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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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Reader Interactions

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

Trackbacks

  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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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.

Instagram post 2196944524877817946_1468989992 Beauty from brokenness.

At the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport, there’s a mosaic tucked back in concourse F, hidden by the bathrooms. I notice it now because it’s the work of a kindred spirit.

A grieving mother.

By chance I read her story when the mosaic was installed. How her second child was stillborn and her world shattered and after months of wondering how on earth to create again, butterflies became a symbol of hope rising from ashes.

I remember her whenever I pass these restrooms, usually dragging a small child of my own behind me before a flight. Today I walked in with a pregnant belly, looking for all the world like a simple story: woman having baby.

My story is not simple. Neither is hers.

We are among you, the bereaved. Walking by you every day. Daring to keep going instead of giving up. Creating beauty from brokenness. 
You might miss it. We learn not to shout. But when we get space to share our stories, strange and sparkling beauty can be found.

Mary Shelley wrote her masterpiece Frankenstein while she was grieving the death of her baby. Prince had an infant son who lived only a few days. I collect these stories now—the artists who created out of their pain.

When something is shattered—a bone, a bowl, a dream—it can never be put back together in exactly the same way again. Cracks, jagged edges, trauma’s hard memory persists.

But an artist catches the glint of hope under the rubble and refuses to let destruction have the final word. Every creation is a mosaic, built from brokenness.

MSP Airport, gate F4. Check it out next time you’re here.

Thank you, @josielewisart 🦋
Instagram post 2195334718010341825_1468989992 You don’t have to apologize for staying in the slow lane.

Took two snowy hours creeping to the airport before dawn to remember this truth. Impatient trucks on my tail, angry red lights for miles.

Feel free to pass, as I fought off the urge of irritation at their too-close-for-comfort. I’m staying right here. Slow and safe.

Call it the Advent lane. The choice to slow down when the world speeds up.

Liturgical living isn’t about doing more, adding extras or achieving. It’s often about doing less. Living at a slower, sacred pace. Letting the world’s frenzy pass you by. Listening in the quiet for the still, small voice of God.

And here’s the secret you learn after years and years: it’s delicious, this discipline of living differently.

You gain time where others lose it: a full season of Christmas instead of one fleeting day. You feel time where others forget it: the weight of weeks before Easter. You notice how nature lives by the same cycles: waxing and waning, dying and rising.

Years ago our pastor preached about stopping at yellow lights as an Advent practice. One simple act, a few times a day, to remind you to wait.

Wait.

Slow down. Take a moment to breathe. Slip back into the living pace where you are no more important or urgent than anyone around you.

In a culture obsessed with success, speed, and endless upward mobility, it can seem crazy to take the slow lane—or the off ramp.

But you can stay here, slow and steady. Peace was never found by speeding up.
Instagram post 2192445717293184648_1468989992 “What if God were helpless?” Her question shook me.

We had sat together for an hour, wrestling with the biggest, hardest questions—suffering and death and grief and trust. But even from where she sat in her rocking chair, hair white with wisdom, eyes searching up at the ceiling for answers that don’t exist, her words shook me.

No, I wanted to leap to protest. God has to be Helper, not helpless. Powerful, not powerless.

Otherwise everything unravels, right? Otherwise what is solid ground? Otherwise who can I trust?

But I caught my own words. It’s Advent, after all. What we celebrate at Christmas is exactly this: God becoming helpless.

A newborn baby: nothing more helpless among us. Born into poverty. Vulnerable among animals. Away from his community. Unable to walk or talk or feed himself. Helplessness Incarnate.

And this was what God chose, the ultimate Power that set the stars spinning. Incarnation was the vulnerable, unexpected, scandalous, unbelievable way that Love took flesh and came to stumble in dirt beside us.

What if God were helpless?

What if it’s not a hypothetical question, but a theological paradox? What does it mean for my life?

It shakes me, as it should.

If you have understood, wrote Augustine, what you have understood is not God.

Advent is not a simple season, chocolate calendars and Christmas countdowns.

This is a time to remember that Jesus’ story is radical, upsetting every neat category and tidy expectation.

It would be easier if God stayed powerful: distant, removed, almighty. The shock is that Jesus becomes powerless, too: intimate, humble, among-us.

