Some thoughts on overdoing it, jealousy, and the grace of having things stripped away

Memory is a grace we must ask for. It is very easy to forget, especially when we are well fed (cf. Dt 6:10-12, 8:11-14) – Pope Francis (pulled from the Magnificat 3/6/24)

At the end of January and into early February, I was riding a total high of endorphins. I had worked my way slowly and carefully back into running and was finding time to get out for 3 mile runs twice a week. It felt amazing. I eased into 4 miles and still felt awesome. I was still doing a lower body strength workout one day, and would do abs after the runs, and was soaking in all the joy of feeling strong and being able to do this thing I loved after so long. Then, I got Joe sleeping through the night and after two nights of uninterrupted sleep, I was out for a run and thought, hey, I want to run a half marathon! I should mention, I had also gotten onto Strava, so I had this social media/dopamine component – when I completed a run I could post it and get “kudos” from friends and family – a feedback loop that made me want to run more and faster and longer, to achieve more goals and feel even more awesome. 

All of this had the very slight feel of being an idol in my life, but was easy to dismiss because it gave me so much joy, it was a fun flow activity, my unicorn space, that spilled over into my vocation as a mom and helped me be a more patient, loving mom. So, I thought I needed it. I deserved it! 

Fast forward to the end of Week 1 of my Half Marathon Training Plan, and I found myself hobbling to finish my 7 mile run, waddling for the rest of day, barely able to walk. The jump in mileage, frequency, and intensity from one week to the next was too much for this 7 month postpartum body to handle and I had strained my groin and adductor tendon as my pelvis had slipped out of alignment. 

I was pretty devastated. It was a crash after such a high, and until I could see a PT and figure out what was wrong, I was stuck, waiting and resting it, not really knowing what “it” was. I started hating Strava. Ugly feelings of jealousy flared up and as I was spiraling I realized how much ego had been wrapped up in this activity. It had been a source of joy, yes, but did I need it? No. 

In this time of feeling stuck and waiting, Lent started. At the 8am Ash Wednesday Mass, with Chris, Joe, and John, I suddenly realized that daily Mass was available to me in a very easy way. Without a workout plan to think about and look forward to, I found myself open to going with Chris, and even without Chris, after dropping off the girls at school. I went, and I went again, and I’ve kept going. I saw the gift God had dropped into my lap, and the grace of hungering for Him, for Him to nourish and sustain me in my disappointment. It’s a brief, sweet window of a few weeks where Joe is still fairly quiet and immobile and happy before his morning nap, and John is pretty good too. I’ve found myself soaking up gratitude for this unexpected grace, and for the words I’ve been resting in – of being His beloved. It’s a time of waiting for our family, also, and I’ve moved from restless anxiety about that, to holding an image of waiting as floating, supported by God’s love and mercy, just floating and waiting. 

I saw the physical therapist yesterday, so my pelvis is back in alignment now, for which I am very grateful. I can start doing strength exercises, stretching, and swimming again. And I’m so happy. I’ll get back to running eventually. But now that I feel well fed, in less pain, I don’t want to forget. The grace of the desert, the grace of waiting. The grace of having my ego stripped away, and feeling a new level of hunger for and dependence on God. My tendency towards comparison and jealousy, and, instead, the hundredfold that Jesus wants to provide for me. 

And a blog post came out of it! Who knew? Prompted by my friend Annie’s suggestion to write it down. ☺️

this looks so bleak now but I snapped it halfway through a run and I was loving it. There’s a Great Blue Heron in the water.

our baby valentine

I wanted to write about our experience of miscarriage because it was helpful for me to read stories from other women, like this post a friend sent me. So I share some of how I processed it in the hope it could help someone else feel less alone. 

At the end of June, I lost a baby at five weeks. I wrote about how that baby is part of our story now, and this post is more about the experience of miscarriage and the ways we have grieved and found closure. He or she would have been born sometime this week, so it’s been on our hearts.

It was my first miscarriage, so at Chris’s urging I went to immediate care, where it was confirmed a miscarriage and I was sent home. There was heavy bleeding for several days, and painful cramps. And now I know that this experience of passing the baby varies widely for different women. But I was grateful, in a way, that the pain lasted for a while, because it felt like a mini mini labor, and a way that only I got to experience a little more of this baby we would never get to know.

Chris’s reaction to the news was to cry a little with me and then figure out how we should do this well. He did some research and found that we could give the remains to a local funeral parlor, who would bury the baby for free in a designated section of the cemetery. They would hold a memorial service for all the babies who died before 20 weeks from March-June in 2018. We named the baby Valentine, since he or she (I usually say she) would have been born around Valentine’s Day, and it was a name I liked but probably would never use for a living child. The memorial service was held on a sweltering day in August. I was glad we went, but I’m more grateful that we have a physical place to visit her whenever we want. (Evangeline has now asked if we’ll all be buried under the same stone as Baby Valen when we die. Chris and I made a mental note to make a will.)

 

 

 

 

When Chris did the funeral parlor research, he also asked if I wanted to invite a priest friend over to pray for us. I felt awkward about this. But I knew that later on I would wish for something – some way to find closure – so I said sure, let’s have him over for dinner.

Chris had just gotten to know this priest on a trip to Israel. He’s a Franciscan, newly ordained, also studying theology at Notre Dame, and a Catholic convert. I always love meeting other converts. As Chris put the girls to bed, I told Fr. Andrew more about the miscarriage, and how I’d been feeling. When Chris returned, we sat in the backyard and Fr. Andrew prayed for us, using a prayer specifically for parents after a miscarriage from The Catholic Book of Blessings (which also has the prayer we used to bless our garden seeds). It was so beautiful, and I just let the liturgy wash over me. I felt deeply at peace, and was grateful to Chris for suggesting we do this. We sat in silence for a few moments and then Fr. Andrew asked, Would you guys want to sing some songs together?  

I miss you, summer backyard.

I was surprised but said sure, I like to sing. Fr. Andrew started singing, “Open the Eyes of My Heart, Lord,” Chris joined in, and I started bawling. I leaned back in my chair, letting them sing, feeling waves of sadness, and also, still, peace. It felt so right, to be there in our backyard, singing songs that I had grown up with in church, with a Franciscan priest. I hadn’t realized how much I missed singing casually with other people. As they sang, I asked God, What role will this baby’s life and death play in our family’s story? And as I asked, I was surprised to feel confirmation in my desire to have more kids, to have a large family, like this baby was already praying for courage for me. I also felt God pointing out to me the consolation of that moment and saying, It doesn’t help anyone for you to leave behind all the ways you knew me before you were Catholic. There was something so healing for me in Fr. Andrew singing those songs I had almost forgotten. It brought together two worlds; the old that I had begun to reject as I was learning to navigate the new.

flowers sent by a friend

This was an unexpected gift I received as I processed the miscarriage. A reminder of how I used to connect with God and with others, and the courage to more vulnerable. I had time in those summer weeks to think about how, after a year in South Bend, I was fairly happy with the community I’d found, but still wanted to know others more and be better known. When I voiced this, I found that my friends were also hungry for deeper friendships and wanted to pray together more openly. Since then, our moms group that meets for play time and prayer has grown more vulnerable in ways I was craving, and I didn’t have to force anything to happen. I just started being a little more honest.

This baby’s life and death has already taught me so much more about trusting God. My hope is that I’ll remember and remain open to what He brings, open to lessons from grief and from joy. Thanks, Baby Valen. We love you.

this picture was actually taken on the day of miscarriage, I realized later. We were showing The Village to a visiting friend.