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the other side of fear

18 Comments

Today I turn 35. 

For the first time in my life, I am not shocked to be here, still spinning on this precarious planet.

I am not overwhelmed by the weight of my own mortality. I am not surprised to find that I have been given the gift of another year, as has always been my birthday reaction in the past.

Instead I feel anchored more strongly to this world than ever. Despite the fact that most of my heart right now longs for what and who lies beyond.

In the days since Abby and Maggie died, I feel as if I have walked through a swirling storm which is now right behind my back. I am standing on firm rock at the edge of a cliff, looking out over a new world, washed raw and bare.

And everything is ahead of me. 

I am standing on the other side of terror. The worst that life can bring – because I can’t tell you how many well-meaning people have felt the need to inform us that losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to a parent – has happened. We have held two dying children and we have let them go.

And I am no longer afraid.

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I feel for the first time in my life as if anything is possible. As if my ears have been opened to hear God’s voice in a new frequency. As if my life is finally unfolding into the fullness of what it was meant to be.

We could have another baby someday. We could sell our house and move our family halfway across the world. I could write all the books I have been dreaming to write. I could become the more compassionate human I always hoped I could be.

None of these changes will happen overnight, I know. And very likely the truth of where I am called next has not even presented itself to my imagination. I know the road before us will be long and winding and unexpected.

But on the other side of fear, anything is possible. 

“…perfect love casts out fear (I John 4:18).” These words echoed in my head throughout my pregnancy. Never before had I dreamed I was capable of perfect love, until face-to-face with the worst fear, I felt this love gather around me and carry me through.

Because do you know what perfect love looks like?

It looks like hundreds of family and friends – and a thousand perfect strangers – surrounding you with prayer. From churches and grottoes, convents and monasteries, kitchens and classrooms, at home and abroad.

Be not afraid. 

It looks like weeks of home cooked dinners arriving on your doorstep. Boxes of food sent across the miles from college friends who wish they lived next door. Strangers who bake bread to feed a family they have never met.

Behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age.

It looks like a kitchen full of fresh flowers from every corner of the country. A mailbox spilling over with cards of loving words. Pastors who envelope your family in embraces when you show up at church late, tired, and weepy.

Perfect love looks like the Body of Christ.

And anything I thought I knew about this mystical truth at the center of our faith has been blown apart by the love that is carrying us through our loss.

There is no room for fear when we are all here together.

I am not naive enough to suppose that my life from this point will be free from anxiety. Worry always accompanies change and any worthy endeavor. I will surely struggle with whatever lies ahead. The ground we are on is still hard and rocky.

But for the first time in my life, I am unafraid. I feel the storm receding at my back, and I know that whatever comes next will be clearer and calmer for the hell we have passed through.

I cannot feel happy on today’s birthday. I have no taste for cake, no thrill for presents, no desire for dinner out on the town. We are thick in grief, and it is grueling work.

But I am deeply grateful to still be here. I feel the newborn strength of being anchored firmly to this life, perhaps for the first time.

And it is a mighty force.

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Comments

  1. Nell @ Whole Parenting Family says

    8 March 2016 at 7:40 am

    So powerful. Thank you for letting us be with you on this journey.

    Reply
  2. Mark Barder says

    8 March 2016 at 7:49 am

    Your family are in our daily thoughts and prayers…..wishing you deep peace.
    Love,
    Mark and Mary Beth Barder

    Reply
  3. Rita @ Open Window says

    8 March 2016 at 8:02 am

    Praying for you and thinking of you on your birthday. Hoping you find many ways to celebrate Maggie and Abby’s lives–and yours. 🙂

    Reply
  4. Betsy says

    8 March 2016 at 8:37 am

    Thank you, Laura, for sharing so beautifully about your loss. I know the deep pain of losing a daughter, and also a small taste of knowing how she rejoices with our Savior. I really appreciate you using your gifts to explain what many of us feel and are unable to articulate.

    Reply
  5. Daja at The Provision Room says

    8 March 2016 at 9:00 am

    Your journey……

    Tears and prayers and just everything….from over here in Maine. You have inspired us and challenged us and are teaching us so much.

    I don’t have adequate words, so I will ask the Holy Spirit to make those intercessions that words cannot capture.

