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everyday parenting as spiritual practice

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stay close to the stories

41 Comments

Another morning is blueing into being over the thin horizon behind the dark trees. It is icy cold, fresh frost ringing the windows and slow snowflakes drifting down behind the glass.

I am trying to convince myself to get out of bed.

Already the toddler is singing from his crib, and his brothers are gobbling eggs and pancakes downstairs. The clock tells me another school day is beginning, and there are the usual hundred things to do. All the regular reasons that pull me from warm sleep.

Today I am not sure it is worth it.

My head is still aching from yesterday, hours at the hospital and a dizzying blur of specialists with concerned faces and scary scenarios. Something seems to be wrong with the babies; no one seems to know exactly what; all the options they offer are alarming.

I cannot let myself enter into the sorrow and worry and grief behind every one of the questions whirling through my mind. I do not want any of this. 

I know I have to do the small things that must be done. Push back the covers and put my right foot on the floor first. A silly superstition when the day must be started right. Turn on the shower to hot. Light candles against the winter darkness while the water warms.

I step inside the steam. Try to remember myself as beloved by the One who knit me together in a mother’s womb, too.

And then I slam both angry fists against the wet tile wall because I am helpless and scared.

You cannot do this to us. You cannot have brought us this far for this. Not now. I went through all these months of sickness and throwing up and anxiety and worry, and you cannot take these babies from us now. You cannot do this. All I want is to go back to Before, when life was simpler and worries were smaller and I could just have one ordinary day. You cannot do this to us. Promise me this is going to be ok. Promise me. 

Which is exactly when the story comes back to me.

Grumbling and anger and bitter mumbling among the murmurs – all this way for this? To wander hungry and hopeless? To die in the wilderness? When at least we had bread and fleshpots back there in Egypt, back where we knew our suffering at least, where the familiar was all around us and not this awful unknown? Why did you do this to us now? To kill us and our children with thirst?

There it is: quiet and simple and true. The deepest memory, the of-course of the ancient story, the same anger and despair, the fearful frustration of the wild unknown. (And I cannot help but laugh to think my body’s current state could best be described as “flesh-pot.”)

I stay under the water’s steady stream, and the quiet of-course keeps prodding me to remember, to listen, to live into what I know to be true.

Because how does that well-worn story end? God tells terrified Moses to take his trembling staff and slam it hard against the rock – the huge, heavy, daunting boulder in front of him and all those angry Israelites. And when he strikes the stone, water gushes forth. Fresh hope, new life, clear truth.

The shock of exactly what they needed.

This is always the way the story ends. We wander and forget and despair, and then God says, see? I make all things new. I bring forth life and love and hope where there seems to be none.

Stay close to the stories. I have been hearing these words in my head for weeks, scribbled them down on a note next to my latest project because I thought it was a reminder about the work.

No, I realize then. It was the reminder about everything.

Because if I am going to claim this Christian way as mine, if I am going to dare to live into what this life and love and identity mean, if I am going to survive in this dark and daunting world, then I have to stay as close as I can to the stories. The stories are what make hope.

Anthropologists and sociologists and writers and preachers – they will all tell you how much stories matter. How they make us and break us; how we know each other and ourselves within them; how they hold the only power for transformation.

And I know this, I believe it on my best days, but in the doubting moments, the fists slammed on the wall moments, the threats to life itself moments, it is so tempting to feel alone. To despair at the present troubles. To wander far from the stories.

To stare at the looming rock and forget that water can spring forth from its cold crags.

I stay in the shower for a few more moments, standing under the rushing flow and staring out the foggy glass door, that frigid winter morning still dark behind the steamy bathroom windows. Without thinking I trace my finger through the water drops clinging to the glass. One large heart. Two small hearts inside. What seems hard is softened with hope.

The question is always the same: Is God here or not?

The stories give me answers when I have none.

Stay close to the stories.

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Comments

  1. Shelley says

    13 January 2016 at 10:30 pm

    Beautifully written. I know we are strangers but I will hold you and the babies in my thoughts and prayers.

    Reply
  2. Millie says

    14 January 2016 at 1:22 am

    It is well. It is well. It is well.

