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this is heavy. but we are also strong.

26 Comments

Last night before dinner I stole a few minutes while the quiche was cooking to cut up melon for tomorrow’s breakfast. The evening news hummed along on the radio, and the boys played peacefully on the porch. I savored the clean slice of chef’s knife into cantaloupe.

For one of those rare moments, everything around me rested calm and content.

But little ones can hear the sound of silence; it’s the most seductive siren they know. Sure enough I turned back to my cutting board to find the smallest helper had shoved over a chair from the table and was ready to help.

“What you doing, Mama?” he asked, bouncing where he stood.

“Cutting melon. Do you want to eat some?”

“No. I want to hold it,” he insisted, pointing at the half melon waiting on the counter.

“Really? You can try to hold it if you want, but it’s big – be careful.”

(Always with our warnings. As if we could rescue them from falls and spills and snares by words alone.)

He lunged for the melon’s slick surface, its round face bigger than his own head. His chubby hands grasped the sides firmly, and I watched his arm muscles start to quiver slightly as he raised it an inch off the counter.

“Ooo,” he marveled. “It’s heavy!”

“But I am strong.”

. . .

A professor from grad school used to remind us that the measure of maturity was the extent to which one could live with ambiguity. Why do I still find myself stuck marveling in adulthood how often I have to hold paradox in trembling tension? It grates at me not to resolve the unresolvable.

Maturity means growing into the space where the world does not make sense and yet we agree to live there. Because it can still be good. Because there is no other option. Because we are always asked to carry more than we think we can.

A friend who taught kindergarten once told me a story about how he helped his young students understand that they could feel multiple emotions at the same time. They might complain to him that they were tired, but he would remind them that they were also strong.

I loved this idea. I tucked it away in the back of my mind – remember this when you have kids – and along the way of raising our young boys, these dichotomies became part of our family parlance.

You might be tired, but you’re also strong.

You might be sad, but you’re also brave.

You might be mad, but you can also be calm.

And that night at the kitchen counter, marveling at his own small strength, my toddler made the connection for himself. He held the tension in his hands and realized it was nothing to resolve.

It was simply something to hold.

. . .

So many people I know are carrying something heavy these days. Kids who are sick or parents who are dying. Unemployment or overwork. Relationship anxieties or financial stress.

Maybe it’s just the nature of living in this broken world as fragile humans. But sometimes what we’re asked to carry feels overwhelming.

Given that context, my current woes seem eye-roll-worthy by comparison. Morning sickness that drags for months, exhaustion that feels never-ending. I know it means a healthy baby, and I never take that truth for granted. But my younger brothers can attest that I am a notorious wimp when it comes to pain: I whine about the slightest discomfort and will never be described in an obituary as saintly in long suffering.

So nausea and vomiting that feels like a three month stomach-flu-meets-hangover? Not my easiest burden to bear.

Even when I try to keep the complaining to a minimum, the litany is always circling through my head. Please God, make it stop; please let me feel better today; please let me be near the end. 

In my mind, the body becomes the burden.

But this body has borne my babies, birthed my babies, nursed my babies, too. This body has brought forth life, even as I’ve had to lay it down in a thousand small deaths. This body has allowed me to do some of the best work I’ve been blessed to do. 

So while this body may feel heavy now – while it may be a burden when I’m lurching for the toilet or dragging myself out of bed (or shuddering to remember how much bigger I’ll get by pregnancy’s end) – this body is also strong.

Pregnancy’s paradoxes remind me of what a two-year-old already remembers.

That we are each asked to shoulder the weight. But we are also strengthened for the carrying.

. . .

What weighs heavy in your life these days? Where are you also strong?

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Comments

  1. rootstoblossom says

    20 November 2013 at 8:48 am

    I love this, simple yet powerful. I completely understand the pregnancy bit though, I recall the months of miserable nausea and pain way too well, and also felt guilty for complaining about the miracle that was growing inside me. I wish you and your baby health and plenty of strength. xx

    Reply
    • Laura says

      20 November 2013 at 8:56 pm

      Thank you, rootstoblossom! Solidarity always helps, so I appreciate your sympathy. It is a tricky balance indeed, not wanting to take the gift for granted yet struggling with the reality of how hard it can actually be to bear. Maybe miracles are heavier than we think.

      Reply
  2. Melissa says

    20 November 2013 at 8:57 am

    Love!

