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carry the load

7 Comments

Laundry round here is eternal.

Diapers, dirty dishclothes, daily heaps of socks and shirts and pants and bibs and towels. It piles up in towering heaps overnight, and just when I slam the dryer door shut with a satisfying thwack and declare it tackled, I turn to find my boys covered in marker or yogurt or (worst) mysterious unknowns.

IMG_3104

I sigh, strip them down, fill the tired barrel of the washer once more, and set it again to spin.

Laundry without ceasing.

. . .

I have a handful of friends who are pregnant, most of them expecting number three or four, none of them amateurs at gestation but all of their hands and hearts already full to the brimming. I’ve promised them prayers, dip into their days with a quick email to inquire how they’re doing, but it never feels enough, not when I know how dark and depressing and downright overwhelming the burden of bearing baby can be. I wonder what more I can do, especially for the far-flung friends, the dear ones far across the country that I can’t surprise with a casserole and a hug and a how are you really doing?

What can any of us do to help carry the load?

Of course it’s prayer, I know that’s the answer, but it seems so small and trite sometimes. An easy promise to hold up, to keep in mind, to whisper good thoughts and happy hopes to smooth the way. I’m still learning, slowly, stumblingly, what I believe about prayer, but I’m quite sure it’s nothing like the power of positive thinking or the secret that stops the universe to grant my heart’s desire. If prayer is about bending myself to the way of Christ, allowing myself to be changed, humbling myself back into the heart of the divine, what does it mean to carry other’s intentions with me as I go?

I’m still not sure.

But I do know one thing: prayer reminds. Even when it may not help or heal, it reminds.

. . .

I pause from the pile of laundry to read a favorite blog, clicking through the pages as I ignore the clothes around me on the couch, half stacked in neat piles of designated owner, half still strewn in a messy dump from the dryer. When I stumble upon the simple post about praxis of prayer, a tangible mindfulness of uniting intention with the everyday, the idea falls into my lap like a soft jumble of small socks:

I’ll carry my laundry for them.

How many times a day do I bend to grab the plastic handles of the bulky baskets, lug them up and down stairs, stagger them around corners, fill them to the back-breaking brim? How many times a day could I easily remember those expecting, each one of my friends who carry something much weightier and more wonderful than even clean laundry? What difference might it make – for them, for me – if I slowed to remember when I stooped to carry again?

The more I muse, the more laundry I fold, the more it seems right. This is how prayer becomes incarnate: in everyday actions.

. . .

Laundry seems endless in these early years: the late-night laundry, the soaked and stained laundry, the kid clothes and grown-up clothes all tumbling together in the dryer. Pregnancy can feel like that, too: endless and oh-so-bodily. Good work, necessary work, but so tiring, so cumbersome, so overwhelming.

I remember at the end of my pregnancies when my husband rushed to grab the basket out of my hands before I lugged it up or down the stairs, balanced on my basketball of a belly. Let me help! he’d say with exasperation. Let me carry that – you’ve already got enough.

IMG_3105

I’d laugh to myself (what did he think I did while he was gone all day?) but without protest I let him help. Let him carry the load. Let myself rest for a moment and remember how much I was already carrying.

Maybe prayer’s like that, too: a willingness to carry and be carried.

To learn when to remember and when to rest in each other’s arms.

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Lauren L. says

    25 January 2013 at 11:04 am

    You’ve read Anne Lamott’s “Traveling Mercies,” right? One of my favorite explanations about the act of intention is in those pages. Lamott recounts the story of her first visit with her Jesuit priest friend. She says that he told her to stop praying. Years later she asked him about that encounter. He said something along the lines of, “Prayer had gotten so big for you. You needed someone else to do it for you for a while.”

    That is, to me, the essence of what it is to be in a praying community. When things get too big or too dry or too heavy, someone else takes part of the burden, slakes our thirst with prayer words, carries the load.

    After quite a restless time of prayer, I have gotten myself back to my prayer chair with more regularity. This morning as I sat with Psalm 19, my mind wanted to run circles around me. I nearly rushed myself through the process–too much work to get to and praying was just a distraction! Slowly, I turned my prayer book over, closed my eyes, and forced myself to sit in silence while I focused on the act of praying, opening myself to the presence of God that is so palpable if only I pay attention to it.

    I am grateful for that time this morning. The slowness has seeped into my day, which was what I needed.

    I love what you say about still learning what you believe about prayer. Indeed, each time we open our hearts, we are confronted with the possibilty of conversion. Yes, it seems so very small sometimes, but it is these small acts of intention, I believe, that let grace in the door.

    Reply
    • Laura @ Mothering Spirit says

      28 January 2013 at 9:47 am

      Yes, yes, yes. I love Anne Lamott’s words and I love yours. If I don’t let a little slowness seep into my day, the whole mess spins away from me so quickly. Being confronted with the possibility of conversion is frightening, as you say, but isn’t that precisely why we ask other people to hold us in prayer? Because we recognize what’s wrong and we need help to make it right or to accept the brokenness that can’t be changed.

      Reply
  2. Kate A. says

    25 January 2013 at 11:43 am

    Amen, Mama. <3

    I feel so far away from so many of my dear ones, and all they *can* offer is prayer or good intentions from a distance. So this line struck me: "I wonder what more I can do, especially for the far-flung friends, the dear ones far across the country that I can’t surprise with a casserole and a hug and a how are you really doing?" And the fact that that even occurs to you, that you would do that for a nearby friend, touches my heart in a really deep way. By being so far from the people I love, I have missed out on both the opportunity to care for others and to be cared for in that intimate way. That sort of care is prayer made flesh, and I am desperate for it. Thanks for writing this. <3

    Reply
    • Laura @ Mothering Spirit says

      28 January 2013 at 9:48 am

      “Prayer made flesh” – love this incarnation you describe. It’s so hard, isn’t it, being so far from the closest ones who can mother you when you need it most? I have been there, and it just aches. Carrying my load for you today, friend…

      Reply
  3. Lydia says

    25 January 2013 at 12:32 pm

    You made me cry today. I had an absolutely horrible, miserable day yesterday. Someone to carry the laundry is exactly what I need. I love your Momma’s heart! <3

    Reply
    • Laura @ Mothering Spirit says

      28 January 2013 at 9:49 am

      Thank you, Lydia! I love your honesty, but even more I love your optimism (like your post yesterday) that this mothering life remains full of deeper joy even during the awful days. I hope this week brings a little more peace your way…

      Reply

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  1. An ode to stress | thelissachronicles says:
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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.

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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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