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everyday parenting as spiritual practice

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ten years

6 Comments

Exactly ten years ago this month, I started a blog.

I told exactly no one. Not even my husband.

My first baby was six months old. I was working part-time, overwhelmed and tired. I craved connection and community. I wanted breadth of thought and depth of prayer.

I couldn’t find anything like what I wanted to read. So I decided to write it.

I started writing quietly, typing one-handed in the dark, plodding out post after post that no one read. I didn’t care; I loved it. My brain started spinning again.

After a few weeks I did tell my beloved. After a few months I got brave and shared the blog with a handful of friends and family.

I never expected it to amount to anything. Just a place for me to practice writing, to ponder spirituality and parenting, part of my transition from theological studies to new motherhood.

Then a funny thing happened along the way. Writing turned into a calling that changed my life.

. . .

Readers will ask me now how to get started. How to turn their passion into pages in a book. How to transform pain into words for others. How to get noticed, get paid, get published.

Never does my imposter syndrome flare higher than when someone asks this question. I have no idea, truthfully. I had no plan.

I kept going only because I’m curious and stubborn and happiest when I’m curled up in a corner with words and God.

But after 10 years, I do know this much. You don’t need to be an English major or get a MFA. You don’t need to sound like everyone else or earn anyone’s permission. You don’t need connections or clout, a platform or a plan for marketing.

You just need a deep sense of calling that drives you, even into the darkness.
That blaze will keep you burning even when others fizzle out. That flame will fuel you through frustration and rejection, weary weeks and fallow seasons.

A stubborn streak helps, too. So does the sheer pleasure of playing with words.

Because you don’t do creative work for anyone else. You don’t do it to get rich or noticed or successful. You do it because you were created for it. You are a happier, healthier human when you carve out even the smallest time and space to pursue whatever quirky creative passion you love.

Blogging led me where I never expected. The chance to write books, yes. But I discovered God in ways I never imagined. I made connections who became dear friends. I found readers who wanted the exact words I needed to share.

All because I was lost and lonely and let the quiet calling voice inside me lead me out of the wilderness, over and over.

. . .

Happy anniversary, little blog. Happy birthday, writing life.

You brought me more than I ever expected: a calling that changed where I was headed.

So here’s to all the hours spent in this space. Here’s to Saturdays at coffee shops, early mornings and late nights while everyone else was sleeping. Here’s to learning how to write in the chaos of life with kids. Here’s to every good “yes” and good “no” that made space for this vocation to grow.

And here’s to my deepest, wildest hope that the last ten years were only the beginning.

Reader Interactions

Comments

  1. Erin says

    17 February 2020 at 10:00 am

    I’m so glad you created this blog! Your words are always beautiful and I find God in what you share.
    (I quoted you on my website too, btw).❤️

    Reply
  2. Susan Balling says

    18 February 2020 at 5:57 am

    OMG- I remember St John’s In class, maybe 15 years ago, in the Dr “Deacon”.. I’m Susan, remember? You are very young and smiling a lot!! Lol take care Laura, Chaplain Susan ❤️

    Reply
  3. Jennifer says

    22 February 2020 at 9:01 am

    Laura, I’ve read your blog for many of the past 10 years (when I started reading, I had no idea how long you’d been posting, but I’m SO glad I found it). As a fellow Domer, and a woman struggling with aspects of fertility and parenthood, your posts have delved where I needed them (and where no place else could touch). That blog you started 10 years ago, the one you wrote because you couldn’t find anything else like what you needed to read, has been SO MUCH of what I have needed. Thank you for filling the gap! Thank you for giving voice to tender emotions and for wrapping faith into these deeply felt topics!

    Reply
  4. steph says

    23 February 2020 at 1:17 am

    It takes a lot of courage to pen down your thoughts and share them with the world without caring about how people are going to judge you. Ten years is a very long time to keep doing it, more power to you and Happy 10th Anniversary to your blog.

    Reply
  5. Anna says

    28 February 2020 at 9:54 am

    Thank you. That was very beautiful. I needed to here that.

    Reply
  6. MARGARET GROSSMAN says

    9 May 2020 at 6:02 pm

    Your drift into writing books made me smile because I had practically the opposite experience in more than one way. When I was a bout 30 I felt compelled to write a beautiful children’s book about the Eucharist because I struggled with my 9 small children’s questions like, “In God’s house where is God”? “Jesus is behind those tiny doors?” Etc. I never felt I was convincing and needed some “show and tell”. I never found what I needed but was determined at least to help other parents!! It took me many years but “God’s Greatest Miracle” finally happened. I have so many great testimonials including one from the bishop. If you are interested you can see a sample video at http://www.godsgreatestmiracle.com . We dearly miss these days that holy Host, that physical Jesus. 🙁
    PS . My family knows St. John’s well!

    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
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.
Easter Monday is for the rest of us. The slow to Easter Monday is for the rest of us.

The slow to believe.
The skeptics. The doubters.

The ones who can’t run to see for themselves.

The stuck. The uncertain.
The lost or forgotten.

The quiet who shy away from the crowds.

Easter was spotlights and sugar and singing. But remember: this season is only beginning.

You are not too late, too lost, or too gone.

You’re part of the reason this long way rolls on.

So if you rise grateful—that holiday’s over—or if you sink deeper, dreading the dawn:

Today (and tomorrow, all 50 days after) are here to remind you that this road is long.
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