    Reply
    • Laura says

      20 November 2013 at 8:56 pm

      Thank you, Melissa! And I should tell you that the source of the story I mention about the kindergartners is none other than Zac…never forgot that tale he told me.

      Reply
  3. rwnielson says

    20 November 2013 at 9:45 am

    Beautiful! You should submit this one to Power of Moms!

    Reply
    • Laura says

      20 November 2013 at 8:57 pm

      Thank you, Rachel – that’s a great idea!

      Reply
      • lu says

        18 November 2016 at 4:30 am

        God is restoring my womb, 4 weeks pregnant going through minor bleeding have had 2miscarrages. Im walking with faith

        Reply
  4. Lauren says

    20 November 2013 at 10:46 am

    Thank you for this reflection. I have been teetering–that’s too strong of a word–on the edge of anxiety. Work is stressful, but it’s also blessed and productive. (That is, when I’m not taking the time in the middle of the morning to check your blog. 🙂 ) Friends and family are struggling through relationships and difficulties.

    I woke up last weekend in a panic, the first time I’ve done that in over a month. But rather than succumb to the attack, I talked myself out of it. It still stayed with me the next day, the frustration that three years after my uncle died I still wake up afraid that something is wrong with me, that I am alone, that something will go horribly awry.

    And yet, I find myself making the choice against anxiety, against living in fear. The last three winters have been dark and dreary but managed with the aid of medication and friendship. This year, I notice myself turning away from the chaos of a fearful mind. It’s there, and it breaks through occasionally, but there is a grace present that’s helping me to look toward what is good and holy and peaceful and whole. A year ago, that couldn’t have happened.

    Indeed, there is much to carry, but we are strong.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      20 November 2013 at 8:58 pm

      Yes, yes, amen. So much to carry. But we don’t have to do it alone. That is the promise of grace, I think. Which can come in the form of friends and loved ones and medication, too. The goodness that carries us through the dark. Thinking of you in these dreary November days, and grateful for the goodness breaking through in your life.

      Reply
  5. Val says

    20 November 2013 at 2:55 pm

    Morning sickness is one of those things where the what it points to and the what’s at the end of it can help you get through it. Actually, it brings me quiet joy to know this is your problem. <3

    Reply
    • Laura says

      20 November 2013 at 8:59 pm

      Thank you, Val – quiet joy is a good place for me to start too. Yes, the ends indeed justify the means in this case. Although the means can be messy, too!

      Reply
  6. Val says

    20 November 2013 at 9:13 pm

    Somebody really ought to do Mary with morning sickness. I’m not saying that to be flip, but she’s always so lovely and “together” all the time in art. I refuse to believe her pregnancy was devoid of biology, it messes with the theology of the incarnation as, well, incarnate. If you go by artistic depictions? She saw an angel, visited Elizabeth, then rode a donkey led by a really old man. Given her often lavish surroundings when encountered by the angel, I’ve been led to believe she reclined on satin cushions for the duration of her pregnancy, except when she was reclining on velvet cushions instead.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      20 November 2013 at 9:23 pm

      Val, stay tuned for a piece I have coming on CatholicMom.com this Sunday on EXACTLY THAT SAME SUBJECT. Great minds think alike!

      Reply
      • Val says

        21 November 2013 at 1:21 am

        Hey, I’m just happily looking forward to the one month a year I’m “allowed” to love Mary without getting raised eyebrows. 😉

        Reply
  7. Ginny@RandomActsofMomness says

    20 November 2013 at 9:35 pm

    What am I carrying these days: a heavy teaching bag full of Hamlet essays (literally and figuratively weighed down by grading!). I’m also toting a general load of stress about how the heck I’m going to finish this semester and get all the grading done in time. But I love your reminder that I’m stressed, but strong at the same time. I’ve gotten through grading hell before; I will this time, too.

    Thanks for the reminder. 🙂

    Reply
    • Laura says

      24 November 2013 at 2:45 pm

      Oof, what an image, Ginny! Yes, you are literally carrying quite a load! I hope the end of the semester will bless you with a few moments of peace amidst all the to-dos. And yes, knowing what we have carried (and survived!) in the past can often be the biggest source of strength for what’s still to come.

      Reply
  8. Alisa says

    21 November 2013 at 10:17 am

    I absolutely love this post. We ARE stronger than we think – it’s true! I witness this again and again as a doula, within the space of all kinds of births. Thank you for writing & sharing this!