    Reply
  3. Amy A. says

    14 January 2016 at 5:40 am

    I am praying for you, your babies, and your family.

    Reply
  4. Amanda says

    14 January 2016 at 5:59 am

    I wish only to offer echoes of what had been offered already: Silent prayers from well meaning strangers. My heart aches for whatever you are going through, being a fellow Minnesotan and twin mom, I feel connected to you and your story. Though this may not be the time, your writing is profoundly beautiful, everything I wish mine was, it tells stories that touch people. Stay close to them, indeed.

    Reply
  5. Kay says

    14 January 2016 at 7:11 am

    Praying for you and your family. Also a Minnesotan and the mother of twins who are now 45 years old. All I can offer is prayer. Feeling your discomfort. Peace, dear one.

    Reply
  6. Kathryn says

    14 January 2016 at 7:55 am

    It’s always in the moments of “please God don’t ask this of me” that He shows up. Rather, we fully show up with Him. With great suffering comes great grace. But the grace always outweighs it. I promise.

    Reply
  7. Cajuntexasmom says

    14 January 2016 at 7:56 am

    Prayers for you, friend, as you navigate this desert. Praying for your Moses, whomever that may be, that they may shed light and love on your situation, and help you find the answers you seek. Praying that torrents of grace wash over you as you sojourn. Holding you in my heart.

    Reply
  8. Lydia says

    14 January 2016 at 7:58 am

    I am ptaying for you and your babies. Thank you for writing so beautifully.

    Reply
  9. melody says

    14 January 2016 at 8:05 am

    Prayers coming for all of you. Thank you for sharing your journey and for your trust in the Lord.

    Reply
  10. Jenny says

    14 January 2016 at 8:08 am

    Prayers to good St Gerard and St Anne.

    Reply
  11. Shannon says

    14 January 2016 at 8:36 am

    This is breathtaking. I’m praying for your girls!!

    Reply
  12. Rita @ Open Window says

    14 January 2016 at 8:57 am

    Praying for you, your babies, your husband, your whole family.

    Reply
  13. Christie Purifoy says

    14 January 2016 at 9:03 am

    Praying for you and the two you carry. May God be near.

    Reply
  14. Jennifer says

    14 January 2016 at 9:09 am

    Praying for you and your girls. Oh Our Lady, hear us. Come Holy Spirit.

    Thank your for your beautiful words through it all.

    Reply
  15. Allison says

    14 January 2016 at 9:26 am

    Thank you for sharing your heart. Praying for you and your sweet littles ones.

    Reply
  16. Jessica says

    14 January 2016 at 9:31 am

    This is the best illustration of “a Catholic imagination” that I’ve ever read. Not that we’re imagining things–but that the stories we know give us an interpretive lens through which to see the whole world.

    Prayers are going up for all of you.

    Reply
  17. Jennie says

    14 January 2016 at 9:47 am

    I am humbled by your amazing faith. Be assured that I will be praying for your girls and for you. God bless you.

    Reply
  18. Laurel says

    14 January 2016 at 9:48 am

    Holding you close in prayer, Laura. My heart is aching for you.
    Mother Mary, wrap her and her sweet girls ever so tightly in your mantle.

    Reply
  19. Cameron says

    14 January 2016 at 9:57 am

    Sweet Laura, thank you for this beautiful reminder. I am praying for you and for those sweet babies.

    Reply
  20. Bev says

    14 January 2016 at 12:58 pm

    Prayers coming your way…for strength, hope and peace.

    Reply
  21. Micaela says

    14 January 2016 at 1:17 pm

    This is beautiful, and difficult to read. Sending up a hours and prayers for you and the babies.

    Reply
  22. Kim says

    14 January 2016 at 1:31 pm

    You are in my prayers. Thank you for your post. It was a much needed reminder for me. Just before advent my husband was killed suddenly in an accident leaving behind myself and our five children. It has been difficult to move forward. I have echoed the sentiments “I do not want any of this” and I too want to go back to when life was easier and decisions simpler and made together as a team. I have felt alone and my heart breaks at facing each day without my husband. It is Gods strength that carries me through but still faith gives way to fear at times…fear of the future, fear about how I will provide, protect and raise our children alone, fear that something will happen to me and leave my children orphans… Now, when fear tries to take hold I will be sure to stay close to the stories.