    Reply
  6. Elisa says

    8 March 2016 at 9:16 am

    At times you must be totally perplexed at the trivial garble some people spew out . . . your experience puts into light all that is real and meaningful. As we carry our crosses through each day and year, let us all hope that we deepen our faith as you have. A very wise woman once told me, “We experience these dark days so we can see the light. Otherwise, we may never know the joy and glory that awaits us.” You and your family continue to be in my prayers. God bless.

    Reply
  7. Peg Conway says

    8 March 2016 at 9:22 am

    Thank you, Laura, for the gift of your candor. Sending you much love today especially and praying for all of you.

    Reply
  8. Jenny says

    8 March 2016 at 10:21 am

    This is love.

    Reply
  9. Christie Purifoy says

    8 March 2016 at 11:52 am

    I know, in a different, smaller way, the truth of your experience. It is a powerful thing. I am so glad you are sharing your story. Thank you.

    Reply
  10. Katie says

    8 March 2016 at 11:58 am

    Perfect love casts out fear. I’m in awe at how abundantly present God is with you all right now.

    I’m praying for your family.

    Reply
  11. Alma says

    8 March 2016 at 6:53 pm

    Thank you for the authenticity in your words. Perfect love does cast out fear… May God continue to hold you and your family within His heart.

    Reply
  12. Nicole says

    9 March 2016 at 1:55 pm

    Thank you so much for sharing along this journey. Happy Birthday.

    Reply
  13. Erin says

    9 March 2016 at 2:42 pm

    I hope that by the end of my life, I have even an ounce of the kind of grace, courage, and humility you are showing us now. God bless you, and thank you for allowing the experience of losing your beautiful daughters help you to understand love. Thank you for letting the suffering change you for the better.

    Reply
  14. Abbey says

    9 March 2016 at 6:06 pm

    I, too, experienced the same thing after the death of my son. A friend who has a degree in grief counseling said after the loss of a loved one, some people experience ptsd; others experience post traumatic growth. It is now almost 2 1/2 years since Sam’s death and my kids and I are thriving. I never would have thought this would be possible. God is amazing.

    Reply
  15. Rachel says

    10 March 2016 at 12:20 pm

    Laura – we are praying for you and your family as you go through this time in your lives. A friend sent me your blog today as a resource for the future. February 18 2016 was the day that changed our lives forever. What had started out as a normal and uncomplicated pregnancy all crumbled into pieces during our routine 19 week ultrasound. On Monday, February 22 2016 after a second ultrasound, the doctor told us our baby would have no chance of survival after birth (he/she is due in July 2016). We lost a first pregnancy at 10 weeks, have a healthy happy toddler and are still a bit shell shocked.

    Our little baby has bilateral renal agenesis – meaning no kidneys. This condition happens 1 in 5000 pregnancies. There is no measurable amniotic fluid because of this condition (baby pee creates the fluid at this point in pregnancy), which means that our baby’s lungs will not be able to develop enough for him/her to survive. Our baby is otherwise perfect and has an amazingly strong heart and a button nose just like our 18 month old son. We were told that because I have other complications (placenta previa which will require a C-section if we continue the pregnancy…) one option would be to terminate the pregnancy.

    My husband and I are devastated, but with the support of our doctor we have decided to continue with the pregnancy and place our baby’s future in God’s hands. Reading your story about Maggie and Abby has made me less afraid for the future. Thank you for sharing.

    Reply
  16. Anabelle Hazard says

    14 March 2016 at 8:49 am

    You are in my payers. I too was told miscarriage is the worst, but I know some of that grief and peace you felt at the same time. Gods grace is awesome. StS Abby and Maggie pray for us.

    Reply
  17. Rebecca says

    16 March 2016 at 10:39 am

    I continue to keep you in my prayers. Your sharing of your faith during grief brings glory to God here on earth. We are closer to the Lord, because of your sharing and because of your babes. Thank you.

    Reply
  18. jenn says

    17 March 2016 at 10:32 am

    Beautiful words, Thank you.

