I notice the cascade of activities and commitments that pack the hours: travel, volunteer opportunities, housework, side hustles, and the constant bouncing from one child to the next as you prepare food, assist in the bathroom, and fill water bottles.
I hear the weariness in your voice as you mention that you are in a challenging parenting season, but that it's fine, I'm fine, and then you promptly sign up for more commitments because you are "fine" and "one more thing can't hurt." (plus, if I don't sign up to help with that event/class/fundraiser, what will people think of me?)
I see your anonymous social media posts where you beg other moms to convince you that really, it's fine for you to stay home on Sunday instead of going to Mass because you don't have any help or support and attending Mass with your children is too difficult and overwhelming.
I notice you and I hear you and I see you because in so many ways, at so many times, I have been in a similar mental space.
And like you, I have often pulled myself up by my bootstraps and convinced myself that I'm fine, that so many people who have life much harder than me are forging ahead so I need to shove my weakness and frustrations down and be strong. I'm not actually struggling, I decide. Keep moving forward at all costs!
We push onward, acting like nothing can affect us negatively--until it begins to be too much. And if our circumstances are too overwhelming to handle, we stop showing up altogether--because if we show up to Mass or a school event or casual gathering and admit that we don't "have it all together" or that we're not "fine," what would people think of us? How would they respond?
And so, clinging to uncertainty and fear, if we ever feel like our glossy facade is starting to slip, we isolate.
No one must know of our weakness: Not our spouse, not our kids, not our close friends, and certainly not random people at church or the grocery store.
Although I've fallen into this trap too, as each year of motherhood slips by, I learn more and more about another approach we can take: the path of vulnerability.
So many times, we fear vulnerability and being truly honest with others, especially when we don't see vulnerability exemplified in our community. When we see other people marching to the tune that we have been following--I'm fine, it's all fine, I'm not allowed to have needs or frustrations because I'm FINE--we don't want to let ourselves step out of tune. We think that if we are vulnerable, if we let others see us as we truly are, we are being weak.
But in this vulnerability, we are courageous.
Earlier this summer, I glanced through my TBR list and noticed Walter Wangerin Jr.'s novel, The Book of the Dun Cow. I didn't know anything about it, really, but I wanted to take it off my list and promptly placed a hold. When the book arrived, I immediately began enjoying the tale of Chauntecleer the Rooster and the animals in his domain (although one of my kids was saddened to learn that this novel was not a kids' book, due to some intense content). Canonical crows! A monster within the Earth! So fun.
I soon learned that this story was not all going to be fun, however. I came across a section that was, without a doubt, one of the best passages about grief in literature that I've read in a long time. I sat with those words, read them aloud to my husband as I cried, and figured that I would enjoy the rest of the book, but surely, I had reached the pinnacle of the story--nothing else could come close to this moment.
And then I got a surprise.
For tucked near the end of the book is one of those lines that, while not as intensely beautiful as The Grief Passage, stuck in my brain, repeating itself over and over throughout the following days. In this scene, Chauntecleer and his companions enter a battle against the forces of evil. I read the descriptions of the different animals who were present; I read of their strengths and battle tactics. Then, I came across this line:
"The Rabbits were there: That alone was their courage."
The Rabbits knew their weaknesses. They knew that they would die easily, "legs jerking as they did." They knew that they did not have incredible strength to offer, but they joined their community anyway. The Rabbits did not pretend to be something they were not; they weren't pretending to be different animals or have various skills that they did not actually possess. The Rabbits did not pretend that everything is fine, we're fine, it's all fine. The Rabbits did not isolate themselves and hide their weakness, either.
Instead, the Rabbits recognized their weaknesses and they showed up anyway. And their presence, their act of showing up in vulnerability, was their courage.
I know that sometimes, we fear being vulnerable because of deep wounds we have from abuse or manipulation that we've experienced. We may not have a safe space in which to let others see us as we truly are. We may not think that we can admit our weaknesses without suffering repercussions. In these instances, we can ask God to send us the people and situations we so desperately need to be safe so that we can be vulnerable.
Other times, we may have those people, that support, and that safe space but not even realize it. When we finally let ourselves recognize our weakness and stop trying to hold the world together by ourselves, we may be surprised to discover who is around us; who is supporting us when we struggle to show up.
Sometimes, we are like Chauntecleer the Rooster, strong and wise, capable of leading an army. But sometimes, we are more like the Rabbits, weaker in some way than others in our community.
My mind drifts back to earlier this summer, when I stumbled into church on a Sunday morning, less than 48 hours after my dead baby was surgically scraped out of my womb. I walked into the pew and quietly turned to the married couple behind me. I whispered my news to them, asking for prayers as I healed from the miscarriage. Immediately, the wife rose to look me in the eye. Her white hair framing her face, her eyes glistened as she fervently acknowledged my sorrow and this tragedy. She assured me of her prayers and proclaimed the hope that we find in God.
She clearly did not care what other people would think of her; in many Catholic parishes that I've attended, people are fairly quiet and reserved, especially in the moments before Mass. But my friend saw my vulnerability and knew what she needed to do: to boldly show me God's love and reassure me that I was not alone.
She sat down and I turned, slumping into my seat. Another older woman--who I did not know well at all, despite sitting across the aisle from her for years--approached.
"You are in pain. What happened?"
Her voice was firm and gentle, her weathered hands held mine, and her eyes looked deep into me, holding my sorrow, holding me, in love and gentleness. After assuring me that she would carry my intentions to Italy on a pilgrimage, she returned to her pew--and another woman approached to offer support and prayers. Mass began, and several minutes later, when the recessional hymn ended, more people approached. Friends, ushers at the church, people I knew well, and people I barely knew. They saw my pain, my weakness, my vulnerability--and they supported me. They loved me. They held me in so many ways.
The Rabbits were there: That alone was their courage.
When we are grieving and broken, isolation can seem appealing. No one would see our grief, and no one would bear witness to our weakness.
But no one would be there to grip our hands with tenderness, to look into our eyes and speak the love and mercy of God. No one would be there to hold us in our grief, to simply let us cry as we know that we are surrounded by people who love us, by people who want to support us.
When we struggle to show up--and we show up anyway--miracles happen.
Our weakness and vulnerability becomes a source of strength for other people and they find themselves opening up about the deep wounds and work that God is doing in their lives. Together, we grieve and hurt while also recognizing the beauty, the tremendous beauty, of God's providence in all circumstances. And together, we show up, letting our simple presence--at church, in the community, at casual gatherings--be enough.
The Rabbits were there: That alone was their courage.
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