    Reply
  23. kristal says

    14 January 2016 at 2:52 pm

    what beautiful vulnerability. so brave, so generous. that you would share this with all of us is a gift. clinging to the stories and the great storyteller on your behalf. believing the truth of his goodness even when the moment in the story points to anything but. standing and trusting with you, beside you, behind you, before you.

    Reply
  24. jacki says

    14 January 2016 at 3:06 pm

    My first time here, being directed from another blog. I am a mother who is all too familiar with specialists and hospitals and diagnoses. I know you are scared. And that’s ok. God is still with you; lean on Him and His strength, perhaps like you never have had to do before in your lifetime.

    Reply
  25. Karolina says

    14 January 2016 at 3:30 pm

    You are amazingly strong ! I’ve just said a prayer for your little ones.

    Reply
  26. Jenny says

    14 January 2016 at 3:39 pm

    Rosary for you and your belly babies tonight. I wish I had more to offer. This is beautifully written.

    Reply
  27. Emily says

    14 January 2016 at 3:50 pm

    Hail Mary….

    Reply
  28. Anita says

    14 January 2016 at 4:06 pm

    Praying without ceasing for you, Franco, your babies (and boys), and your medical team. Take care of you, too! Thank you for sharing your story with all of us – it looks as though many are storming heaven with prayer and positivity.

    Reply
  29. Jen says

    14 January 2016 at 4:13 pm

    Prayers for the uncertainty. I went back and read a few more posts. Be sure you are taking care of your own heart mama. The anxiety–so understandable–leapt off the page at me. I am wishing you sister friends who will swoop in and carry some of your burden. I am wishing you health and peace. I am asking God to hold you in His hand, and Mother Mary to remind Him to do it.

    Reply
  30. Caitlin says

    14 January 2016 at 4:13 pm

    Prayers for you, your heart, and your children. Love and hope from NY.

    Reply
  31. Judy says

    14 January 2016 at 4:44 pm

    Laura, I pray for your family through this time of uncertainty. One thing Agnes taught me during her short life was that even though things aren’t going the way I want, even though it feels like I cannot possibly bear another moment another piece of bad news another setback, God has a plan for our babies. We may not like the plan, we may not want to participate in the plan, but at the end of the day we have to live the life God is giving us. I pray that your babies are able to carry in the womb long enough, I pray that you and your husband have wisdom in the moment to decide when the doctors are asking you decide, I pray that whatever was discovered to be amiss ends up resolving. There is always time for a miracle. St. Baby Agnes, pray for Laura’s babies.

    Reply
  32. Chris Mshler says

    14 January 2016 at 5:08 pm

    You are a beautiful writer with a message for us all. Your story and the reminder of THE story is touching. Thank you for making a difference.

    Reply
  33. Laura says

    14 January 2016 at 5:16 pm

    Nobody asks for the valleys, but what a powerful witness it is when we turn to God in them when they come. Holding you all in my prayers tonight. Thank you for sharing.

    Reply
  34. Rachel says

    14 January 2016 at 6:57 pm

    Your words are beautiful and true. I am praying for your babies and you as well as your family.

    Reply
  35. Angela says

    15 January 2016 at 8:38 am

    Dearest Laura, Franco, your boys and your babies…I am praying for you all from Down Under…May God hold you in the palm of his hand, may you be at peace, and may the grace of God provide you with all that you need. Much love xxxx

    Reply
  36. Amy @ The Salt Stories says

    15 January 2016 at 9:56 am

    What a gift the unchanging nature of God is.

    Your post remind me of yesterday’s psalm, Psalm 44, highlighting the feeling that God does not see you. It seems in every season God reminds me that I have to SHOUT the truth in the face of lies. That is exactly what these stories do.

    Prayers for you and your sweet family. Thanks for sharing.

    Reply
  37. Elise says

    15 January 2016 at 10:22 am

    Oh, Laura. I am praying for you and your sweet babies. Come, Lord Jesus. And thank you for this beautiful, beautiful post. Your writing is such a gift and I have learned so much from it. May God bless you abundantly.