    Reply

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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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Watch me try not to laugh while my kids are scream Watch me try not to laugh while my kids are screaming upstairs at my spouse while I muse on motherhood & creativity 😝

Check out @grottonetwork for thoughtful reflections on relationships, work, faith, and life’s big questions. And let yourself thank someone this week for the creative work of nurturing new life in you!
Pilgrimage update! I shared in my last newsletter Pilgrimage update! I shared in my last newsletter that we were able to add Chartres & Mont-St-Michel to our itinerary, plus an extra day in Paris. Three of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, so I can’t wait to pray there with you on pilgrimage in October. Check out my bio for details.

Want to hear more about the trip? Join me on Friday, May 6th, at 1:30 pm CT for an Instagram Live with Claire Swinarski - founder of @thecatholicfeminist & leader of last year’s pilgrimage to France with @selectinternationaltours 

Claire will share her experience on pilgrimage, her favorite places in France, & her wisdom for anyone thinking about joining us this fall. 

Have you ever been to France? Or made a pilgrimage? I’d love to hear your favorites!

#pilgrimage #travelwithselect #holyplaces #travel2022 #france #thesacredway2022
For years these words hung on the wall of my offic For years these words hung on the wall of my office. A reminder to behold the beauty in the ordinary.

I took them down after grief tore apart my world. Normal days, what a joke.

But years later I pulled the words out again. Turned out they were true, of course.

I had always caught my breath at the line about war, barely able to imagine longing for boring days from bloody battlefields.

Today I keep the wise words before my eyes again, as a way to keep praying for Ukraine.

For all the places where war or violence make for (ab)normal days.

May the common rock of any ordinary day we’re given remind us to remember all whose earth is upheaved right now.
The sun came out for the first time in days (weeks The sun came out for the first time in days (weeks? gloomy where you are, too?).

So I followed every ladybug in the bedroom to the window, closed my eyes and sunned my face. I could have curled up like a cat for hours. But the sun slipped back, retreating behind the grey wall as quickly as it came.

May today hold a gentle reminder to turn wherever you find the light, to let it warm and delight you. The spiritual practice of sunning ourselves (for a whole holy second!) is not trite or toxic: we are creatures who crave what is good and this is not wrong.

If you linger there for a moment, to remember God and grace and any good gift that has been poured out upon you, unasked or undeserved, you can return for a flash to the Source of your Being.

All the Psalms about the sun sing the same. We were made for the Great Light.
I spent years wondering about the opposite of grie I spent years wondering about the opposite of grief.

Would it be joy? To hold happiness again, to have tears turned into dancing?

Would it be gain? To find what was lost? To have arms full again around the ones I love?

Would it be peace? To breathe into the space of calm? To soak up healing as balm?

This morning I rose and realized: the opposite of grief is Easter.

Joy, gain, peace, hope, love, healing—all of it rolled into one and heaps more besides.

You know that awful feeling in grief’s first weeks, after someone you love has died, when you rise and remember yourself back into reality, and the grief-pain of loss washes over you again? The terrible turning moments that torpedo the day.

Easter Monday was the first morning that humans got to experience the utter opposite.

The undoing of what seemed undone. The resurrection of what looked impossible to restore.

The flip side of every grief and loss.

This morning I pictured the women rising again on Monday, the first ones to find and preach the Resurrection.

What joy & delight & hope & astonishment must have washed across their faces in their first few moments after waking, as they remembered themselves back into a world made new.

This is what every single one of us has yearned for, in the impossible imagination after loss. What if I could wake up and they would be back here again?

Exactly what all who loved him found when they woke up on Monday morning.

Now we only taste it, glimpse it, grasp it for a moment—but one day it will rise for us and never leave.

The opposite of grief is here.
To see others in pain while you are in pain— To To see others in pain
while you are in pain—
To reach out to the grieving
while others are grieving for you—
To lift up the least
while you are the greatest—
To speak to the suffering of women
while your own body is suffering—
To stop for others
while you walk the hardest road—

Until now I never noticed how much it meant that Jesus stopped for the women of Jerusalem.

He stops for the women of Ukraine, the women of Juarez, the women of Afghanistan, women everywhere who suffer and grieve and mourn.
 
He stops for them and for us. He tells us not to weep for him but to weep for this world, not to despair of the present but to steel ourselves for the future, not to lament unless we are willing to change.

What is he calling me to grieve? How is he calling me to change?

What might he see in us—our lives, our sorrows, our griefs, even our bodies—that we have not let ourselves lament?
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