Their Ordinary, Our Extraordinary
In honor of the ones who make the miraculous mundane
When I remember our miscarriage, I wonder at the holy labor of everyone else there that day.
The babysitter who watched my husband carry me out to the car.
The security guard at the emergency room door.
The nurse who asked intake questions while I tried to stay conscious.
The ultrasound tech who confirmed, with a sad voice in a dark room, what we already knew.
Their ordinary. Our extraordinary.
//
We have spoken this line to each other a thousand times since. In hospital rooms and clinic lobbies. In pre-op and post-op and routine checkups.
The motto became our mantra over the years as my husband and I marveled at nurses and doctors who cared for us and our children in intense days and hours of worry.
When everything felt out of control, unusual and exceptional, one of us would evoke the adage. (Or when everything felt boring and benign, blessedly normal after too much drama, one of us would laugh just the same.)
Their ordinary. Our extraordinary.
Part awe at their own holy labor, the strangers who became trusted guides through the wilderness. This is what they do every day, round the clock: save lives, or hold the lives they cannot save. Then go home, take a shower, eat a meal, watch TV.
They can handle this, we’d remind ourselves. It’s their ordinary.
Part comfort for our own dis-ease. Reminding ourselves that the current crisis is not the dark side of the moon, just a country we haven’t visited. Others have been here before and more will follow after us. We will have travel guides to pass onto them later, suggestions on how to learn the language.
We don’t have to know how to handle this, we’d reassure ourselves. It’s our extraordinary.
//
Over the years, extraordinary became ordinary for me, too.
After writing publicly through grief, I came to receive daily prayer requests and heart-breaking stories from strangers. I have learned to hold them—for a moment, in the light—and hand them back, with tenderness and hope. I grew a grassroots ministry I never planned (and never would have chosen) that deepened my empathy and stretched my awe wider than I imagined. The miracle that any of us get to be here at all.
But here’s a wild wonder I rarely stop to consider: 99% of it has been virtual.
Facebook messages. Instagram DMs. Comment boxes. Emails, texts, the occasional phone call.
Once in a while, a hand-written letter. In now-distant days, a hug from a stranger after a talk or a conversation at a church.
But as a writer who makes her living on the Internet, most of my ministry has been through a screen. Connecting with other grieving parents whom I will never meet face to face.
Yet the encounters have been powerful, embodied, unforgettable. Their stories and wisdom and faith have changed me. I have received more than I have offered.
Our exchanges may have been virtual, but the love and hope were flesh and blood.
Their extraordinary. My ordinary.
//
Now I am honored to give back. To offer a new gathering from the ordinary and extraordinary I have been graced to help carry.
I’m launching a special retreat for grieving mothers. With the help of friends who have carried me through my own hardest days, I’ve created a time and space for prayer, reflection, community, and connection.
(And it only could have happened online, thanks to a year of Zoom that taught us how to make surprising spaces sacred, even on screens.)
Oasis is a virtual retreat on May 1-2 (Bereaved Mother’s Day weekend) for any mother grieving the loss of a child, whether before birth or in adulthood.
Mothers often don’t get the chance to mourn. I want to help change that, and I want to honor the sacred stories of love: the ordinary extraordinary.
Find out more about Oasis here. Share with a loved one or give to a friend—whether her grief is brand-new or years-old—to honor her motherhood at a tender time of year.
Most of all, please keep us in your prayers, if you would? I’m so grateful for the women who will share their stories, the artists who are offering their gifts, and the countless mothers who have called forth this ministry.
For each one who taught me how to weep with those who weep, even—and especially—online.
Peace,
Laura
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Find my books here: Everyday Sacrament | Grieving Together | Prayers for Pregnancy & Birth | To Bless Our Callings | Living Your Discipleship