanctuary of safe space. She wants the wisdom of women who have walked this way before. She needs time to honor her love, remember her child, and wrestle with her grief.

This May, I want to offer this space of solace.

Oasis is a virtual retreat for grieving mothers. On May 1-2 (Bereaved Mother’s Day), we’ll gather to create a place of prayer and support.

In the comfort of our own homes, we’ll reflect with simple, creative practices to connect with God, each other, and our children. Together we’ll share Scripture, small groups, and space for reflecting in peace and quiet.

We’ll drink from the Word. We’ll find beauty in art and song.

We’ll learn from other mothers who understand the loss of a child.

We’ll keep finding a way in the wilderness together.

Oasis is a crossroads of connection on our journey. A place where we can pause and be refreshed. A moment’s rest where we can seek God’s peace and presence.

You can make this retreat right in the middle of your life, joining us for as much as you need.

Registration is now open on my website. Sliding scale fees & scholarships are available if you need. You can also gift the retreat to a grieving mother you love.

Whether you lost a baby before birth or a child in adulthood, your story matters here.

Step into the comfort of Oasis.

#griefsupport #grievingmother #griefretreat #childloss
Coming to you Friday morning. A big piece of my he Coming to you Friday morning. A big piece of my heart, ready to welcome you in.

Today as I sit in quiet anticipation, I’m remembering echoes of The Day Before.

The day before birth, waiting and wondering whether baby was on the way.

The day before death, hoping and praying for peace and the power of a miracle.

Tomorrow holds slivers of birth and death, all woven together, tight to my heart.

It’s a new creation I’ve dreamed about for years, but never got to bring to life until now.

Most importantly, it’s my prayer to you—that you know you aren’t alone in the broken places.

Coming soon.
The year after our daughters died was filled with The year after our daughters died was filled with stunning skies.

Violet sunsets and rosy dawns. Navy stormclouds and lavender evenings. Buttercream wisps and pewter fogs.

I spent hours that year craning my eyes up, tilting my head back to take in the wide view. Had I never looked up before, never noticed the shifting seasons in the stars?

The world was ripped open, jarring and raw—but the year of violet skies was a sole beauty.

Grief can peel back parts of existence you did not know before. We call it darkness or depression, heaping layers of shadow upon realities that reach beyond words. But what it is runs deeper: the gold-flecked vein of life cutting through the gray stone of loss.

We are shining. We are barely scraping by.

As spring unfurls into shocking buds and pale green hope, I keep remembering that wild palette of horizons five years gone.

Bruised skies, slashing rains. Watercolor sunsets bleeding into night. A pale peach sunrise so breathless and perfect I thought it might be the last on earth.

And then it wasn't. And then the next day rose and set anew. Life keeps going, even when ours stops. Equal parts blessing and curse.

We get to choose so little of what happens to us. But we have the power to notice.

Seeing can be enough to save a life.
Spent Holy Saturday musing on mothering & grief. H Spent Holy Saturday musing on mothering & grief. How birth can be like death (and death like birth). How food can become Love.
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