    Reply
    • Laura says

      24 November 2013 at 2:44 pm

      Thank you again, Alisa! I love how you apply this to birth and your work as a doula. There’s a lot of tension – physical and mental! – that we have to hold all at once during the birthing process. This will be a good truth for me to remember, too!

      Reply
  9. Sarah Monson says

    22 January 2014 at 2:14 pm

    I know how awful those months of morning sickness are! Thank you for reminding us that even when feel weak, we are really demonstrating our strength!

    Reply
    • Laura says

      24 January 2014 at 2:55 pm

      Thank you, Sarah! I need to remind myself of this every day, too – that we can be strong even when we feel weak!

      Reply
  10. taramoyle says

    12 October 2014 at 2:12 pm

    Thank you for this Laura! My husband and I just found out that I am 8 weeks pregnant for the first time at age 44. It is a surprise and something I had long since come to accept would not happen. However, we are realistic so are aware of our odds during this first trimester. We live in ambiguity all of the time but during periods of acute stress it’s heightened. I will keep in mind that while not knowing this outcome is unbearable, it is also somehow bearable. What a comforting thought right now! Blessings to you and yours.

    Reply
    • Laura says

      12 October 2014 at 2:47 pm

      Tara, what an amazing story. Thank you for sharing it here. You are certainly living right into this mystery and ambiguity…I will keep you all in my prayers and hope for all good things!

      Reply
  11. Beth Orchard says

    7 March 2016 at 9:14 am

    What is heavy and what I’m carrying: a deeply held loss of ancestral mothering that I never got to hold onto. My own mother was lost in hoarding, mental illness and chaos of her own mind and my father was also a sufferer of bipolar and they were divorced to add to the mix. While my mother was kind, generous and giving she was also controlling, demeaning and unavailable to support my dreams and goals. As such we don’t have much of a relationship so we are not connected even though she’s alive. Her mother was never kind to me and I didn’t know my dads parents well. I feel a loss with my one year old son of how to mother well in a season of grief over feeling a deep loneliness of mother loss. I’m looking at writing a book on how this mother loss informed my early years before a baby and finding myself.

    Thanks for your beautiful site.

    Reply

Trackbacks

  1. most-ly: a year in review | mothering spirit says:
    31 December 2013 at 9:30 am

    […] with the most clicks: This is Heavy. But We are Also Strong. I loved that Blooma (a great resource for Twin Cities moms!) picked this post to rerun on their […]

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  2. Power of Moms Pick: this is heavy. but we are also strong | Support for Moms - Power of Moms says:
    20 January 2014 at 11:48 am

    […] then we handle more, we continue. Why? How is this possible? In Laura Kelly Fanucci’s essay, this is heavy. but we are also strong., she offers a thoughtful, poignant answer that stems from her small son’s declaration of […]

    Reply
  3. when did we decide that we were bad at art? | mothering spirit says:
    9 April 2014 at 7:47 am

    […] If we didn’t listen to the voices who told us we weren’t strong enough. […]

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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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If our daughters had lived, we never would have pl If our daughters had lived, we never would have planted this garden. 

There are pockets of beauty in my life today that could not have existed if they had survived.

Acknowledging this does not mean I accept their loss. Or that I wouldn’t trade it all to have them here instead.

But the grieving know this strange, stubborn, saving truth: that goodness can grow in the gaping holes left by the ones we love.

I don’t know any simple ways to make sense of the hard times in which we’re living. As a porous soul, I feel it all and it breaks my heart, even as I cling to what I know is true.

But loving and losing my girls has taught me that life is both heart-breaking and resilient, that surviving is more complicated than we suspect, that most people are walking around shattered beneath the surface.

Sometimes I can catch a glimpse of it, searing as sunlight: the grief in someone’s eyes behind their anger, the burden sagging their shoulders, the past that’s poisoning their present. Few things have transformed my life more than learning to recognize pain in others.

Grief is a long letting go of a life you thought you’d have. Most of us are carrying more of it than we realize—or remember when we’re dealing with each other (especially when we’re tearing each other down).

Go gentle today. Practicing compassion and generosity of spirit will crack open more of the world and its confounding struggles. You might lose the satisfying clarity you clung to before life broke your heart in complicated ways, but you will find more of God in the messy, maddening middle.