What if God were helpless? What would it mean for my life, my faith, my need for surety and solid foundation?

If God can be both—Helper and Helpless—what else might turn upside down? What grace might be waiting in the wreckage of our expectations?
Instagram post 2191564285632887396_1468989992 Anna Quindlen wrote that hidden within each of her grown children is the baby they once were, like the toy duck in the bathroom soap.

I feel the same way about infertility.

Yesterday I curved my sore back over the baby huddled inside, bent and swayed by the bathroom sink, seeking any relief. Nausea, sciatica, normal aches and pains—all of it daily burden, barely worth mentioning after all these years.

But I felt her rise up within me, the one who wanted Exactly This. All of This. Nothing But This.

She is the me inside me, the former and forever.

I see her in crowds, the one in ten walking brave each day through a world that flaunts what she wants (as the world does when we are wanting, filling our longing view with happy couples or pregnant bellies or warm homes or good jobs while we lust for the same). I carry her with me as I have carried each child, the ones whose hands I held and the ones I had to let go.

She taught me what it meant to crave control and to discover that I have none. She gave me the language of lament and the songs of sorrow.

I left her behind eleven years ago, on a cold winter morning like today, when a thin plastic test blurred to two lines for the first time.

I burst through the bathroom door as someone new, someone pregnant, someone’s mother.

I have never been the same.

But she is still me, and I am still her. Every day she prays me back to the place of all who are still waiting and weeping.

I could never call infertility a gift. But her companionship is.

When she whispers, it is louder than any stranger’s sneer, the judgement heaped upon four kids running ahead and a waddling mother trailing behind.

This, she reminds me.

You wanted exactly This.
Instagram post 2191077565846125357_1468989992 Advent is waiting to be discovered.

By those of us who have lived it for a lifetime. By those of us who have found it brand new.

Advent is quiet and calm when the world is anything but.

For those of us who delight in stillness and silence. For those of us who struggle to slow down.

Advent is the antidote we seek.

For those of us who crave radical challenge. For those of us who love ancient comfort.

Advent is never what we expect and always what we need.

The shortest season for the longest wait.

The perfect paradox for the God of surprises.

Advent is already the gift.

You can dip into this current any time, running strong and steady beneath the chaos of December above.

Any Advent moment will bring you peace and joy, which is already Love Incarnate, which is already Emmanuel, which is God among us.

A miracle. Don’t miss it.
Instagram post 2186625723368059660_1468989992 When I was pregnant with the twins, a strange thing happened.

As we started to share the news—in the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving—people reacted in a way I never expected.

Instead of raising eyebrows or laughing out loud, they would get this wistful look in their eyes, offer a longing “oh...” and pronounce the strangest blessing. “Your holidays are going to be so wonderful.” I thought they were insane. I could not understand. What on earth did Thanksgiving have to do with it? Didn’t they see that all my plans had been dumped in a blender and set to Purée? That I never wanted twins, or five children under six, or any of the current complications life was hurling my way?

But over and over, friends and strangers looked at me with wistful, longing faces, saying so many times I lost count in my bewilderment:

Your holidays will be so wonderful.

Imagine all of them around the table.

You’re going to have so much fun when they’re all at home.

I am not in the habit of judging family size. Infertility, loss, first-hand heartache of the complexities and complications of childbearing have ripped back the stories beneath the surface. I know there are a thousand reasons why one might choose (or not) to have any number of children—or none at all.

But what I learned from countless unexpected reactions to my own unexpected news was this surprise. Sometimes we see only scarcity or overload where others are able to see fullness.

You might think your life is too much or not enough. But outside perspectives catch angles you can’t glimpse from where you stand. Goodness might hide where you see only hard.

Now I remember those voices every Thanksgiving. In years when holidays felt painfully lacking and in years when they brim to bursting, I remind myself how many saw fullness I couldn’t see.

Whether dreaming of the future or longing for the past—from countless friends who whispered they wanted one more or the stranger who told me she would have had ten if she could have had one—what they taught me was the beauty of here and now. The goodness before my eyes, even if it was never what I would have chosen.

We believe we see our whole story. Thank God we don’t.
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