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everyday parenting as spiritual practice

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sacrament, interrupted

10 Comments

I jostle one boy on my hip and nudge the other a step closer to the front of the line. Herding cats, I think as he wanders into the neighboring line of communion-goers.

Using my one free hand I gently guide him back by the shoulder and whisper in his ear about trying to stay near mama. We’re only a few people from the front when the toddler in my arms lunges away and starts kicking his feet in protest, demanding to walk, informing me in no uncertain terms that he does it himself.

When we reach the priest at the head of the line, I ready myself with a smile – maybe even an apologetic one for my motley crew – but he’s nowhere to be found.

Instead he’s already crouching low to smile at my boy and ruffle his hair before he blesses him, in words just at his level and his own name added at the end as a kicker.

Then he stands up again and does the same for the child in my arms: a welcoming grin, words of love and blessing.

Only then does he turn to me, the one waiting with outstretched hands, to offer another broad smile and the Body of Christ. I gratefully accept both.

I love that this is our parish’s practice, to bless the babies and offer words of communion to the children before they are old enough to receive. But once in a while I find myself restless, wanting the minister to hurry up so we don’t delay the line behind us, or wanting to get communion myself and get on my way.

Exactly the moments it does me good to have this sacrament interrupted.

What is grace if not given freely, not deserve by the one who waited patiently but poured out on every face that comes forth to a welcoming table?

What is sacrament if not shared first with the least, the forgotten, the neglected?

Maybe all sacrament is interruption. God breaks into what’s most ordinary – bread, water, love, forgiveness – and blesses human attempts to make holy. We’re jarred into remembering that wine and oil and candles and rings clasp truth to our hearts in ways more powerful than words. We need the ritual, the rite, the action, the sign. We need it spoken to us personally, like Christ pulling one child onto his lap, and communally, as a church trying to re-member ourselves back into one body.

And we need it to keep interrupting our expectations: that we are in charge, that we control faith, that this life is ours for the taking.

Every Sunday now, as I herd the cats back to our crayon-strewn pew, I hear them plead with a hungry look back towards the line we’ve just left: “I want Communion next time! Why don’t I get bread, too?”

This is how our restless hearts come home, I think.

Learning to long for the love they see extended.

Wanting to receive the blessing they are promised.

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Natural Mama Nell says

    22 July 2013 at 7:30 am

    I love this!!

    Reply
    • Laura says

      22 July 2013 at 9:15 am

      Thanks, Nell! I don’t know why WordPress was giving you trouble with commenting earlier – case of the Mondays, maybe. 😉

      Reply
  2. Laura Fanucci says

    22 July 2013 at 7:53 am

    Sunday, my children were asked to bring up the gifts. This was Sofia’s first time and she was so excited. The 17 year old and the 8 year old brought up the gifts and as they stood there, they were blessed by Fr Peter. My 6’1” son with the priests hand on his head being blessed…yes i cried.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      22 July 2013 at 8:06 am

      Laura, I love this story & image! What a blessing! We are never too old for it…

      Reply
  3. Anna says

    22 July 2013 at 10:19 am

    Stumbled across your blog this morning. Beautiful!

    Reply
  4. Anne @ Big Shoe Running says

    7 March 2015 at 12:27 pm

    Exploring your posts today and loving your perspective. My three year old always reaches out for the Eucharist and I’ve learned to put aside my frustration that she’s ignoring my request to cross her arms and to pray that she always longs for Jesus this way! http://bigshoerunning.com/2015/02/26/the-sweet-spots-mass-with-your-family/

    Reply
    • Laura says

      15 March 2015 at 2:30 pm

      Anne, I am so delighted to connect with you here! Isn’t it amazing what our children teach us about God and faith? I love your perspective of praying that your daughter always reaches out for Jesus in this way!

      Reply

Trackbacks

  1. What I Learned about Parenting from My Pastor | CatholicMom.com says:
    25 August 2013 at 8:02 am

    […] every Sunday in the communion line, he bends down to greet the children first, shaking their hands and speaking words of blessing before he shares communion with their […]

    Reply
  2. we care about the crumbs | mothering spirit says:
    6 March 2015 at 6:00 am

    […] I love that I am part of a church that cares for these crumbs. A church where children are seen and blessed. A church where children are called by name. A church where all parts of the Body of Christ are […]

    Reply
  3. We Care About The Crumbs | Practicing Families says:
    4 May 2015 at 10:31 am

    […] I love that I am part of a church that cares for these crumbs. A church where children are seen and blessed. A church where children are called by name. A church where all parts of the Body of Christ are […]

    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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