    Reply
  38. Jenny says

    15 January 2016 at 2:26 pm

    I don’t know everything about your situation, and I realise it could be very different from my life, but your blog post reminded me of my own experiences with my son’s disability… because initially, it was a very hard time in my life…

    I had a very scary pregnancy 16 years ago…my expected child was going to be disabled… I was pressured to have an abortion but refused …. it was so hard to carry on I would cry myself to sleep… when he was born he didn’t have as many problems as they predicted but still had a lot to deal with. I found the hospital staff were mostly wonderful, and especially helpful with my other child, letting her play with toys when my son had his operations… over the years we have had appointments and treatments and surgery… and some really scary times too… I have found that it’s all gradually drawn me closer to God over the years…

    I’ve been to see the kids at the special school as they perform their’ Christmas plays and how they smile even though they have so much to deal with.. they are amazing people.

    … I have found I developed practical ways to deal with hospital days… the books I take with me to read for the waiting between the doctor visits, the unexpected friends I’ve made with other parents in similar positions …

    I think the greatest comfort these days is reflecting on the benefit hard times have for the soul, I like to think about this a lot… I think I was born with a lot to learn and all this has been teaching me…. It’s not been easy… my plan for my life was so different, but when I think back to what I wanted I realize that it would have taught me so very little. I think sometimes the worst thing is to have an easy life because we would never learn anything … I guess that sounds crazy…

    …. Our son is a lovely lad. The doctors never tell you that even the most difficult disabilities fall into a routine and you will laugh again…. I didn’t expect him to still be here now, all these years later, but he is.

    Sending hugs.

    I hope things work out for you and yours xxx

    Reply
  39. Louise says

    18 January 2016 at 9:27 am

    Thank you for sharing such a difficult moment! Praying for you and the babies! Psalm 46:10 xxx

    Reply
  40. Katherine Turpin says

    20 January 2016 at 6:01 pm

    Laura,
    Sending so much love and prayer your way….for you, Franco, your boys, the medical people.

    Reply

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  1. (Not) Watching the Debate, Political Parties and Mr. Fluffy Puffy, and Staying Close to the Stories: 7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 38) | These Walls says:
    15 January 2016 at 7:38 am

    […] close, here’s another compelling piece I read this week. Laura, of Mothering Spirit, shares her heartbreak over learning her twins’ […]

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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
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. 
 
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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.

Remember: we can’t do everything, but we can each do something.

Just because we can’t eradicate evil overnight doesn’t mean we can’t take small strong steps toward change.

Any work for justice and peace is long and hard. But we can build this work into our daily lives in concrete ways.

Look at the children in your life. What would you do to keep them safe and alive?

Start there. Let your life and love lead you.
When women meet, the world changes. Today is the When women meet, the world changes.

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.
I am writing this to us next week. When our right I am writing this to us next week.

When our righteous anger will have quieted down. When the white-hot fury pulsing through our veins will have subsided. When the news cycle will have moved on.

Do not forget how we felt tonight.
Stay angry. Flip tables.

We cannot live like this. Literally—our children are dying. Our elders are being murdered. We have accepted violence as—a way of life? An unfortunate side effect of freedom? A helpless shrug?

No. I am not resigned.
Stay angry. Flip tables.

Remember how it felt today to hear the news and feel the world crack open—again, for we have heard it a hundred times now. Remember how you felt sick to your stomach. How the children around you glowed, alive and fragile, miraculous and vulnerable.

Remember how you wanted to do something, anything, how you wanted to act, how you wanted to stop and scream for it to end, how every cell in your body cried out that this was evil and unjust and horrific and cannot continue.

Press into that memory like a bruise.
Stay angry. Flip tables.

The only way anything changes is if we change. Change what we believe. Change who we support. Change how we vote. Change where we give. Change how we act. Change how we speak. Change how we pray.

There are no easy answers to terrible, complex problems—which is what gun violence in the US has become. But the lack of easy answers makes it all the more urgent and vital that we press into our righteous anger and say NO MORE.

Stay angry. Flip tables.

I am writing this for us, for tonight, for next week. And I never want to write it again.
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