I have learned this much from the garden I never planned to plant, from a version of life I never dreamed.
Nearly 20 years ago (!) these crazy kids graduated Nearly 20 years ago (!) these crazy kids graduated from Notre Dame. Now we’re thick in the midst of life-with-kids, celebrating middle school & preschool & everything in between. 
 
Since June is a month for graduations & celebrations, I’m delighted to help you celebrate with @grottonetwork .

Grotto Network shares stories about life, work, faith, relationships, and more. Check out their videos, podcast, and articles to help you reflect on where you are in your journey.
 
Grotto Network has generously given 2-$100 gift cards to Bloomin’ Brands Restaurants (Outback, Carrabba’s, Bonefish Grill & more) to help you celebrate this month with friends & family! It’s a huge giveaway, because we all need to savor and celebrate whatever joy we can find these days.
 
To enter the giveaway, follow @grottonetwork and @thismessygrace and leave a comment below about what you’re celebrating this month. Tag a friend for extra entries (up to 3).
 
Rules: Open to the U.S. only. Entries will be accepted until 6/11/22 at 11:59 pm CT. The 2 winners will be chosen at random and announced on 6/12/22. Per Instagram rules, this promotion is in no way sponsored, administered, or associated with Instagram, Inc. By entering, entrants confirm that they are 13+ years of age, release Instagram of responsibility, and agree to Instagram's terms of use.
“How did you do this?” I want to ask her. “H “How did you do this?” I want to ask her. “How did you let your heart break a thousand times?”

I want to call my mother and ask her impossible questions, to probe her heart that held five children and let each of us go in the hardest ways. But I know what she will say, “It’s hard. But you’re doing a beautiful job.” She can’t give words to the deepest yearnings and groanings. None of us can.

I wish I could ask my grandmothers, each of them gone for decades now, each of them matriarchs who raised big broods of their own. I never got to know them as an adult, but I have heaps of questions: How did you do it? How did you not lose yourself or your way? Or did you, and that was precisely the point?

I want a whole book of answers to impossible questions, and none exists. So I send my thoughts to the mothers of faith whose short stories, mere snippets on pages, have sparked small lights to guide me along. To Sarah and Ruth, Hagar and Rachel, Mary and Elizabeth. Every unnamed anguish the holy ones carried, every treasure of love they held in their heart.

Is it any coincidence that birth often brings both cries and screams, laughter and joy?

We hold it all within us. We cannot give words to the enormity of what it means to mother.

I sit outside a coffee shop two blocks from my children’s school on a sunny afternoon, the last day of the year. I wipe away tears for the natural nostalgia, but I also feel the gutting grief welling up from my own wounds of motherhood to know a deeper truth: marking milestones with love and longing is nothing compared to the gaping loss of not having your child here to break your heart in a thousand tiny ways.

So I resolve again, a hundred times again, to let this vulnerability become the strength that keeps me fighting for all children to have what I want for my own: life, love, health, safety, support, opportunity, community, hope. This is how parenting asks us to change. To let the particulars of our lives stretch us to love more widely.

I once thought “to mother” meant to have and to hold.

Now I know it also means to let go.
Many of you asked me to save these suggestions I s Many of you asked me to save these suggestions I shared after the school shooting in Uvalde.

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Start there. Let your life and love lead you.
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Today is the Feast of the Visitation. A day when we remember the meeting of Mary and Elizabeth.

Two women pregnant with new life, blooming with prophetic power.
Two mothers called to change the world.

What would happen if we gathered together like this today?
How could the world change if we made Mary’s song our own?

“He has shown strength with his arm;
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.”
(Luke 1:51-53)

Imagine if we stayed in this holy space—not for a moment’s meeting, but for months together—to gestate the dreams God was waiting to birth through us.

Imagine if we let ourselves be filled with the Holy Spirit to shout out with loud cries.
Imagine if we lifted our souls with prayers of justice and joy.

Imagine if we gave each other strength and service, courage and compassion, as we kept asking how to answer God’s call in our ordinary lives.

When women meet, the world changes.

If you want to know how to fight for justice for your children, for your people, for this world, look to the Visitation.

The mothers will show us the way. They already have.

(Image from the “Windsock Visitation” by Br. Mickey McGrath, OSFS, commissioned for the Monastery of the Visitation in north Minneapolis.)
Here’s what I wish I would have heard preached t Here’s what I wish I would have heard preached today on the Ascension.

Right now is a time to be prophetic and pastoral, a time for each of us to ask how God is calling us to act.
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